Kim Kardashian Visits Life by Chocolate: IWSG

Sometimes insecurities wreak havoc with the creative process. Because of this, Alex J. Cavanaugh  founded the blogosphere's one-and-only Insecure Writer’s Support Group. We’re posting monthly, exposing our vulnerabilities and/or offering support to one another. Please check out Alex’s blog to visit others’ posts. It’s a group of kindhearted bloggers/writers and great people.  Join us, if you haven't already! All that's required is an insecurity or two hundred.

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Robyn: Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from somewhere expensive, Kim Kardashian is here. So sorry. I mean, let's welcome her.

Kim struts to the center of the stage, flinging her hair back, and takes a seat.

Robyn: Thanks for joining us, Kim. I know you have a lot of work to do, pretending to work and all. You write a lot too, if tweeting counts. I'll start by saying I didn't invite you here because I respect you. Quite the opposite. I asked you here because you have no insecurities, and no talent, brains or moral fiber. How do you do it? I mean, I'm slammed by insecurities. But I've more to offer than you. We all do.

Kim pulls her Kardashian compact out of her Kardashian handbag and reapplies her Kardashian mascara. Her Kardashian phone rings. She takes the call. "Uh huh, hm mm, seriously! I'll tell her." She puts her K. phone back in her K. handbag. "Kanye says he's going to *bleep* your *bleepin* *bleep* for being a *bleepin* *bleep*!"

Robyn: Sweetie, from him, that's a compliment. What I was saying is that you're a fine example of what it takes: selfishness, and being born into billions, and making sex videos. I figure I have the best odds with the selfishness angle. Can you give me some pointers?

Kim: Are you serious? She rolls her eyes. I don't even like shellfish.

Robyn: That says it all.

Kim flings her hair back and struts off stage. The cameraman zooms in on her backside, but his wide angle lens isn't wide enough, so he turns back to Robyn.

Robyn: To all insecure writers and people everywhere, if she can have that kind of confidence, we can and should have a lot more. Believe it. Believe in you. Know that talent, brains, and values matter. Keep faith, and persist in tilting the world towards substance and quality. We need your gifts now more than ever.

Thanks for visiting!

PS This post wasn't meant to insult anyone it wasn't meant to insult. Wink.

Happy September, Sundays in My City

Unknown Mami hosts an extraordinary weekly party. Visit her site here to appreciate scenes from across the globe. It's a small blog world afterall.

Welcome to California's true north, where you can't miss

                                                                      beautiful sunsets,               

      murals that tell stories, 

                                            and

                                                     extreme efforts to stay cool. 

                                                                  

Thanks for visiting, and happy September!

Pizza Delivery, III.

This series, written several months in retrospect, loosely follows from this post. Hint: pizza represents something else.  
Have a great weekend and new month. Enjoy this and/or good pizza! ~~

Anticipation simmered as we attempted to mesh schedules for several days. My birthday related plans, and Delivery Boy’s long work hours, posed challenges. 

Alas, we nailed it down: “I know it’s last minute,” he told me one evening, “but I have a birthday gift for you. I want to see your face when you open it. Are you free tonight?”

I tried to play it cool. “Ah, you shouldn’t have. I’ll be right over.”  We laughed.  “Actually, give me an hour.”

Fifty-nine minutes later, Delivery Boy welcomed me into his dimly lit apartment. I couldn’t see much but a romantic glow from a cluster of candles on the coffee table. He took my hand and walked me to the sofa, where we sat side by side. Delivery Boy reached for a wrapped package near the candles, about the size of a DVD. “Belated happy birthday, Robyn.”

"You shouldn’t have.”  I gushed and ripped off the packaging. “‘Airplane!’ I love it!" 

"Thanks," I whispered, leaning towards him. Before I knew it, anticipatory nibbling, intense kneading, and simultaneous salivation had begun. Pizza was in the works. “Just to let you know,” I said, pausing momentarily, “I don’t usually have pizza so fast. Actually, I don’t usually have pizza at all. And never without a condiment.”  

He reassured. “Don’t worry. I know you’re not like that. I’m not either. I just really like you.”

Delivery Boy slipped a condiment out of his pocket. "We don’t have to, but just in case.”

The room heated, as ingredients were positioned, spices piled on, and fingertips caressed the dough. Pizza warmed slowly, then quickly, then slowly and quickly again. The moment my appetite peaked, he delivered a hot combination pizza with hearty sausage. I ravaged extra string cheese... And then we ate more. And more.

Hours later and fully sated, I slowly collected myself.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, walking me to my car.  

I drove home in a giddy haze. Did I really just eat all that pizza? I forgot how good it tastes.

Note to self: You didn’t see the check. Pizza has its price.

Note in response to note to self: Did you say something? I didn’t hear you. ‘Cuz I got pizza! Pizza! Pizza!

 
To be continued.