What I'm Listening To

Joss Whedon Rocks!

This is genius!

Dr. Horrible

Sunday is the last day!

Funniest Movie Quote This Year!

Form the HiLaRIoUs and Heartwarming Film JUNO:

Abortion Clinic Worker: Would you like a free condom? They're boysenberry.
Juno: Uh, no. I'm kind of off the sex... right now.
ACW: My boyfriend uses them everytime we have intercourse. They make his junk smell like pie.

Fucking Genius! I laughed for five minutes.

What's your movie quote of the year?

So LONG!!

Hello Blog Reader!

I cannot believe that it has been two months since I've blogged. I've gone back on my word and not blogged at least 2x/week. But I swear that I will do better.

Let's see. What to talk about? Well, my birthday was Thursday the 19th (Juneteenth, look it up people!). What did I get, you might ask? Well, my mom got into a car accident---in my car. So I've been dealing with insurance adjusters for two days and my rear quarter panel looks like an accordion. This is funny. At this very moment, it's covered with plastic because I think that it's going to rain and my trunk won't close. So, yeah. That's very ghetto. Happy Birthday to me. It was the 2-9, btw.

What else has happened? I went to Costa Rica for 10 days. I LOVED IT!!! I want to move there. Live there. I was almost impregnated by Jesus (Hey Zeus). Not really, but not for lack of trying on his behalf. But poolside sex when I'm on a trip surrounded by Mormons is sure to send someone to hell. I had so much fun. I sag Karaoke. Badly. Mostly because I had laryngitis and my voice was for shit. But it was fun.

I'm now enjoying a 10 week vacation. I work in a school so I'm off for the summer. I'm trying to do more writing. It's hard because I'm a natural procrastinator and I'm lazy as shit.

That's it for now. More later.

Redeemed

So, maybe not going to hell. At least not in a kerosene handbasket. During Good Friday services, not one snicker passed my lips. In fact, my eyes teared up. Who wouldn't cry listening to the Passion?

So I guess all is well.

Until the next time someone yells Fuck Me! in my ear.

Holy (Fuck!)

So last night was Holy Thursday and as a member of my church's choir, I was singing last night. And we were singing a perfectly lovely song, in Latin of which I understood exactly none of.

Now, admittedly, I have a dirty mind and the circumstance or place does very little to curb that. So, you can't blame me for giggling when the words, in Latin, are pronounced 'Fock May.' C'mon, you know that sounds like Fuck Me. And you know that that's funny. So I had a bit of a giggle at rehearsal. I straight up busted out laughing during the service when the woman next to me practically yelled it in my ear. FOCK MAY!!!

Hehehe.

But what made the night even better is that the words 'Fock May' were running through my head for the rest of the night. Making me giggle. Especially during the communion service when I was giggling as the Pastor talked about the Last Supper and Jesus being betrayed. I am sure that everyone in the congregation thought that I was laughing at Jesus and his betrayal.

And that made me laugh harder.

Okay

So I lied about that whole posting 2-3x/week. It's more like whenever I get a wild hair up my ass.

So my life:

I sent off 'On Business' now officially retitled as 'Lucky Number Four' off to Kate Duffy at Kensington. It should get there tomorrow or Thursday. Wish me luck, person who never reads my blog. (I know no one actually reads this stuff.) I don't know why it's taken me so long to send it out (almost 11 mos! What the FUCK!!!) but it's done now and could be sold by this time in June. I'm not thinking about that now.

I'm working on a romantic suspense. 50,000 words into it and not a drop of sex. I need to rectify that.

Just got a crown. Am I the only person on the planet that finds the sound of a dentist's drill soothing? Seriously, I was about to fall asleep. I find it a bit comforting. Now the smell...yeck!

Oh, and a treat! I'm working on Luck of the Irish! Should be done soon.

That's it. Nothing else.

Later

Pieces of me

So the other day, my mother and I were in the car. And because I control the radio when I'm in the car and because I'm Black, I was listening to the hip-hop station.

On this particular day, that Ludacris was on the air. You know that song, "What's Your Fantasy?" The one where he and some random skank want like lick each other in non-sanitary areas and get really freaky in what I can only consider very uncomfortable places. I mean, really, on the 50-yard line when the Atlanta Falcons are playing? Bitches will get trampled!

Anyhoo, that song began to play when my mother exclaimed, "Ooh, I like this song!" and proceeds to turn up the volume.

*thud*

"What? What are you talking about? You can't like this song?"

"What?" she replied. "At least I know what they're talking about. Unlike your father."

(Side note: My father really likes that song 'Pony' by Ginuwine. He had no clue what it was about for years. Yeah, that's my family.)

"No, it's not," I cringed. "It's worse. You like a sex song. I'm dying. Is there blood coming out my ears?"

"Monica, please! How do you think you got here?"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear that."

She didn't say anything else. Just proceeded to dance her old lady car dance. I was too horrified to change the station. I think I died a little inside that day.

Another Installment: I'm Going to Hell

So, I love going to church. I go every week. I especially enjoy the church that I attend. The people are nice (although it IS church so what would you expect), the pastor makes me laugh (which if you know me is the number one way to my heart) and I feel stupid saying this but I feel like I get filled up when I go.

That does not, however, mitigate the fact that I am Monica and my mind is a sick, twisted, demented morass of evilness. (Heidi, you may not want to read past this point!)

This is the scene last Sunday. It was Epiphany Sunday (know your Liturgical calendar people!) and so we were celebrating the Three Wisemen, The Star, The Shepherd, yadda yadda yadda. And in the service, they were singing a very sweet song called "Mary Did You Know?" which asks if Mary, Mother of Jesus, knew that she was carrying the Messiah. (Which of course she did! Duh! The angel came to her to ask to implant her.)

Anyway, one particular line struck me. It was "Did you know that when you kissed his head, you were kissing the face of God?" Innoculous enough, right?

Au contraire, mon freres!

THIS is where my sick, twisted, demented mind goes.

So, if she gave birth to the mortal face of God, His presence on earth, did that mean that she then breastfed God?

I KNOW!!! I'm SICK!!! Who thinks about breastfeeding God? No one. Just me. But if you follow the logic of it, then it really makes sense. I mean, a baby's got to eat! And if she didn't breast feed him, did she then pawn off the breastfeeding of God off to some crazy milkmaid. What? Was she too good to breastfeed the Messiah? Or did she just feel extra weird about God sucking on her titty?

Don't worry, people, I've got my handbasket all ready because you're going o need it for this.

So, after contemplating the breastfeeding of God, I move on. Oh, yes, I move on.

My next stop on the road to hell is thinking about Mary and Joseph. Having sex.

Would you, COULD you, have sex with a woman that you knew gave birth to the Christ child? I mean, how do you hit that knowing who had been all up in there? You've got to be thinking, "I'm doing God's old lady!" I mean, I know that God didn't have sex with her but in a case like that it's really just semantics.

And you know Joseph had to have some massive inferiority complex. You know that when they were doing it and she was moaning, 'Oh, God' he had to be thinking 'Does she mean that literally?'

I'm depraved.

Wow

It has been a long time. My new year's resolution is to blog at least three times a week. The good news is that I finished my 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo. The bad news: it's only half finished. I'm working on finishing it. A good romantic suspense is at least that long. I don't know how successful I will be in this particular genre but my next tackle is a paranormal.

On a side note, I love my new job. Who hates having two weeks off?

Untitled Excerpt

Fucking whore!

Fucking whore!

The dark clad man paced the small confines of his apartment. All around him were pictures of the cause of his pain. His agony.
Carmen.

Bitch.

Whore.

Most of the shots were candid. Indeed she had been unaware that he was there, photographing her. Keeping tabs on her.

How dare she talk to me like that? Her! A whore who screwed everything in her path. Like a dog. One word and she spread her legs from anyone who
asked. Like that Todd, guy. How dare she go home with him? Him? A man so unworthy of her.

Well, he’d taken care of that. He’d made sure that Todd was sorry that he’s even dared to touch her.

But it was an empty high. It wasn’t Todd’s fault. Not really. He was snared by her just like a fly was helpless to resist the lure of a black widow’s web. Still, he needed to pay for daring to put his hands on her. He could still remember the feeling of the knife in his hands, the slick feel of the blood on his skin as it sprayed over him. Like a baptism. He’d been renewed.

While Todd hadn’t been his first kill. It was the first time he’d attempted it with a knife. It had slid into Todd’s flesh as easily as a knife through warm butter. Or like sliding deep into the warm body of a willing woman.

He’d been there. The night she’d taken Todd home. It was the first time she’d done that in a long time. She’d been celebrating. Getting drunk and flaunting her body on the dance floor. A siren’s call that Todd had been unfortunate enough to answer.

He had followed them back to Todd’s place. He’d watched through the blinds from across the street as she and Todd made love. No. Not love. Fucked.
They had fucked like animals. Like animals in heat.

The thought was enough to cause his cock to twitch. He ignored it. That’s what she wanted. She wanted him to think about her and rub his cock. She wished that he would pleasure himself. In his mind’s eye, he imagined her across the room. Her curly ebony hair flared out on the pillow. Her caramel skin glowing against the red satin sheets.

“Come on, baby,” fantasy Carmen pleaded, running her hands down her naked body, stopping on her breasts to pinch her nipples. “Let me see that big, hard dick.”

“Whore,” he hissed, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side.
Behind his zipper, his penis twitched and grew longer, more demanding. He would not give her the satisfaction.

Fantasy Carmen pouted. “You know what to do. You know what I like.”

“Fucking bitch,” he spat, his fingers coming up to the button at his fly.
Unconsciously, they made quick work of his zipper until he sprung free. “Evil slut. Is this what you want?” The man grabbed his cock in his hand and began to pull.

Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. She did this to him. She was Jezebel. She was Circes, leading mean to their doom. He was a good man. But that didn’t matter to her. She cared only to spread her wickedness to decent men. Men like him.

Tears fell harder as he sped up the motion of his hand.

“Yes, yes,” fantasy Carmen moaned. Her hands left her breasts running along her flat stomach.

He watched with hungry eyes as her thighs parted, revealing her mound. In his mind, she was completely shaved, just as he remembered. He watched as milky fluid

She was hot for it, for him. She was begging for her just like the dog that she was.

“Cunt.” His hands moved over the length of him, faster, pulling harder until the point of pain.

Fantasy Carmen laughed. “You’re pathetic. What kind of man are you? You couldn’t satisfy me. That’s why I left. You and your tiny pena.”

The man’s tears fell harder. “No, no,” he sobbed, never breaking the rhythm of his hand.

Fantasy Carmen sat up in bed, her normally languid brown eyes small and mean. “You wish you were man enough to handle me.”

Despite himself, Carmen’s words only added to his arousal. He knew he was sick. But she did this. She made him this way.

“Go on. Play with your puny, pena. I’m surprised that you could even find it. I know that I couldn’t.” Carmen’s eyes laughed at him.

“Shut up. Shut up,” he shouted hoarsely even as he reached the breaking point. He threw his head back as thick wave of desire and shame washed through him, a tidal force that almost brought him to his knees.

When he opened his eyes, she was gone. She was always gone. She and her taunting eyes. Fucking bitch.

Fucking cunt!

He pulled up his pants and ran over to the wall, began tearing down the pictures that hung there. He looked at the photos of Carmen. Carmen smiling. Carmen laughing.

Soon, he thought.

She wouldn’t be able to forget him. Not again. He would make sure about that.

“So, Dr. Santiago, I saw you talking to Dr. Mitchell.”

Carmen looked up from reading Dr. Gower’s preop orders for their next patient. Carmen was trying to figure out a way to wrangle her way assisting. She had spent the rest of her morning performing scut work, chasing down labs, finding x-rays, and generally doing those things that were delegated to med students but Gower had a sudden belief should be given to Carmen. Which she accepted with a smile on her face. It wasn’t the first time she’d been made to eat shit.

This time, however, she was relatively certain that she wasn’t going to run into
Yummy. After their encounter at lunch and the shitty way that she’d treated him, she would be surprised if he spoke to her again. Which was fine with her, she assured herself.

The mindless scut work had also enabled her to forget about the phone call she’d gotten. Even though it was twice in the space of two days, she was convinced that either someone was playing a stupid prank or that they had the wrong number.

Looking up, she saw the RN who was the day ward supervisor. Molly. She was a cute curly-haired redhead who gave Carmen a run for the money in the bust department. She was also happily married, had three kids, and was the biggest gossip in the entire hospital. After working here for almost 20 years,
she knew everything and everyone.

“Yeah?” Carmen hated her hostile tone.

Molly smiled mischievously. “So? He’s only the most eligible doctor in the hospital. Every single nurse under the age of forty, and some married ones too, have been trying to get his attention. No luck. It’s so sad about his wife, though.”

“His wife?” Acrid anger burned deep within Carmen’s stomach. The bastard was married.

“Oh, yeah,” Molly continued, unaware of the daggers that were flaring from
Carmen’s eyes. “She was so young when she died. Only twenty-nine. They’d only been married for a couple years. Although, I tell you what, if I were married to a doctor I would’ve given up my career like that.” She said with a snap of her fingers. “Especially if I did what she did. I can’t imagine having to go into people’s houses and removing kids. I don’t envy that job.”

That’s it! Carmen knew now why that name was niggling at the back of her mind like a persistent puppy. Dr. Mitchell. His wife Julie was a social worker who’d been killed during a home visit that had turned into a shootout. It happened almost ten years ago, during Carmen’s freshman year in college. She vaguely remembered the grainy pictures of a man torn apart by grief at the loss of his young wife.

Carmen felt shamed by her irrational jealousy. From what she remembered about Candace Mitchell, she was a beautiful woman. Very blonde. Very pretty in a wholesome kind of way. The pictures that she’d seen of them together had reminded Carmen of the typical cheerleader who married the captain of the football team.

“I don’t remember him when I was doing my rotations in med school,” she mused out loud.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have,” Molly answered. “He took a sabbatical a couple
years ago to start that clinic for victims of domestic violence and their families. He only came back a few months ago when they offered him Chief of Medicine.”

Carmen groaned inwardly. Great. Not only had she pissed off a senior staff member, but the Chief of Medicine no less. She was sure that he spoke with Dr. Crosby, the Chief of Surgery. One misplaced word could kill Carmen’s
career before it had really started.

Well, when you fuck up, you do it big, Santiago.

“Anyway, you two looked awfully cozy when I saw you. What were you talking about?”

Carmen knew Molly’s type. One word to her and she would have Carmen and Greg screwing in the bathroom. “Uh, we share a patient.” It was the truth.

Mostly.

Molly’s face fell. “Oh. That’s it?”

“That’s it. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run down to pick up some labs. See you later, Molly.”

Molly eyed her skeptically. “You, too, Dr. Santiago.”

Carmen turned and made her way down the hallway, her mind still on what Molly had said.

When Carmen left the hospital that night, she was exhausted. Like she’d been run over by a bus. Although she hadn’t been able to get in on a surgery, she’d done more than her share. Carmen’s steps as she made her way to her car dragged, as if she were walking through quicksand. She was so exhausted that it took a few minutes for the other steps to filter through her mind. She paused. The steps paused. Carmen quirked her head, her ears strained to detect any sound. There was none. Her heart jumped into her throat.

“Hello?” she called, her voice shaky. Nothing.

Trying to shake off the feeling of dread, Carmen continued walking. For several seconds, she heard nothing. Then there the subtle scrape of rubber on concrete.

Carmen whirled around. “Who is it?”

She expected no answer and wasn’t disappointed. “Listen, fuckface, I’ve got mace and steel-toed boots. You better back off if you want to keep your balls.”
True to her word, Carmen rummaged through her purse until her hands came upon a small, black plastic container. She pulled it out and deactivated the safety.

“Do you hear me?” she yelled.

More silence.

This time, Carmen wasn’t taking any chances. She booked it. By the time she reached her car, her breath came is raspy shudders so loud that she couldn’t hear anything over it.

It took her two times before she was able to find the lock with her key. Her hands were shaking so badly she was terrified that she was going to drop them on the ground.

When she felt the hand on her shoulder, she couldn’t help it. She screamed. She swiveled around so quickly that the man standing behind her had to take a step back.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s only me.”

It took a few seconds for Greg’s voice to register. When it did, Carmen felt her knees give out. She had to catch herself before she fell down. She stayed like that for a while, hands braced against her knees, face pointed down. She concentrated on bring her breathing under control. Calm again, the fear receded and was replaced by acrid anger. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Greg stared at her as though she had grown a second head. “With me?
You’re the one who’s screaming bloody murder.”

Carmen’s face flared with heat. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you decide to accost women in parking garages. Asshole.”

Greg has the decency to look sheepish. “You’re right. I apologize. I wasn’t thinking. I guess I assumed that you had heard me coming.”

“That’s what you get for thinking.” Suddenly, a nasty thought came into
Carmen’s mind. “How long were you following me?”

She watched him blink in shock. “What are you talking about? I didn’t follow you.”

Carmen wasn’t sure that she believed him. “So you just happened to be leaving? At the exact same time I was?”

“It does happen. What’s up with you?”

“You didn’t see anyone?”

“No one. Why? Was someone following you?”

Carmen saw the change come over him immediately. Like a switch had been flipped. His easygoing posture stiffened and his eyes took on a sharp focus as he scanned the area around them. “Where was he? What did he look like?”

Carmen cursed herself for saying anything. “It was nothing. Probably just my overactive imagination.”

She saw the speculation and disbelief enter is midnight eyes. “Are you sure? After that phone call today…”

Carmen stiffened. “That phone call was a wrong number. And probably the reason that my mind is playing tricks on me.”

* * *

Greg considered the pugnacious jut of her chin and knew that there was little that he could do now. Little that she would let him do. “Well, if you want, I can ask the security guard to walk you to your car.”

He knew right away that it was the wrong thing to say. Greg didn’t know that it was possible to become any more rigid, but she went straight as an aluminum bat.

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much, Dr. Mitchell.” His name was spat at him with enough force to push nails through redwood.

“I’m not saying you can’t. Don’t be an idiot. You said yourself that a woman alone at night needs to take some precautions.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

Greg groaned. He wasn’t sure that if he wanted to kiss her or shake her. He did know that either choice was going to lead to her knee in his balls. He looked up to the long fluorescent light bulbs that ran the length of the ceiling and prayed for patience. None came.

Greg ran an impatient hand through his head, causing parts of it to stand on end. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m calling you. Stupid and so fucking hard headed that even if someone where to take a baseball bat to it, I have every confidence that the bat would break.”

Carmen’s lips twitched. She couldn’t help it. He looked too fucking adorable.

“What?” he demanded. “Why are you smiling? I just insulted you.”

Carmen snorted. “That’s not an insult. Do you think you’re the first person to call me hard headed?”

“No. And I probably won’t be the last.”

“You’re right about that. And you’re right about the escort. I usually do have one but with the sun setting so much earlier, I forgot.”

Greg shook his head in disgust. She was not short of a complete enigma. “I don’t get you. I’m nice to you, you treat me like dog shit. I insult you, and you laugh.”

“What can I say? I’m a complicated gal.”

It was Greg’s turn to smile. “That you are.”

“Um, I have to go.”

“Hot date?” Greg tried to ignore the irrational twist of jealousy that clenched his heart.

“Are you kidding? I’m a surgical intern. I have no life. Just a warm bed and a copy of Surgeon Today. I need to get some rest. I’m on night call tomorrow.”

Greg’s brows shot up. “That surprises me. I expected…”

“What? That I was some party girl out there shaking her culo every night?”

The words were harsh but softened by the smile that spread across her face.

Actually, that was exactly what he’s been thinking. “Sorry. I shouldn’t judge.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Carmen muttered beneath her breath. Greg couldn’t understand exactly what she said but he thought it sounded like pendejo. He wasn’t familiar with Spanish but he was sure that she’d just called him a bastard.

“You know, when you get angry, your accent really comes out.”

He knew instantly that that was the wrong thing to say. Carmen’s half-smile faded and her face once again settled into its normal severe lines.

“Thanks.”

“I know I risk a kick in the nuts but do you mind if I ask where you’re from?”

“Why? Looking for a Green Card?”

“No, just curious.”

At fist, he was sure that she wasn’t going to tell him. “Puerto Rico.”

“Really? I went there on my honeymoon.” Greg groaned. It was never sexy to mention your ex. Even less sexy to discuss your honeymoon with your dead wife.

“Really? Good for you. I hope you enjoyed El Yunque and were lulled to
sleep each night by the melodic sounds of the coqui.” Sarcasm coated dripped icily from her lips.

Huh. This was different. Most Puerto Ricans that he knew had an almost perfect devotion to their country. This woman sounded as though she would gladly let it fall back into the ocean.

“Okay, this has been fun. I mean it. Next time you want to scare the living shit out of someone, please find some other insane partner. Later, Mitchell.”

Carmen turned to get into her car. She was stopped once again by the hand on her arm. This time her accelerated heart rate had nothing to do with fear.
She ignored the shiver of desire that wiggled down her arm and straight to the place between her thighs.

“What?” she demanded, her voice harsh with suppressed lust.

“Well, seeing as how I almost made you crap your pants, don’t you think that you could at least tell me your first name?”

“Carmen. But you can still call me Dr. Santiago.”

Carmen ducked into the car and slammed the door so quickly that Greg had to jump out of the way or else break a few fingers.

Through the red haze of her tail lights, Carmen saw Greg still standing where she left him, watching her car as it disappeared from sight.

You may not know this

But I expanded "On Business" to almost 30,000 words. When I did that, I renamed the story. It is now called "Lucky Number Four." You'll find out why later. I'll post the updated story soon. Or at least excerpts. I'm sending it to Kate Duffy at Kensington to be a Brava novella.

(How's that for thinking positive!)

Well, when I did that, I added the character of Maria Carmen Concepcion Flores y Santiago. Or Carmen Santiago for short. She is one of my absolute favorite characters that I've ever written. So much so that she is the subject of my NaNoWriMo. Which has the bones of being a pretty kick-ass romantic suspense. It's the first time I've attempted to write this genre but after struggling for almost three weeks, I have to say that I think that I'm getting the hang of it. I think that when it's done, I'll have over 100,000 words. My most ambitious yet!

So stay tuned. An excerpt to follow.

In a couple hours, actually.

Wish me luck. I have about 36,000 words now. Only 14,000 words and 7 days to go!

Racistvember

So I have officially decided that this has been the most racist November in my life and hopefully it is one that will not be repeated. I have therefore decided that this month will be officially christened, Racistvember. A horrible name for a dispicable month.

Why? You ask. What has happened to dull your child-like innocence? I'll tell you.

It all started about three weeks ago. I was going apartment hunting and I brought my friend with me. She's probably reading this blog and will be offended if I call her a white person, so I'll call her Caucasin-ish.

Anyhoo, we go to these apartments that I'd found online. And I'd made an appointment. So I go in and my friend is with me and there's a woman sitting behind the desk talking to whom I assume is another client. Now, at this time, I had no idea that she was Racist Bitch so I stand there, waiting to be acknowledged. My friend is admiring the walls, I don't remember. So I'm waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Finally, the woman looks up, sees me, sees my friend, and proceeds to deny my existence. She's asking my friend if she's looking for an apartment. My friend ignores her. She asks again. My friend ignores her. Finally, she deigns to look at me.

"Hi, yeah, I'm looking for an apartment."

"Well, we don't have any available."

"I'm not looking to move until January."

"We require 60 days' notice and we haven't received any yet."

"I saw three apartment vacant on your website."

"Those have been rented."

Yeah, that's basically how it went. There's only a bit of artistic license that's been taken.

Needless to say that bitch can bite my ass. I wrote a letter to everyone and their mama at that company and I'm considering filing a complaint with the Fair Housing Commission.

Now, that was bad enough. At least I thought so until Monday. I was at a bookstore cafe, working on my NaNoWriMo. There's an old white couple at a table. I sit behind them. The man promptly tells his wife to get up, that they're moving to another table. Now, this isn't an easy move, seeing as how thay had like about a million things that needed to be relocated. (That's a bit of hyperbole.) All the while, he's muttering under his voice. The only word I can make out is 'she.' I ignore him. They move to a new table. He then says to his wife in a loud voice "If she tries anything, you just call out really loud and I'll take care of it." Then he glares at me. At me. And not an angry glare. A hateful glare. Like just my presence in the world was an abomination.

Now. Being a Black American, I know that racism exists. I've experienced it. Just look at the 'Jena 6.' But this has been the first time I've ever had it be so blatant. Nowadays, racists and racism are a bit more subversive They're happier with universally keeping us down. 'The Man' kind of thing.

And to top it off, at church, we had an Ode to the Pilgrims. That, I drew the line with. It was ridiculous. The Pilgrims were a buch of murdering religious freaks. 'Salem Witch Trials' anyone? After the Native befriended them, they repaid their kindness by killing them. God's work, apparently.

I have to say that I am glad that I live here in the U.S. despite my recent tribulations. Better here than Africa, IMHO. But I am not about to build a shrine to the slavers. I'm not going to thank them. I prefer to think of it as bitter seed bearing sweet fruit.

So, that's it. My Racistvember. Fuck it.

NaNoWriMo

I AM WRITING A BOOK!!!! IN A MONTH!!!!

OMG!!!

It's been over a month since I've blogged and even longer since I've wriiten anything or even had any thoughts of writing. In my mind, that Nora Roberts' quote "I can fix anything but a blank page," scrolls through my mind like those crazy electronic billboards in Times Square. I feel a lot like that only I still have the blank pages. I wish I could put something funny or witty here but I'm just too sad.

Monica

Ch-ch-cha-changes

Not much of that happening now. I'm still mired in writer's block and laziness. The good news is that I joined a crit group. We have our first official meeting tomorrow (today). I'm hoping that they will spur me into writing again. Nothing that I'm doing is working. I'm attending my RWA meetings and that's not helping. Maybe I just don't want to be a writer as much as I say I do. MAybe it's just not the right time for me, Maybe I'm super lazy and I'm looking for an excuse for it.

Life sucks!

What I've been up to

I know, I know. I'm a bad blogger and an even worse author. Writer's block has been kicking my ass! The good news is that I'm reading a lot more. I discovered a new author. Well, new to me. Linda Castillo. She writes romantic suspense. VERY WELL. Her characters are so real and flawed and awesome. I immediately went out and got all of her books from the library. As with every author, there were a couple I didn't dig totally but that's only in comparison to her other books which were awesome.

I'm also reading the Harry Potter books. I never got into them before but I enjoyed the movies. So, I'm starting from the beginning. And I must admit, they are quite good. Easy reads and very interesting. And it doesn't even matter that I know how the final book ends.

What else? I'm in love with someone who doesn't love me but every time I hear his voice or think about him, my stomach quivers. Of course, he's all wrong for me. Four years younger and in general a typical 'guy.' But I can't help it. I think that maybe my lovesick state is contributing to my not writing. Who knows? But I'm going to make an effort to at least do something. I'm joining a critique group. I'm studying Donald Maas. I'm also starting a new job that's going to allow me more time to write. I firmly believe that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Later Gators

Am I Gay?

So, I was reading an article published in New York Magazine about the science of gaydar and scientists have found certain links to the physiology of gay people that lead them to believe that being gay is biological (DUH!). Well, one of those things is the relationship between a person's index and ring fingers. Lesbians and straight males tend to have an index finger that is shorter than their ring finger. Gay men and straight women tend to have their index and ring fingers be the same length.

And me? My index finger is a WAY shorter than my ring finger, thus indicating that I'm super gay. LIke Rosie O'Donnell or Ellen Degeneres gay. Am I gay? I'm pretty sure that I don't like to eat cooch, but biologically...

Now this is a slippery slope. I don't know if you remember a study a few years ago done on serial killers which found that serial killers tortured animals. Somehow it got into the American psyche that torturing animals=serial killer. But if you read the study, you'd know that while all serial killers tortured animals, not all people that tortured animals became serial killers. That's a BIG distiction.

Another thing is that if we study the biological basis of being gay, can a 'cure' be far behind? Can we genetically engineer straight children just like we can manufacture our children's genders or physical features? SCARY!!!

To read the full article, click here.

It's my birthday...

pfft!

Life And Romantic Times

Hello Again,
I figure that since I'm suffering from a complete and total nervous breakdown I can at least give y'all the lowdown on what's been happening in my life.

First (and most important) I went to the RT Convention a few weeks ago. I had a blast! I highly recommend that all you writers (and readers) go. I cannot remember a time when I had that much fun. I barely slept. I partied all night. I drank. I made some great friends. I met with editors and agents. I got a request for a full by Kate Duffy who I fully intend upon making my platonic life partner I love her so much.

I think what I liked most about it was the environment. There's nothing like being around people who are like you. They read what you read, write what you write. There's no need to justify your choice of reading material. I don't know about anyone else, but I sometimes get tired of the sideways looks I get when I'm in public reading a romance novel. And it's not as though they don't read them. Romance can't sell over 50% of the popular fiction market with just me buying them. (Besides, I rarely buy books.)

I was planning to go next year as well. Unfortunately, I'm about to start a new job and probably won't be able to make the trip. I will be at RWA next year. It's in San Francisco so I'm definitely going.

I've also decided to go to Italy next June for my birthday. I will be thisclose to leaving my twenties behind and I decided to do it up. I hear the nines are harder than the zeroes so that's why I'm treating myself to two weeks in a romantic country. Maybe I'll leave there with a Italian Count as a husband. Or maybe never leave at all. I've got a whole year to plan (and save) for the trip. Part of my plan is to lose weight. I think that now that I have a reason, it may be easier to keep motivated. I'm starting my diet on Wednesday. Why Wednesday, you ask? Well, statistics show that people who start diets on Wednesdays, typically have higher success rates than those who start on Monday.

What else...? I told you I'm starting a new job in August. I'm going to be working in a school. So you know what that means? I get SUMMERS OFF!!!!! Hell yeah! I only have to work 8 months out of the year (including spring break and Christmas vacation)! I'm super excited.

And that's it for now. I'm glad I got a little writing done. Even if it's only my blog.

TTYL