I'm tickled that my writing's reached a new segment of our population: tots. I mean, I don't recommend it for children. However, I readily approve this precious toddler's perusal of Woman on the Verge. She's a friends' child. This wasn't staged. No, this doll grabbed the book from the front room bookshelves, and flipped through it within seconds. I believe her review sounded something like: "k,k, caa daa yip, *hiccup*, *sweet, confused blank stare*, and then 'This book's a hoot!'" WOOHOO! It's every author's dream!
Be well and safe.
I love you.
Introduction: Is it Just Me?
Musings swirl. Then twirl. And hurl. They contort into skilled, agile backflips across a sleek narrow balance beam twisting gracefully to land with breasts pumped outwards. An enthused series of tens from all but the Russian judge ignites suspicion. What a piss ass. He probably needs to get laid. Oy. Why do I go there?
Sh*t, is it just me or are everybody’s braincells mysteriously busy boogers, frenetically body-slamming against each other’s elastic membranes, then rebounding full-speed ahead like Martha Stewart at the mention of Chippendale’s most girthy, barely-of-age hottie?
Am I crazy? Am I not crazy? If I’m crazy, am I crazy for thinking I’m not crazy? But if I’m not crazy, am I not crazy for thinking—my musings hurt. That’s it; I’m not crazy. No? No, no?
Oh all right, yes. Yes, yes. Check box one, check box two. Cash? No, check. Check please.
I hate waiting for the check. You know? They’re never quick to bring it. Bring the damn check! Twenty minutes later they act all smiley, flip it under your nose, and say “Take your time.” I already did, honey, waiting for you to bring the damn check! Oy.
Warmed bed sheets brush briskly against my right calf...