What if…


What if the beliefs you’ve been taught we’re simply beliefs you’ve been taught?

What if you did what you wish the world do?

What if today was the day you became you?

What if you stopped being your past or your future, and you started to be?

What if you were not your thoughts, or your mood, or your parents?

What if you were the person you were made to be?

  

Funny: A bedtime story


 
He had never been popular. Tod was a normal looking kid who got average grades in his typical middle school. 

He wasn’t very athletic, nor one of those “bad boy” types who seemed to always be sneaking around with a cigarette or a girl.

The fact that girls seemed to go for guys like that, was almost enough to bring him back to the “girls are stupid” phase, except for her. Julie.

She had everything a 14 year old boy could long for and more. The only problem was that Julie was popular, aka blind to the rest of humanity, especially nobodies like him.

So Tod daydreamed about doing something amazing.

When the news segment was about a school shooting in Florida, he fantasized about being the kid who took the gunman down and saved the class.

If the weatherman mentioned the possibility of strong storms, he fantasized about leading Julie’s class out of a damaged school.

Even his dreams were about giving Julie the Heimleich maneuver or saving her from a distracted driver at the crosswalk.

He’d be the hero somehow. It felt like his destiny.

One year. 

In one year he’d gone from being unpopular to the most popular kid in school, and now, here he was reading a note from Julie, and she’s calling him her hero.

One year of tests, diagnoses, medications and hospitals was all it took to be a hero. Well, that and his life. 

He’d never imagined dying in a hospital bed before he turned 16, but he could feel it coming. Funny, he thought to himself.

This is seriously the grossest thing ever.


  Stop reading this. You will regret going on. Just walk away.

You just couldn’t help yourself? Fine, but don’t whine and cry and call me nasty or anything like that. I warned you.

I’m a woman. As a woman I have a monthly subscription to Satan’s river. Through the miracle of modern science and engineering, we women have a selective array of products to facilitate or rather hide the rivers’ flow when it comes.

Okay, last chance guys. Believe me, you don’t want to read more.

One of these ingenious products is a plug, otherwise known as a tampon.

Now, I’ve been off my period for a week or so, but several days ago I became disturbed by a rather offensive odor which seemed to be coming from my lady parts. I did what I could, frequent showers, etc, but the odor persisted and seemed to be getting worse.

I assumed I was dying of some horrible and humiliating disease or something, and began preparing my last will and testament, when I thought “maybe it’s a yeast infection”, so I put some ointment on my finger and it began its trek into the depths of my…well, me.

Suddenly I felt something that didn’t feel like me, and I realized “ahhhhh!!! it’s a tampon! Gross! Gross! Gross! Etc.” for about 10 minutes as I fished the disgusting thing out. It was horrible. Traumatizing. Nasty. 

So I looked it up and apparently it happens a lot. Women see their doctor and stuff to have it taken out, so I didn’t feel like as much of a sicko. So that’s it. Told you it was gross. 

I’m smelling better now, and it can actually be dangerous to leave a tampon in, so I guess I’m fortunate in that regard that it wasn’t life threatening.

In the future, I’m going to have to make tally marks for tampon insertion and retrieval or something, because this was one experience I don’t want a repeat of. 

Censorship


There simply is a time and place

To show the sides of your writer’s face.

I tend to post it all too quick

From beautiful to really sick

But sometimes I need a gentle remind 

That some of it should be held behind

The doors that only a few people see

Some might be better only for me.

That doesn’t mean I’m being fake

There’s only so much the world can take.

So I will try to keep a lid

On the writings that are better hid

Behind the public social wall

The view available to all.

Self-censorship is something I can do

Whether the piece is fake or true. 

I’ll have a secret writing mind

And leave the controversy behind.

Blocked


writers-block1

I promise that I really tried

To take my readers on a ride.

To keep them spellbound with suspense

To write in conflict and keep it tense.

I tried to write some sad stuff too

Make them believe it could be true.

Tried to write some witty verse

But I must be under some sort of curse

Because each time I start to write,

The words refuse to come into site.

I’m left staring at a blank page

More annoyed than full of rage.

I simply want to write a bit.

This feeling makes me want to quit.

So instead of trying to get it done.

I’ll write a poem just for fun.

So there! You mental blocking jerk!

Writing shouldn’t be so much work.

Did that really just happen?


  
A long time ago. 

You stopped my world. 

In a crowded room, there was only you,

And I.

And we both knew it.

At least I fantasize that you knew too.

Life was life.

I had a boyfriend and told you he might answer the phone, but I still gave you my number, because I knew it was you.

Not sure what would have happened if you called, but I’ve always wondered what life would have been.  

I’ll forgive you because of tonight.

We are meant to be together. 

I knew it then.

I’ve never forgotten it.

Never forgotten you.

Then tonight.

Did that really happen?

Are you real?

Your face,

Your voice,

Your everything,

The touch of your skin,

The taste of your lips,

Your mouth on my breast,

Feeling you?

Drinking you?

Was that real?

It can’t be.

People don’t make out with strangers.

People don’t mysteriously connect on the side of the road, after a brief meeting which might have been a dream 12 or 13 years ago.

People don’t have soul mates, or soul-friends-with-benefits, or soul strangers.

There’s no such thing as meant to be.

But I’ll tell you this,

That?

Tonight? 

Was…

Beyond description.

The memory 

Will never leave me.

It’s magic.

Just like those few minutes so many years ago.

Whether that was the same you,

Or merely the you of that moment.

Whether then or tonight really even happened,

Or they were drug induced dreams.

You, are the one I’ve been hoping to find.

Thank you for being real.

Or not…

Help Me


  
I need your help.

I make about $560 a month through SSDI. I can’t get a regular job because I smoke weed, which saves me at least $200/month in medication costs and helps with my dance disposition. I live in my ex-husband’s house for free with my kids, but believe me, I pay for that in other ways.

I DONT WANT YOUR MONEY!

I want you to help me with ideas for how to make money. I dance around town, have ad space available, which can go freely in and out of stores or anything. People consistently tell me they see me everywhere, my ad space is valuable, but so far no one has taken advantage of that fact, by paying me to wear their brand name or drink their soda in public or whatever.

I could be a very useful marketing tool, and that’s what I want to get paid for. 

Now, there will be critics who say the companies that sponser me are exploiting my disability. I want to say very clearly right now that:

I AM ALREADY EXPLOITING MY DISABILITY!

I’m a cripple. Before the acceptance and recognition of the beauty of it, people stared at or avoided me or seemed to feel sorry for me because I’m in a wheelchair. Now people definitely stare, but it is not out of pity.  I love it, and want people to stare and smile and laugh and talk to me.

When I actually accepted all of this, I recognized the privileges of being who I am. 

I am fortunate to be able to change the world by being myself, just sitting in a chair and dancing and making people smile. It is an honor.

I am taking advantage of my position by dancing around town with positive signs on my chair and making people smile.

Unfortunately that part doesn’t pay the bills.

I need help to get some form of either sponsorship, or advertising revenue, or something. 

If you see me somewhere dancing, please help by dancing. I’ve started giving my cards to construction workers and mail people and asking them and everyone else to dance when they see me dancing; but soon I will have to make money while doing this, or I’m going to have to stop.

Shh…


  

I know you’re scared,

You don’t know what to think.

What to do.

I don’t either.

I do know it will be okay.

You are strong. 

The only thing that is real

Is now.

This moment where we are traveling through cyberspace.

Meeting eachother. 

Right here.

Right now.

I’ve traveled the dimensions of time and space.

To meet you.

To hug you in a weird way

And to tell you 

It will be okay.

Richard Thomas Exclusive!


There is no past. My heart was ripped from me in a rush of flashing lights and sticky yellow tape. There is no future. Vision would require hope, and that stealthy whore eludes me at every turn. So I float in the ether, pasty skin crawling with regret, eyes gouged out by my own shaking hands.

Richard Thomas, author, editor, and friend who is legally obligated not to sue me if I run his foot over with my wheelchair, chose the lines above from his book for you, my readers.

This book is going to be good. Buy it here:

download

If you have the audacity to not take my word for it, read reviews here:

The Horror Bookshelf, Entropy, Crime Fiction Lover, Matt Pucci, Splatterhouse 5. I have more links if you still aren’t convinced.

If I were you, right after I bought the book, I’d go to the following link and follow Richard’s blog: 

http://whatdoesnotkillme.com/2015/05/26/disintegration/