Finally gotten around to writing. The mental team of insane clown writers has been too tired to critique anything, and I’ve successfully logged my brain into overdrive for so long that I don’t know how to do just one thing. I mean there’s really not much for me to do. Move is over. Things are changed and working. Only thing that I have to adapt to is working. And who doesn’t have to adapt to working. Managed to scribble a few new thoughts here and there, but it’s mostly crap (it’s all crap).

Have a thousand ideas and not a finger to get them started. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve gotten a lot of them started, I just have yet to… you know… complete one. Have all these new ideas for old works, and all of these new ideas for new works but I don’t know where to go or start or — Scotch.

Nothing can save the mind like a good, old fashioned, three-finger glass of single malt Scotch (you capitalize the proper names – like God. You’ll get that one eventually.)

Anyway, off to the mental races and the hand torture chambers known as pen and paper. Maybe I’ll type a little more if I get the chance to think a little harder about the Doc. Maybe the Doc can put my Scotch down and open his mouth to tell me what the hell happened to him so I can put it on paper. Maybe the Doc needs a good smack in the face with a baseball bat before I lose my shit thanks to him not speaking. And maybe the Doc will stare at me with a death glare cold enough to freeze the blood of Cthulhu. Maybe I don’t mess with the Doc and we both have a drink and he talks when he’s ready.

Yeah, that one sounds like the best chance of survival.

Just a little bit…better?

So the move went swimmingly. Really. Minimal screaming fits, no holes in walls, didn’t knock anyone out, and only cussed out like 3 people in New York. I love my New Yorkers but you guys can’t drive for shit. Like not at all. 

That all being said, the candlemaker aspect of my person is unhappy. I have all the oils, now all I need is the wax and jars. That has to wait. Candlemaking doesn’t pay bills. I do it because I like fire. And I guess I like you guys too. So give me a second, and I’ll add the Shopify thingy. 

However, I have been writing. Granted it hasn’t been to finish the third book. But I have been writing to finish up a few other short stories. And I might have started another project or six. Don’t worry. My wonderful sis/roommate is making me do writer’s boot camp. My asshole brother has given me all the words of advice and … Fuck him for this but… He’s right. Gotta pick up and start again. Being stagnant after the big move is a problem. So whether they know it or not, they’re working in tandem. Because they’re alike in every way. Yep. I said that. 

Gonna regret it.

Well I’m off to awkwardly communicate with new people and write things about people in books. Might even get the chance to… You know… Slide a chapter into that third work.

Holy shit….

I was going to start off by telling you to lay off me. I’m moving. I haven’t had the time to update this thing or write shorts… Or really do much of anything. Then I saw the date. It’s been four flippin’ months! To my five viewers – viewership has been great! But really… That’s good for me. Keep your sympathy claps. It’s probably fine. 


Let me have it. Give me the glares and the words. Give me your judgements. I deserve them. Or something. Maybe a punch in the face, shake some of this spring snot out of my sinus holes. 

That’s gross. I apologize for that…

But! Moving is happening. And this is stressful. It’s stressful in the worst sense of the word. Not because of relocation. Not because it’s a completely new thing where I have zero idea of what to do or how to do it. No. Nope. That’s good. All good. The problem?
Boxes. Everywhere. All the time. Forever. They will never go away. They’re worse than laundry and dishes combined. They hold my whole life and are highly flammable with highly flammable things inside and spark-inducing triggers. Whose bright, flippin’ idea was that?! Put your whole life in a box and move it somewhere else while simultaneously hoping someone doesn’t drown it in gasoline and throw a lit cigarette at it. WHO WOULD DO THAT?! ….

 I probably would. I like fire. Look at the name…. But those damn boxes… Might need a smoke just to deal with the thought of potentially setting all of my things on fire… 

Make a drink

Have a stogie

Put stuff in boxes

Seal the boxes

Pour the drink on the boxes

Toss the stogie on the soaked boxes

Toast marshmallows 

No more boxes to move….

I sense a solution.

Ideas… Shut up… Seriously? Again?!

As of today, the chronicles start.

And you start trying to be edgy and weird, telling people what’s going on inside your head.

Yes, because that’s just what I do. At least I think it’s what I —

“At least I think it’s what I do” You seriously can’t figure out what the fuck it is you do?

Id, I swear to —

To who? You’re just ranting on a screen and no one wants to listen to that. There’s a reason you don’t work in the–

Dude! Chill! Lay off Ego! She finally gets an idea and you shit on it!

Some Super you are, using all that foul language and shit.

No one said I had to be verbally celibate. You, on the other hand, need to calm down, make us all drinks and stop harshing people’s shit for five seconds, you condescending shitstain.

Five seconds of shhhh… Please, can we just shhh for at least five seconds?

This would be funnier with cartoons. Like little drawings of shit.

We know what cartoons are, Id.

Shut your fucking mouth, Super.


What the hell did I EVER do to you, huh?

I don’t know, added a pretentious holier-than-thou attitude to just about everything you do?

At least I figure out other ways than “kill it” ‘Nah, don’t kill it.”

The fuck’s wrong with that?!

It’s unilateral!

See?! There you go with that pretentious vocabulary shit!


How is being educated pretentious? And what about the word “pretentious?” Isn’t that condescending? Or are you above the opinions of your own–


Thank you! …. Fuck, I forgot what I was doing….

Bright ideas…

Got roped into watching Gilmore Girls with my roommate and had a thought that most of you might abhor. As a writer there are a lot of potential issues I run into; I’d imagine a lot of writers and potential writers hit the same. First, grammar. So many different rules that have morphed since the years of learning. Taking a step back, you realize “I have no idea why this happened or what I’m doing.” Perfectly normal. 

Then you realize you have writer’s block. Not the writer’s block that makes you nuts because you can’t figure out what the hell to put on paper because your head is empty. That’s just too easy. Nope You have the writer’s block that insinuates you have too many ideas to put on paper, and then you try to put ALL of them down. Just as bad as not knowing what to write, right? Probably worse since it can lead to a downwars spiral of drunkenness and Netflix binges.

Top it off with the twisted, whacked out cream and cherry of soul-crushing doubt, and you’ve got it all wrapped up in a bottle of your favorite home brew while you rock back and forth under a Flintstones blanket, crying into your single malt and wearing a tutu as a hat. Now there’s an image.

I’m not a world famous author or journalist. Don’t have my spec scripts in any Hollywood or Vancouver hands. But most of us don’t. So while you’re pounding away at your scripts, articles, books, 50-shades of Blackberry smut, or whatever you can feel free to laugh or bitch at the wonderful ventings of a psychopathic, pyro writer’s spiral into self induced madness. K? 

…Yeah, I hate that “k” thing, too…

Today is not the day

So our country is choosing a new leader today… And that’s all I have to say about that.

In other more awesome news, Dr. Strange came out last weekend and has been deemed an eyegasm. Probably need to go get my retinas laid some time this week. I’m behind enough in the world of entertainment. I’m still trying to finish the 4th season of Game of Thrones. Hush, say nothing. 

And, for the scattered thought of the day, NaNoWriMo has made an entrance into our lives again. It’s 8 days in. So you should be pretty close to getting the first quarter done. (I am 2/3 into the last Balance of Sins book. It’s on the way, I promise.)

And that is Tuesday’s weird and scatterbrained update. 

So, a funny thing happened in Boston…

I don’t wanna leave. I really don’t. I want to stay here, forever. Florida is probably one of the worst places in the world. Satan’s shit pit. Hell, Satan wouldn’t even stay there. I like it here. There are buildings. There are people. There are things that I couldn’t even begin to explain. There are pictures out the gaggle. I would probably post those. I think I will. Later. But first, I’m gonna finish this bomb ass drink at the Omni Parker House’s bar, Parker’s Bar.

It tastes like heaven…