Let’s Talk Sex

 

*Fires confetti cannons*

*Spins in a circle*

*Pours chocolate syrup over head*

 

Ahem

So then. The always fantastic people behind Simply for Lovers have foolishly graciously given me full reign of their lovers’ blog. I am beyond excited about this. And here’s why:

First and foremost? It’s a kickass site. Seriously… an entire blog devoted to all things sex, romance, dating, and relationship? What’s not to love about that? They also have a site where they sell all kinds of toys, games, lingerie and other sexy time essentials. I’ve already been writing their fantasy of the month for some time now, and I love, Love, LOVE being able to do that. Writing a steamy, sexy, fantasy for people to enjoy is something I’ve gotten a serious kick out of. (It’s actually got me thinking that writing erotica may be in my future.)

What’s more, I really think this is a fantastic idea. Sex is something we all have, we all enjoy and for whatever reason, nobody wants to talk about it in the light of day. I say, forget all that. Sex, romance, and love should be discussed. They should be talked about, explored, compared. How can you have the most fulfilling love life possible if you’re not willing to stretch your wings a little?

Just check out my interview with suicide girl and adult film actress Mandy Morbid about what the average couple can learn from a porn star if you don’t believe me. It may change your mind about what “adult performers” are like in bed!

And now it’s your turn. If you’re a blogger, writer, sex enthusiast, or just have a distinctive point of view, I’d love to hear from you.

Are you involved in a polyamourous relationship and are willing to be interviewed? Have a music blog and want to share the best playlist for getting busy? Maybe you’re a stay at home dad and have great ideas for keeping the romance alive in your marriage. Maybe you have experience coming out about your sexuality and think you can help someone who is confused. Or perhaps you’re a food writer/own a lingerie shop/have a disability and want to share your ideas on aphrodisiac foods/the best corsets for large chests/how to get down without getting hurt.

I’m looking for folks who (anonymously or not) want to share some info and ideas, want to do a guest post, are willing to be interviewed or just plain have something to say about love and sex.

Also, if you like contests, giveaways and games, you may want to follow SFL on twitter (@SimplyForLovers) for lots of fun.

So go ahead, leave me a comment or get in touch with me at VLazabal (at) Yahoo dot com. I want to hear from you. Even if you don’t want to be a part of the blog itself, I’d love to hear about the kind of stuff you want to read about, whether it’s vibrator reviews, tips and tricks, steamy stories, ideas or something else altogether!

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Gulliver

So this week’s flash fiction prompt over at TerribleMinds is simply about “bad parents,” which reminded me of a story I wrote a while back and hadn’t shared with anyone yet. So, I bring to you today, Gulliver.

 

Gulliver

 

The bear is starting to show his age. Faded, worn, his stuffing mostly gone now—spilling out from a tear in his left side. He’s missing one of his shiny, coal button eyes. The bottom of his dangling paw still has her name clumsily scrawled on it in black marker from that time last year when she’d had the flu and spent three whole days gloriously banished to her room with a box of crackers and a thermos full of juice. She loves him all the more fiercely for his bumps and bruises.

Gulliver wears his scars proudly. Unlike her own scrapes and cuts, so carefully hidden beneath long sleeves and her good school jeans. The few times she’d woken up to a face punctuated with welts and bruises, ripe as a summer plum, there had been a day off school. Makeup. Hugs. The only hugs she can recall.

She reads on the bedroom floor. Beneath a lean-to fort of her comforter and desk chair. Here is where she and Gulliver escape. Smiling to her best friend, she relates tales of adventure and happily ever afters to her tattered bear, content and quiet.

Until His frame blocks the light cascading from the bedside lamp. She flinches, hoping He doesn’t notice. The last time He was in here, she’d done a terrible job of putting her clothes away—Neatly, damn it is that so hard?!I—andHe’d had to take a hammer to the collection of delicate angel figurines on her dresser. Over and over until there was nothing left but a glittering pile of glass dust for her to clean and a tiny shard of crystal wing embedded in her lip for mom to remove.

She stiffens her body to keep the shaking she feels inside from escaping as He scans the room for some violation. And his eyes settled on Gulliver.

“This piece of shit is going in the trash.”

She has no choice but to watch on in abject horror as he scoops her bear up in his massive hand and leaves the room. She trails behind, unwilling to accept this latest discipline.

“But… why?” She knows better than to question him, to squeak the words past the lump in her throat. But they escape anyway, pain and grief tearing through her as he shoves Gulliver into the sloppy mess of old coffee filters and leftover dog food in the kitchen trash can.

He doesn’t answer (she’d known he wouldn’t) and instead leaves her there in a heap on the dingy linoleum floor, lost.

“Where’s your teddy bear?” he asks, hours later. She recognizes the mocking tone. The light in his eyes. Gulliver is gone. He threw him away. The scene played over and over in her mind as she wanders the house, an empty ship with a broken anchor.

She makes a run for her room before the first tear leaves her shimmering eyes. She still doesn’t know all the rules to his game, but she knows enough to recognize that He likes it when she cries. Normally it was a good way to make Him stop. Let Him see the pain, he won, and it was almost over. Today, she can’t bring herself to give Him the pleasure.

Instead, she crawls into bed, waits for the release of sleep.

He doesn’t let her forget. All week, He teases. Picks at her scabs. Rips the wound open with His mocking question.

“Where’s your teddy bear?”

Friday afternoon, she walks up the driveway, dragging her feet against the imaginary and insistent pull of home. Despite the lack of homework, her pink hand-me-down backpack feels heavy. Filled not with books or toys but with the heavy weight of loss and grief.

The horizon has long since gobbled up the last of the winter sun when she sits down to dinner. She’s not hungry. There’s a lead weight in her gut that refuses to go away. She forces herself to eat anyway, before He has a chance to force her Himself.

When He pushes his chair away from the table, she shoves another, bigger, bite into her mouth—gagging, desperately trying to prove she isn’t being difficult or obstinate or picky.

“Come on,” He says, motioning with his head as he walks past the kitchen and into the garage.

She follows, trying not to fidget as the icy December floor seeps through her bare feet. Streetlights burn through the inky sky, creating a dingy yellow halo that drips down over the house and spills onto the drive.

“Trash man came today. Thought you’d want to say one last goodbye.” He tips the largest can towards her, shows off its hollow bowels.

The icy air  freezes her tears as they spill out of her eyes in a rush.

“I loved you, Gulliver” is all she manages to say before her legs give out. He catches her before she hits the sidewalk, and she’s too sad, too tired, to care what her display of emotions will cost her later.

He lays her on the couch, and she curls into a ball. Her body shakes with a chill that has little to do with the fluttering snowflakes outside the big picture window. She hears Him leave the room and vaguely registers a wish in the back of her mind that He won’t come back with the belt.

Instead, when He returns a moment later, a familiar softness brushes against her cheek. She’s too terrified to hope.

But hope won out—it always wins in the end—and she sits up. He’s holding Gulliver out towards her, his fur freshly washed and the hole in his side stitched neatly. He has a new button eye.

She sits, cradling her best friend, with a splotchy face and the last of the tears drying on her cheeks. Forgetting the half-healed split in her lip, her mouth gapes into a smile as she hurls herself at him and encases his thick frame in her arms.

“Thank you so much, daddy! You’re the best!”

Biscuit

Greetings humans of Earth. Recently, I entered a microfiction competition, and while I didn’t win I was actually quite pleased with my entry. And so I present to all of you, Biscuit:

 

Biscuit

 

My daughter’s kitten, Biscuit, keeps me up all night. She’s hard to see, despite her clumsy paws and soft round tummy, and I can’t always get a good look at her. But she’s there; scratching at the doors, ripping up the carpet.

It’s gotten worse, and she’s chewing right through the walls most nights now. Gnawing and scratching and spitting out bits and pieces of drywall and insulation like some kind of zombie robot cat, back from the grave and surviving off of useless bits of wire and mesh debris.

Sometimes I wonder why she can’t just be quiet. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to count past five without crying again. Sometimes I leave gaping holes in my walls and doors with my fists, a hammer, anything I have handy. I’m just trying to find Biscuit, make her be quiet.

Those are the nights my husband screams. I can’t make out the words, except when he cries softly that he loves me. I wonder if he remembers our vacation as a family, how much little Emma loved the warm waters of Manzanillo.

Uno. Dos. Hola. Adios. She taught herself some words in Spanish that trip. Would run through the sand and into my arms shouting, “Momma! Hola means hi!”  I can’t forget.

Just like I can’t forget about Biscuit. Can’t let her run through the house, chewing through wires and walls and carpet.

My daughter’s kitten hasn’t left much in the way of walls. There are holes and gaps and giant caves dug out all over. Everywhere except Emma’s room. Biscuit doesn’t go in there – almost like she can’t. I can’t either. Can’t swing open that door and see her colorful clothes and toys and messy bed all covered in a layer of dust and loneliness.

I can’t watch the television or cook or turn on the lights anymore, either. Biscuit’s chewed through the wires. She scampers out before my husband can catch a glimpse of her.

“Did you see her, babe? She was right there.”

It’s obvious where she’s just been – the carpet is shredded with the destruction that only tiny little teeth and claws can effectively create. But my husband still doesn’t see her. He only pulls me close, shakes a little.

Biscuit leads me through the house – everywhere but Emma’s room – and I follow her now. Leaving my own holes in the walls. Stitching together memories as I go. A cherubic, smiling face. Dark curls and blue eyes. One dimple. Sunshine and a sandy swimsuit. Uno. Dos. Hola means hi momma. Momma my head feels funny. What does the doctor mean, momma? Momma I love you I want to sleep now. I can’t forget, not like my husband has. So I look for Biscuit, hear her scratching inside the walls. Tiny claws and even tinier mewling.

She was so cute, my little one. Cute enough to make me put hole after hole in the walls and doors. Shouting the little Spanish she knew with wild abandon. Jumping into every picture, eyes saucer-wide and grin full of mischief. Maybe when I catch Biscuit I can open Emma’s door again. Maybe Emma will be sitting there again. Color back in her round cheeks.

My daughter’s kitten made my husband leave. That’s not what the divorce papers say. They sit on my kitchen table next to the chewed up wrappers and dead mice that the zombie cat leaves littered about. It spends more time out in the open now that I’m alone, and sometimes she talks to me. Mostly in Spanish. We went to Mexico once, you know. Biscuit stayed home and little Emma asked about her every day.

It’s funny that Biscuit remembers that trip. It was so long ago – Emma was only five. She even remembers how cute – cute as a button – little Emma looked, all tanned and happy when we came home from that trip. Before she’d ever seen so much as the inside of a hospital lobby.

We talk about Emma a lot, Biscuit and I. She stays in my housecoat pocket most nights now. I can keep her safe there. I’ve even started to patch up some of the holes in the walls.

We count together at night, all the way to five and back down. And then I swallow down the sand in my throat and we drift off to sleep, remembering.

Los Angeles: The Writer’s Natural Habitat

 

“There are just as many starving writers in Los Angeles as there are actors parking cars.”

 

That was my mom’s standard response whenever I told her I wanted to be a writer, beginning somewhere around age 5 when I first fell in love with the written word. (Incidentally, the irony that I began the freelance writing career that allowed me to raise my brother and sister only after she passed isn’t lost on me. I like to think it makes her smile, wherever she is.)

 

At any rate, I understood her desire for me to focus on a more stable career path. Hey, I’m no dummy. L.A’s smoggy, congested streets are littered with the broken dreams and half-finished manuscripts of the writers that came before me. But if there’s anything I’ve gleaned from my time hustling articles, blogs, press releases and web copy it’s that I am nothing if not tenacious and driven. Instead of being discouraged by all of the unemployed and “aspiring” writers in the City of Angels, I’ve come to discover that there’s plenty about my home town that’s actually pretty inspiring. So, as I carve out my “I am going to start writing fiction, too, even if it kills me” plan, here’s a look at some of the (sometimes surprising) reasons why I love LA –

 

Characters are Everywhere

Seriously. Have you ever been to Los Angeles? Or any part of California, for that matter? There are characters, personalities, fascinating people everywhere for you to explore and gain inspiration from. I grew up in a part of North Hollywood where most people roll up their windows and try to drive through as quickly as possible. Thinking back on my grandma’s apartment complex, I could probably populate an entire novel with the characters behind those faded numbered doors.

 

There was the incredibly sweet old woman old woman who still wore the huaraches she’d crossed the border in every time she walked to the Laundromat; her face a crisscross of deep lines and a wide, toothless smile. The gang bangers with wrap sheets longer than they were, who always – always – brought my grandma’s groceries into the apartment for her so she wouldn’t have to carry them. The German man who lived across the street and washed his old and immaculately kept Volvo every afternoon, muttering way too loudly about how this used to be a nice neighborhood. And, of course, my own loud Cuban family.

 

Basically, everywhere you turn in Southern California, you’re going to run into someone with a story. And those people make for great stories.

 

Beauty is Inspiring

No, I’m not talking about the perfectly plastic and polished actresses strolling along Rodeo, or the buff bodies strutting their stuff on Muscle Beach. (Although, there is a lot of that kind of beauty in this town, too.) No, I mean there’s something about the city and the suburbs themselves that are beautiful. And that kind of setting inspires.

 

I live in a high desert suburb now, where there’s not much traffic and sunsets over the Joshua trees and mountains still catches my breath. But I’m a close drive from lakes, beaches, palm tree-lined streets, soaring buildings… basically there’s something to see all over the place, and that variety and scenery is a gift for writers.

 

It’s Gritty

Behind all that beauty, of course, is the noir side to the city. Crooked cops, riots, tension, drugs, pollution… The best art comes from pain, and LA is definitely a city with a past. Tapping into that is sometimes all the inspiration you need.

 

You’re Not Alone

Finally, there’s something to be said for the fact that there are so many damned writers in LA. Writing is often a lonely, confusing world. Knowing that there are talented, struggling, successful, and brilliant writers near you that you can talk to, ask advice from, and who just *get* what you’re going through makes you feel less like an island and more a part of a community.

 

So there you have my reasons for loving LA. Do you find inspiration from your location? Is there something about your town, city, state, trailer park, UFO or farmland that pushes you to be better at what you do?

Summer Storm

 

As the new official Fantasy of the Month and Suggestion of the Week writer at Simply for Lovers, I thought I’d take a second and let you guys take a peek at the sultry story I wrote for August. While a bit NSFW, I happen to be proud of this bad boy, so I encourage you to all go check it out.

 

Ahem, I said I ENCOURAGE you to go check it out.

 

*Stares at you until you click the link*

 

http://blog.simplyforlovers.com/2013/08/01/summer-storm/

Penance

 

And now, for something a little different.

 

Today’s post is another piece of flash fiction, in response to a challenge on Chuck Wendig’s Terrible Minds blog. Basically, the assignment was to take a line created to be the last line of a story, and flip that idea on its pretty little head – making it the opening line of a roughly 1000 word story. So to see which line I chose, and to indulge in the rest of my creativity run amok, read on:

 

Penance

 

Truth be told, I’m not sure any of them are actually dead. It all looks so much easier in the movies, where the baddie is always a big, snarling monster and the good guys never run out of bullets. No one ever tells you that real monsters look remarkably similar to sweet, blue haired old ladies. Or that demons make a hell of a mess when you blow them up.

 

Damn it. I loved those shoes.

 

Sinking down into the massive wingback chair by the floor to ceiling windows, I slipped off my red patent leather heels and reached for a towel. Demon blood – thick, black and sulfurous – dripped down off of my pony tail and all over the snug designer jeans and black v-neck I’d thrown on earlier. I’d no sooner started to wipe copious amounts of viscous unholy innards from my favorite Louboutins than the knock came.

 

Great. Not even time to clean up first. Oh well, might as well get it over with.

 

“Door’s open.”

 

If I hadn’t been so damn tired, the look on the Council member’s faces would have elicited a chuckle from me. Then again, it’s not every day that you walk in on a well-dressed woman covered in coagulating demon guts in the middle of a high end Las Vegas hotel room. Still, you’d figure that the head of the world’s foremost paranormal council would at least try to hide his obvious disgust. Apparently it’s easier to pay for demon hunting services when you don’t have to come face to face with the evidence of it.

 

“We… we were looking for Nick?”

 

For one of the most powerful men in the country, Alex Ballard sure looked confused. His tiny blue eyes shifted nervously from one corner of the room to the other, obviously at a loss. Considering his standing in the magic community, I opted against my first inclination, which was to let loose a smartass answer. Instead I set down my ruined shoe with an exhausted sigh before leveling him with as serious a look as I could muster.

 

“I’m Nic. And here – “I fished the small silk bag out of my pocket and tossed it in his direction “ – is what’s left of your demon problem.”

 

Alex stared down at the tiny black parcel in his hands as if expecting it to burn a hole through his palm. He cleared his throat twice before addressing me again, tiny eyes still glued to the bag.

 

“You’re sure that they’re d-dead? Gone?”

 

Ok, now I was getting irritated. I wanted a hot shower and a rare steak. I wanted Alex Ballard to cough up my fee and then get the hell out of my room. I wanted to quit the demon hunting business once and for all and find a nice quiet office job that wouldn’t give me migraines and nightmares. Instead, I eased myself out of the chair and ambled over to the mini bar.

 

Ballard’s assistant – who, if it was possible, had even shiftier beady eyes than his boss – took two steps back and paled visibly as I walked by. Can’t say it didn’t sting my pride a bit. Sure, I was dripping with leftover demonic parts and probably smelled a little like brimstone. But come on, no girl wants to be the cause of a man’s obvious revulsion.

 

Pouring a hefty shot of bourbon for myself, I gestured at the two men with the bottle.

 

“No thank you, Miss –er – Nic. Now, about the demons. If you could explain exactly how you know –“

 

“I don’t. There’s no way of knowing that they won’t come back. Can’t even be sure that they’re all really dead at all.”

 

The heat from the liquor blossomed in my chest. It was a welcome, numbing sensation.

 

“The fact is, Mr. Ballard, that this kind of demon doesn’t belong on this plane. Someone, someone a hell of a lot more powerful than your average basement Satanist, summoned those demons with the intention of doing a fuckload of harm to the people of your city. I’d say they consumed three or four souls before I got to it. Teenagers, probably. Runaways or homeless folks. Anyway, I’d say your problem is bigger than the demons themselves. You’re going to want to figure out who did this, sooner, rather than later.”

 

“I don’t understand. How did you manage this? No one else has been able to locate the monsters, much less identify and vanquish them…”

 

I grinned at him over the rim of the glass before knocking back the last of the bourbon.

 

“I’m damn good at my job. Now, if we could arrange for payment, I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m a wee bit tired…”

 

That seemed to snap him out of his dumbfounded state.

 

“Of course. We’ll be out of your way shortly.”

 

Slipping the pouch into his suit jacket pocket, he nodded curtly at the beady-eyed assistant, who scrambled out of the room, hopefully to go get my hefty fee. Hey, fighting the undead is a dangerous job; what would be the point of risking my ass if it didn’t pay well enough to keep me in the lifestyle to which I’d always wanted to become accustomed?

 

I was halfway through my second drink when I noticed a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. Call it intuition, or instinct, or just a keen sixth sense developed over years of dealing with paranormal bad guys, but I knew something was about to go down.

 

Dropping the glass, I reached into the back waistband of my jeans and ducked low seconds before the screeching started. There’s really no mistaking the high pitched whine of a demon shaking off its human form. Son of a bitch, I should have known something was wrong the second Ballard entered the room. If I hadn’t been so damn tired…

 

Alex Ballard’s doughy face split down the middle, blood and sinew erupting in a lava-like flow as the grizzled demon that had obviously been inhabiting his body for some time revealed itself. Still screeching, it raised one of Alex’s hands in my direction. The stench of sulfur made my eyes tear as chunks of flesh melted away from the body that had, until quite recently, belonged to the chairman of the American Paranormal Council.

 

The demon charged then, its oily black skin melding with what was left of Ballard to leave a trail of soot, blood and slime on the pristine hotel carpet. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes – this demon wanted me dead.

 

“Not today, you bastard.”

 

Raising the retrofitted Walther PPK, I locked onto the demon’s snarling head and pulled the trigger just as it was rounding the side of the wingback chair.

 

A whole new layer of sludge rained down over me as I bent to gather the tiny black silk pouch from the bubbling pond of ooze that used to be Ballard’s suit jacket. I might not ever get my hair clean again.

 

The knock at the door from Ballard’s assistant came as I was looking around for something to wipe my face with. Apparently, this night was just not getting any easier. Raising the Walther, I called out as sweetly as I could.

 

“Come on in…”

And the Nominees Are…

 

After being recently nominated for the fantabulous Versatile Blogger Award, it is now my honor to present to you 10 intriguing, intelligent, and otherwise completely cool blogs worth looking at. Some of these are writing related, some are not, but all are completely awesome. Ready? Here we go, in no particular order:

 

 

  1. http://delilahpaints.blogspot.com/

This is Delilah S. Dawson’s blog. A great romance writer and hysterical Twitter-er.

 

  1. http://laughingfrommysickbed.blogspot.com/

A must-see type blog for any spoonie out there.

 

  1. http://tuneintoyourautoimmune.wordpress.com

Another inspiring and though provoking blog for anyone dealing with autoimmune issues.

 

  1. http://foodmancingthegirl.blogspot.com/

If you’re at all a foodie (which I completely am, can’t lie… love getting my creative vibe going on in the kitchen) then this blog is definitely worth checking out. I’m nowhere near Charleston, but still get a major kick out of the extensive food porn on this blog.

 

5.  http://terribleminds.com/ramble/blog/

While absolutely on the NSFW side, this blog has some of the BEST writing advice I’ve ever come across. “Finish your sh**.” Enough said.

 

6.  http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules

This blog from the editors of Writer’s Digest is full of insider advice. A must read for new and experienced writers.

 

7.  http://www.simplyforlovers.com/blog/

Well sure, this blog mostly makes the list because I am the new official writer for it. BUT, I feel the need to let you all know that it’s actually quite full of fun and sexy ideas, tips, tricks, and steamy fantasies. (Also, NSFW, obviously)

 

8. http://www.lamebook.com/

Everyone needs a laugh break. When you should be working but would rather be cracking up, check out these hysterical Facebook status FAILS blog.

 

9. http://myhusbandisannoying.com/

This blog, where a woman bares her soul to the Internet in an attempt to avoid divorce or homicide, is not only relatable, it’s hilarious.

 

10. http://theinvisibledisease.blogspot.com/

A fantastic blog for anyone living with or supporting someone who has an invisible illness.

Versatile Blogger Award WOOHOO!

 

Among the fabulous comments and notes I received during my little hiatus from the blogosphere, I was thrilled to find that a fellow blogger (and fabulous fibro chick) had nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award!

 

You like me… you really like me!

 

Now this is awesome on several fronts. Thank you very much, Miss Chrissy Faery, for the nomination. Y’all should probably go check out her blog, because it’s pretty effin cool. So winning this distinguished honor comes with two responsibilities: telling your readers 7 fun or interesting things about yourself, and nominating 15 other awesome bloggers for the award. I have decided to split this up into two posts, in order to completely milk the awesome good feelings for all they’re worth. Er- I mean to give both aspects of my nomination the respect they deserve. So here we go, ladies and germaphobes – seven things you didn’t know about me!

 

  1. I want to write a killer romance novel

I absolutely love the idea of penning a sexy, smart, witty romance or chick lit novel. Which is actually pretty surprising to those that know me, because I tend to be a bit of an anti-chick. I’d rather watch the Exorcist than the Notebook. What can I say? Which brings me to…

 

  1. I’m fascinated by the paranormal

Ghosts, hauntings, possessions, Santeria, mediums, spirit communication… anything that gives us a clue as to what happens when we leave this physical world has always fascinated me. I love Long Island Medium and American Horror Story, and writing paranormal fiction is on my writer’s wish list.

 

  1. I’m a complete audiophile

Whether I’m writing, cooking, cleaning, or mindlessly updating my Twitter status, I’ve almost always got music playing. Sometimes I think my Skull Candy earbuds are an extension of my physical being. My tastes are pretty eclectic, too. A quick glimpse of my recent playlists reveal everything from Frank Sinatra. Train and The Sex Pistols to Pink, Maroon 5 and Martina McBride, with a million things in between.

 

  1. I love to cook

Getting my kitchen on is an awesome way to let my creative freak flag fly, and I’m all about it. I’ll try new things all the time. And I love to make up my own recipes.

 

  1. I can be really mean to myself.

There are things I can control. There are also a lot of things I can’t. But just because something is completely out of my control doesn’t necessarily mean I won’t beat myself up over it. This is especially true of things that limit me, like my lupus and fibromyalgia. If I’m too sick to work as much as I like, or if I have to put something off for later or leave a function early, I take it tough and immediately get down on myself. I’m working on this.

 

  1. My cat is as clumsy as I am… and that’s saying something

I have an all black cat, named Onyx. I love her. I really do. I think she might need glasses. Her depth perception is way off. She falls off of things, like the bed, on a regular basis. The other day she fell into the bathtub where I was soaking. I’m still wearing the battle scars. The thing is, I completely understand her. I once set my own hair on fire. I have clumsiness issues of my own. So, really she’s more of a familiar than a pet.

onyx 001

  1. Despicable Me is one of my favorite movies, ever

You could say that I have a very young aspect to my personality. That being said, I absolutely LOVE those “children’s” movies that have as many jokes geared towards adults as for kids. Despicable Me is possibly my favorite of these. My boyfriend gave me my own minion (stuffed, sadly) for my birthday. His name is Dave and he rocks.

 

So there you have it, guys. Seven things you probably didn’t know about me! Next post, I will give you all my list of 15 Versatile Blogger nominees, so that you can go out and explore their fantabulous blogs on your own! Till then… ASSEMBLE THE MINIONS!

She’s Back! (My Triumphant Return to the Blogging World)

 

So it’s been a little over a month since my last post, and for this, faithful followers, I am sorry. I hot a rough patch, health wise, and was conserving my energy and only using my writing powers to get work done. But no more! I’m feeling a bit better, and what’s more, I am more motivated than ever before to take my writing to the next level.

 

For those of you that liked my post on some of the sultrier work I’ve published recently, I am pleased to announce that I am officially the new Fantasy of the Month and Suggestion of the week writer for Simply for Lovers. I highly suggest you check them out for all of your adult toy, massage, lingerie, and sexy reading needs.

 

I have all kinds of other news and plans to share with you all. So stay tuned and I will be back with more soon!

 

*Takes Bow*

*Exits Stage to Thunderous Applause*

Where There’s a Will…

 

 

Late the other night, I was awake and in pain and perusing ye olde Facebook in an attempt to find entertainment and, perhaps, something that would miraculously lull me to bed. Instead, I stumbled across something that both angered and hurt me. Here’s how it all went down:

 

I noticed that someone had posted something on the fibromyalgia support page. She was asking if anyone was familiar with the side effects of certain medications often prescribed to FM. It just so happened that I had tried all three of the prescriptions she mentioned, and went ahead and shared what I knew about Cymbalta, Lyrica and Savella. And then I saw it.

 

Amidst the many comments and questions was a woman who said that medications don’t work for things like fibromyalgia, and that really, all that the original poster needed to do was “breathe deep and will the pain away.”

 

Normally, I would have just dismissed the ignorant comment. But I was feeling particularly defeated, and something about her statement really hit me in the gut.

 

Here’s the thing, guys. When people make statements akin to “all you have to do is set your mind to it…” it implies that a person’s symptoms are all in their head. Or that they’re exaggerating. Or that they can simply will away their pain. Which would be awesome. I mean, if I could take a deep breath and suddenly not be in agony every time I move, I’d be all over it.

 

But I can’t.

 

Telling someone with a chronic condition to stop taking their medication and just will themselves better is not only insensitive, it’s downright dangerous. I’ve had people tell me I just need to get out more, or that a good night’s sleep is all it would take to make me right as rain. I’ve had people tell me that everyone feels achy sometimes and to stop being so dramatic about it all.

 

And every one of those statements is another tiny chip at my well built-up armor.

 

So here’s the thing, everyone. Before you assume that someone’s condition is all in their head, or that they are faking the extent of their symptoms, simply take a quick peek online. A little research, a peek at an online forum, even a gander at some Tweets will probably be all it takes to give you a better idea of what it’s like to live with something you are unfamiliar with.

 

You’d be surprised at how much it means to someone when you take a few minutes to try and see what they’re going through…