Archive for the ‘writing’ Category

It’s A Living

Becoming a professional writer has been a dream of mine for a long time.

Thanks to the wonder of the internet, that dream has come true.  The Examiner is a news website that hires locals to report on particular subjects of varying topics.  And you get to choose your topic.  One person might be a film examiner.  Another can be a Playstation 2 examiner.  I’m a little confused as to the specificity of some of the examiners.  Does the world really need semi-daily updates on hack ‘romance novels’ for vampire emo fetishists? Probably not.  But more power to you, whoever you are.  I’m sure you serve a purpose.

Currently I am the New Orleans Comic Book Examiner.  I’m still trying to find my voice on it.   We’re supposed to present our articles as Journalists would, rather than bloggers.  Which is fine, though I don’t really think it counts. To me, a blog is about your feelings and the things going on in your life.  When you’re speaking on a subject, even editorialized, it’s an article.   Then again, I’m no expert.  I have noticed some of the other writers don’t seem to adhere to this very well though.   And to some degree or another my ‘voice’ will have to come into play.  Particularly with reviews; 75% of it is opinion.

I’m looking forward to making this work.   I think it will be a lot of fun.


Naughty Vignettes

“This is crazy.”  he thought as his left shoe flew at the door, rebounding and shattering his lamp.

This is not the kind of guy he is.   Who takes a strange girl home after a couple drinks?  She could have a disease.  She could be a whore.  She could be his cousin.  She could even be a Democrat.  That succession of bad thoughts sent a chill up his spine that made him break the kiss.  It took about 3 seconds to dislodge her tongue from his throat.
This is crazy.  He’s not this guy.  This is not his cheap cologne.  This is not his 20 dollar silver Faux-lex.  This isn’t his crusty hair gel creating the perfect sleazy quaf that shines under a neon moon.   … And that is definitely not his hands cupping a cheeleader’s ass.
Larry.  This is Larry’s doing.   “She’s a bitch.” he said. “Always said you could do better.” he said. “Let’s get a few drinks.” he said.   “Gonna get you LAID.” he said. Larry’s pitch sounded fine.  His theories had merit.  And like most bad situations, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  But oh, then there are hotties with boyfriends and drunken mis-understandings and sloppy bathroom revenge screws that lead to massive bar brawls and getting thrown out and starting all over again at the bar up the street– oh my.
Her bra is on the floor. Her –BRA– is on the floor.   Yes.  Those are her breasts.
His pants come off so quick he nearly falls.   This is not his life.  Things like this don’t happen to boys who write poetry and play World of Warcraft.    Romantics don’t do one handed monkey flips to blondes named Denise… or is it Marisa?  Good boys don’t rebound from their slutty ex-girlfriends with a one night stand.
Ohhh. Wonder how long it would take to get her tongue out of there?
“This should stop.” he thinks.  “This should… definitely… stop.  In a minute or two.”  As his head hangs upside down off the couch, he considers putting those brakes on before he makes a mistake … for the second time in an hour.  But then he remembers that crooked little smirk.  Of all the bars in all the world, Lisa had to walk into his.  By the way she carried on, you would think she’d followed him just to rub the other men in his face.  It wasn’t enough that she broke his heart, she wouldn’t stop until it lay beating in her hand.
He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.   And then came the whiskey. Just a shot. And then another.  And another.  And the next thing he knew he was on the bar with his shirt unbuttoned singing Paradise City while Denise here (or is it Cherise?) gave out swoons previously only reserved for Elvis Presley and Henry Kissinger.
And then suddenly there’s naughty language and forshadowing.  And sloppy makeouts.  Nudity.   The occasional violated stuffed animal.  And of course, one handed monkey flips.
Maybe he is this guy.  Just maybe.  At least for tonight.  And then twice more tomorrow morning.
…  JACKIE!  Her name is Jackie!  It’s tattooed on her butt.


I miss you sometimes.

Not often.  Mostly I don’t think about you, almost like I forgot.  But then I close my eyes and out of nowhere, there you are. Sometimes.  Or maybe I’ll think of a joke only you would get, and I’ll turn around to tell you… except you aren’t there.   And every girl I date.  Every woman I love.  Every lady I make love to… they all get compared to you.  And it’s the unkindest comparison.  Because as wrong as things were, they couldn’t have been much better.

I just don’t get it.  It’s not like I love you.  Not anymore.  Why is it the darkest addictions are the ones that we never really let go of?  You’re like fine cocaine, lingering in the back of my mind.

I try not to think about it.  About you.  But then I do.  And I wonder if you still think of me too?  And if you do, do you smile?  Do you reminisce?  Do you hunger?  Or do you roll your eyes and move on?

And I can’t seem to escape that.  That basic need to know.  To understand.   But I know it’s all a lie.  An excuse to pick up that phone after a few glasses of whiskey and dial that number.  The one I erased, but still lingers in the corners of my mind.  I want to make that connection.  To give it one last try, no matter how bad it ended, no matter how much I know it would just tear us apart again.

I know we shouldn’t be together, no matter how bad the addiction burns.  So I’m going to pour another glass out of this bottle. And another.  And another.  Gonna drink this whiskey like Daddy on Friday night.  And eventually, someday, maybe I’ll kill the part of me that holds on to you.


She can feel his labored breath on her skin.

It wakes her from dreams in a cold sweat.  The feeling of disgust fills her and the smell of vodka, cheap cologne and sex fills her nostrils.  With held breath, she snakes out from under Jamie’s arm until she is free of his terrible, comforting grip, held only by the familiar memory of her situation.  De ja vu is a bitch.

Erica sits upright, naked save for the dirty velvet sheets, listening to his snores.  How many times?  How many times has she been in this situation?  How many more times will she do this to herself?   ‘Never again’ she said, so many times before.   Each time with sincerity.

But then its another endless, pointless day at work.  Another phone call from home about her baby sister’s wonderful new husband.  Another bad date. Another unpaid bill. Another this, another that.  And it’s a few martini’s and a phone call. 

Jamie is familiar.  He’s good in bed and he’s there.  And for a moment… just for a moment… he’s what she needs.  She fucks him and it doesn’t feel so bad.  Even if this isn’t going anywhere, she’s greatful for the distraction.

She slips on her panties and pulls her dress over her arms and walks out the door.  Jamie never stirs. 

She’ll be back.