Sandy Morrison updated and reviewed, and other stuff…

Thanks to help from Twitter follower @MystycalMage, I have been able to release an updated version of Sandy Morrison and the Pack of Pussies. Those of you who already bought a copy, you can just download the new copy from your shelf without having to buy it again. And those of you who didn't buy a copy yet, please take a look at the preview at least. Sandy's story has been generating some good feedback from the few people who've picked it up thus far, and @MystycalMage has just released a 5-star review, where she said:

At the beginning of the book, I had to remind myself that I needed sleep. I did not want to stop reading. I probably would have read the whole book at once if not for my battery dying.

Woot! Hells yeah, and many thanks to @MystycalMage for all of her help with the feedback on typos and the review. If I could have few more fans like her, and Becka, and Amanda, and…and others, I'm sure I might one day generate enough buzz to turn my library of titles into a Lilliputian cash cow.

Now I want to talk about something totally random. Today, I was hit on by a cute guy who was around 18. He pegged me as an American by my accent, and so he shifted to English and attempted to make a booty call. Dude was even bold enough to try for a handshake and kiss combo, but I blocked him on the kiss and dashed away quickly. And the whole time, I was thinking, How can this be happening? I'm an ugly nerd.

I'm 36, but dress like I'm still 13. I don't wear make-up. My hair is a mess all the time, and I was dressed in what I consider scruffy clothes. Yet this kid is fawning over me like I'm the find of the century. Last month a guy tried to invite me out to "coffee" and so this is not an uncommon occurrence. Shopkeepers who know me and are used to my limited vocabulary call me Bella. And I still wonder who they're talking about when they say it. Hubby literally drools over me sometimes, and I wonder if maybe he's overreacting.

I know I have low self-esteem, and that I can't see myself as others do. I see only the flaws and scars. I see the broken cracks in the shell, and others see a finely aged vessel. Hubby considers himself lucky to have found me. And the funny thing is, I think I'm lucky, because who else is going to want a crazy bitch like me?

But while walking back from lunch and my shopping trip, and while still reflecting on this kid flirting with me, I thought about a tangent. I thought, Tonight, I'm going to crack open a forty and drink beer while I practice guitar. I'll bet the teenage me would love to know I'm somehow considered cool in my middle age.

And then I was struck by the huge contrast of how very different my life is now from how it was when I was a scared and lonely little boy trapped in the middle of Texas with no idea of how to fix myself. I imagine someone going to me at 15 or 16, and telling me, "When you turn 28, you're going to start transition. Two years later, you will complete transition with a Thailand surgery, and then you will get married in a palace in Milan. You will spend your days gardening and editing, and you will divide your nights between writing trashy fantasy stories, playing guitar, and drinking aged rum."

And then I imagine the streams of tears running down my cheeks as I lay on the floor giggling hysterically. Me? A rum drinker? Please, I was a vodka lover "fo-ever" (I don't like vodka as much anymore…or more accurately, vodka beats me up and spits me out. Rum is gentle as it leaves. I like rum's graceful exit. Ahem.)

Life isn't great. I have poor health, and I still can't seem to convince the publishing bosses to give me truly steady editing work. I still have my self-esteem issues to work on, and if I ever sort that out, then I have to go about sorting out my confused sexuality. I get depressed that I'll never know what it means to be a parent. And of course there's the fact that I'm still nuts and still dealing with the long term effects of prolonged physical abuse. Life will never be a bowl of cherries without having to deal with some very big pits.

But every once in a while, it helps to stop and think, I'm a 36 year old nerd, and people think I'm hot. How fucking cool is that? I claim to write trash, and people tell me it's really good stuff. And if, somehow, my teenage self could see me now, they would never believe how cool I am. I'm reminded of the old milk commercials, where progressively older versions of the same person show the younger self what the future holds. When I looks ahead to 36, I didn't know what to expect. But a punk princess indie author living in Milan? Totally not on my list when I was a kid.

My roundabout point is, you really never know what life has in store for you. When you start out your life story, you sometimes feel like you've got it all planned to the last detail. But trite as the saying is, it's still true; life is what happens when you were making other plans.