Archive for the ‘Just Life’ Category


Posted: October 9, 2013 in Just Life
Tags: , , , , , ,

CreepyAntoine was right, hide yo kids!

So creepy!

Stop looking at me Ewok!


[Note: I don’t know where I found this GIF and it can never be returned for it is forever filed under Nightmares.]




My blog is my safe place where I like to play around and be all the things I can’t always be in everyday life. Here I get to meet people I would never have a chance to otherwise and learn of a world far greater than myself.

It amazes me how different our lives are, but how immersed in each other we can become. One idea, one phrase, one stroke of brilliance, or passion can spark an obsession that creates a truth far greater than the abstracts of happiness. Sometimes the ability to take a glimpse into the lives of other writers makes everything seem calm in a world that spins faster than a kid on a Merry-Go-Round. Our fingers refuse to let go of the rungs (or even our pens for that matter), but our minds and hearts soar into chaos so that each day we have something new to live for and write.

I believe it’s impossible to fall out of love with writing even when the momentum of it feels sluggish or nonexistent.

Last week I joined another blogger, Jonas David, in the Ray Bradbury challenge: A story a week for one year. Today he posted that he had completed his first story and I am proud to report that I have done the same.

So you see when I disappear it’s not because I gave up on blogging or don’t care about my followers, I’m just silly in love.

What’s your love story?


[Note about video: Wish it were mine.]


So I know you’re anxiously awaiting the follow-up to my Homegirls Potato Chips post, but first I needed to do some light housekeeping on my blog.

For example, I updated my About Me page and added a couple of new ones this week.

The Janet Reid page will be home for the writing contest entries I submit to her blog, which I recommend you visit by clicking the link provided.

I then created the S.E.T. page in order to replace my Search Engine Sabbath posts.

I won’t lie, I can’t keep up with the bizarre entries and they’re better off in one place where the humor can stay intact. Trust me!

Now go browse around.

[Note: Pic is not my own– though I would love for that guy to clean my house.]



I have seen a lot of trash in the hood from dirty diapers to bath salt packages, not to mention the thousands of floss picks I’ve previously written about. However, the number one tossed away item seems to be… (drum roll)… individual sized potato chip bags. Doritos, Fritos, and Lays rank at the top of the litter list.

So why am I telling you this? Because! Remember my post about the corner store being a front for something else?

Well, I stumbled upon something most peculiar, while buying my 7-Ups over the last year.

Homegirls Potato Chips.


Now I could write about the obvious here based on the packaging alone, but instead I’ll let you take a minute to form your own opinions and read the back label before I continue.

homegirls chips

Okay now that you have taken all of that in– let me ask some questions:

Why, in all my ghetto years, have I never seen this bag of chips anywhere on the ground in my hood, especially since they have been around since 1991?

Is it because they are being marketed to young virgin women and young virgin women don’t litter?

Nope, all peeps be littering in the hood, so that’s not it.

Is it because they cost more and no one buys them?

Nope, these chips are 25 cent! They only cost a quarter! You can’t even buy a quarter gumball out of the gumball machine for a quarter anymore, but you can buy the “pure halal” goodness of Homegirls chips for one.

Lastly, is Maria wearing a chastity belt under those jeans? Damn girlfriend, keep it tight.

So here’s my theory about the chips (not Maria):

It must be code for something. I’m not sure for what yet, but I snatched a bag and I’m going to find out!

Stay tuned.

[Note: Frito pic not my own. I was too lazy to take a pic of my own hood trash.]

Well...not yet.

Well…not yet.

Literary Agent, Janet Reid, called me… evocative.

Yes, she stood on her desk and yelled to the slush pile readers, “Holy moly this bitch is evocative like a one armed strip tease!”

Okay, so, that’s not quite, what happened, but here’s what went down.

I’ve been entering her 100 word story contests the last few weeks and the first piece I submitted totally bombed. However, the second story I submitted received recognition for a line that really stood out. Really, truly, seriously.

Then this week she wrote the following, “Not quite a story, but holy moly talk about evocative.”

I don’t know about you, but to make someone use the holy moly curse is wicked awesome.

So now, I am obsessed and I want to win one of her contests. I’m going to keep trying and like any good stalker, I have created a shrine in honor of my devotion to Janet Reid (until I get tired of her or arrested that is).

Click here to view my submissions and her responses, as I will be updating the page with each new entry.

I recommend you also check out her blog and start participating in whatever interests you. If anything, she’s worth having in your writer’s toolbox.

Until next time… create your story and keep writing.


Happy Bag


I live between two corner stores.

One is spacious, clean, well lit, sells lotto tickets, and has a MAC machine (ATM for my Midwest hoodsters). They are invested in customer service and even sell fresh produce, but they don’t get nearly as much business as the other store.

Instead, the dark, stinky, mouse infested creep store with the twenty-point security camera system with all street views is one busy place.

Here’s how you know when your corner store is a front for something else:

Repeat customers: When you see the same guy make 7-15 trips to the store on foot within a six-hour window they either have severe munchies, OCD, or they are part of distribution.

Bags: The plastic bags are all black unlike the white ones with happy faces that say, “Thank you, have a nice day.”  Plus, the repeat customers never seem to leave with a bag, not even the one they went in with.

Muscle: Anyone who sits on a milk crate outside the store all day no matter the weather is not a cousin of the owner or making minimum wage. That guy will kill you if necessary.

Prices: They’re random. One day a 7-Up may cost $1.50 and the next $1.10, but if you don’t have exact change it’s just a dollar. This is code for get the hell out, quick before some shit goes down, we don’t want your nerd ass in here.

Fire: Every six to twelve months the store mysteriously catches on fire. It then gets a name change, usually something the letters can respell with little effort and some red duct tape– like PAPPOS to RORRAS.

Cops: No matter how many times they get robbed, you’ll never see a cop. As a matter of fact, you’ll never see a uniformed cop go in for a quick pack of gum or Red Bull. However, you might see the occasional clean-cut plain-clothes kind sitting in their Crown Victoria, and when you do that’s not the day to buy a 7-Up.

Remember: Competition is good and monopoly is bad.



[Note: Pic not mine, I’m a hater of happy faces.]



I’m starting to have this fear that when I die, Mister St. Peter is going to question me about my stats page before opening the pearly gates.

People have needs and the mysteries of cyberspace lead them to me; I am merely a vessel.

Seriously, it’s not my fault that girl fights are so hot, especially those Indian and red head ones.

It’s also not my fault I was born with a cranky face and a hot hairy ass. I mean I can’t help that I sexy and I holes, right?

The crack baggies I can explain… they aren’t mine… they belong to one of my hood buddies.

And so what if I can’t drink water because I hate it, what happened to free-will?

Plus, I should earn pearly points because I am a giver not a taker despite the use of graphics. Sometimes we just need to spice things up.

I think instead of trying to explain my blog to Mister St. Peter that I will assertively say, “Man, I am so sick of your bullshit.”

Then I’ll raise my shirt to let him know I’m packing heat and hope he respects me in the morning.