“What’s Wrong With Your Face?”

“What’s wrong with your face?”

This was the question that greeted me on Monday afternoon.

I gave my coworker a dumbfounded look.
“I’d like to think nothing, but then I do occasionally have to sneak up on mirrors,” I rolled my eyes and returned my attention to my computer screen.
“No, your eye,” he said. “It’s like, really red.”
I shrugged, continuing to stare at the screen as I tapped away on the keyboard. “It’s probably allergies.”
Truth be told, my eye was feeling a little off, but a high tolerance for pain coupled with a lack of time to deal with such annoyance meant that the feeling was going to be ignored.

I left Job One and arrived at Job Two that evening.
“Whoa!” the coworker at Job Two exclaimed as I walked into the office. “What did you do to your eye, girlfriend?”
“I don’t know. Someone told me that it looked red, but I haven’t had time to look yet,” I replied as I clocked in.

bloodshot eye

Not my eye, but I won’t subject you to the real thing.

I went into the bathroom–since up until that point I hadn’t had time to pee that day–and made sure to examine my eye when I washed my hands. Sure enough, my left eye was a livid shade of red. Also, which added to the horrific effect was the fact that my eyes change colour–particularly under stress–so the injured eye look greenish, while the right was still brownish.

I came out of the bathroom and found my coworker.
“You’re right,” I told her, then added in an exaggerated Spanish accent, “I’m hideous in the face.”
“Maybe you should have an eye doctor check it out,” my coworker yucked it up. (We work for an Optometrist.)

The final verdict is that I have severe eye strain from wearing my contacts too long and staring for too many hours at a computer screen, coupled with a slight infection.
A writer staring a computer screen too long. Imagine that.

So this is why I’ve been neglecting ya’all this week. I hopefully will be back to full peeper status soon but I’m preparing to be told that I still have to be baby my eyes today.

UPDATE: I’m on two more new meds because my eye is still a mess. FML

UPDATE 2: I’m now on two NEWNEWNEW medications. The one medication is the worst eye drop yet because it burns like a motherfucker and dilates my eyes to the point that I look like some black-eyed demon like this–

black eyes

Again, not my eye, only because I can’t wear makeup until I’m healed.

–BUT the good news is that this drop is actually working to where I’m not in consistent pain anymore, so Kat is at least a (somewhat) happy demon now.

Dating Over Thirty And a Follow Up To The Wrongest Story Ever

I have a friend who really wants to get married. She happily informed me on Sunday that she found out that the average age for a woman to get married is 29, so “she’s not too far behind the 8 ball”. I then had one of those moments where a thought pops into my head and it tumbles out of my mouth without permission because I pointed out to her that the number is probably so high because it’s based on the age of all brides and, since half of all marriages fail, that would include a lot of second marriages.

She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the luncheon.

As some of you may know, I was married once. And for those of you who just found out now, I’ll wait while you pick yourself up off of the floor since I agree that is shocking to consider me in such a role. Anyway, it was quite literally a lifetime ago, and unlike a lot of women I don’t care if I’m ever in a relationship again. That’s not to say that I’m actively opposed to the idea, but rather indifferent. I have however been told that I’m subconsciously avoiding a “real” relationship based on the fact that the guys that I’ve dated since my liberation have been younger than I am. Say what? Yup, apparently dating younger men is an avoidance tactic.

Alrighty then.

Actually I can tell you exactly why it just so happens that all of my suitors have been younger than I am, and that’s because most guys my age or older are already incarcerated married.  And the ones who are not, well, there is usually a reason why they are not already married… like that they live with their parents and/or don’t have their shit together*.

And all of that aside, what the hell is wrong with a woman dating someone younger than herself anyway?

But I digress because I have recently found out the true reason why I cannot see myself ever having a relationship, and this is thanks to my recent re-pimping of past posts.

When I first posted Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You the general consensus was that it was indeed a very wrong story.  I have, however, been receiving a few messages and emails from women asking how this story is wrong. At first I thought that they were being facetious, but image my surprise when I discovered that a handful (HAHA!) of these women were serious. One woman told me, “I think that everyone has done this and they just won’t admit it.”

I replied with, “I have not.  But then I don’t date much.”

Her response was, “Seriously. You might want to think about it. When you find the right guy you’ll want to give it a try.”

And there you have it, peeps. This is why I will never be in a relationship. It’s because I can honestly say that I will never ever find someone with whom I am be so enamored that I will want to try holding his tally-whacker while he pees.

Consider No. 22 on my List of Shameless Shit, “Set a Boundary” done because I’ve just decided that the doorway to the bathroom is a sacred boundary that will not be crossed.

true love funny

Gas, Grass and Gollum

So my mother and I went to buy a lawn mower yesterday and we met Gollum from “Lord of the Rings”.

Alright, I’ll back up a bit.

I came home from work on Saturday night to find the mangled remains of my mother’s lawn mower upside down and in the middle of the front yard.  Apparently the lawn mower and my brother had a disagreement and it came to blows.  The only winners in this battle though were my neighbours who got to witness the spectacular display of Irish tempertantrics.  The final result was that the lawn mower was retired, my brother was exhausted from flinging it around in an effort to make it work (no comment), and my mother and I had to pick up a new lawn mower on Sunday.

gollum, lowesWe walked into Loews and were making our way to the mowers when I heard a scratchy voice ask my mother if she needed any help.  I turned around to chide my mother for talking to strangers and nearly fell over a display of Tiki torches since the person who was offering her assistance looked almost exactly like Gollum.  Actually the gentleman was a very sweet grandfather of ten so I guess he would more accurately be “Smeagol”.  Either way it made the shopping trip more bearable since we all know how I loathe shopping.

Unless it’s at Victoria Secret, in which case, I’m the one who turns in Gollum.

“Do you want a mower that is self-propelled?” Smeagol asked us as we walked over to the display of mowers.

“That would make it easier to push, wouldn’t it?” I asked back.

“Oh definitely,” he laughed.

“Then we don’t want that.  My brother is the one who does the mowing and there’s no reason to make things easier for that butthead,” I told him, “In fact do you have any of those old fashioned push ones?”

“We don’t need it to be self-propelled,” my mother cut in, “But is gas or electric better?”

“The electric works well if you have a small yard, but otherwise a gas one would be best.”

“I think we can all agree that what would be best is whichever one make my brother work the hardest,” I said, “Now where are those old push mowers?”

To my delight, they do still make the old-fashioned, non-gas push mowers and Smeagol escorted us to where we could find one.

“There ya go,” Smeagol grinned, “And the push ones leave no carbon footprint!”

“No carbon footprint!” I repeated to my mother, “You see what a brilliant idea this is?”

“It cuts sixteen inches across at a time so it might take him a while,” Smeagol added.

“I will seriously pay for the lawn mower if you buy this one,” I told my mother.

My mother, from whom I get my short attention span, had already been distracted the display of shiny weed whackers behind us though.

“We should probably get a new weed whacker, too,” she said, “The old one has been sitting outside and rusting since Dad died.”

“Now weed whackers are another ballgame,” Smeagol began.

I sighed.
“The thing that you have to remember though,” I waved my hands to get Mumma’s attention from the wall of garden toys, “is that I want goats, and–”

My mother began to rudely laugh, however I continued.

“–they should be able to handle a bit of edging.”

“With goats you would only need to buy a little hand shovel.  And you would get milk!” Smeagol added.

“I knew I liked this guy!” I exclaimed, “So we’re agreed on the goats?”

In the end, my mother bought a gas lawn mower, though not a self-propelled one at least, and decided to wait on the weed whacker.  And I still didn’t get my goats yet.  The day would have been a complete disappointment for me except that thanks to the trip I have since decided to refer to the woman who does my Brazilian waxing as a “weed whacker”.


A quick end note here, I have some potentially fucking awesome news about my long-awaited book.  I am a big believer in not counting my goats before they are hatched though, so I’m not showing my hand just yet.  The only thing is that you may notice is that I’ve started to update the format this blog and make it at least look more like an actual writer’s website.  Believe me, content will stay the same because I am what I am–and that is to say that I’m a fucking lunatic and like telling you about it.  In addition to being a lunatic though, I am very serious when it comes to my writing, so I’ve added a new About Me section that sounds a little more professional than my original one.

(However, I’m still keeping the old one because, like I said, I am what I am and that that About Me probably illustrates who I am more than any actual paragraphs ever could.)

The Sky Was Storming But the Watermelon was Everclear

Number 24 on The List of Shameless Shit is “Share a struggle you have yet to “just get over.””  This could be a real downer of a prompt, but homegirl don’t play that.  Instead I’m going to tell you about the beach adventure that I had with my brother this past weekend.

I’m guessing that it’s because I now do so much work from home that I want to be completely out of the house and away from my computer when I don’t have to be around to go in to my pay-the-bills job.  Oddly enough the place that I keep wanting to visit is the beach.  While many of my favourite childhood memories involve staying at my grandmother’s shore house and going on the beach with my cousins, I haven’t been a beach fan in over a decade.  I’ve long ago given up on self-analysis though, so even if this change seemed weird, I just rolled with it.

The forecast for this past weekend had been threatening massive storms, but the worst rain that we seen so far was on Saturday when a little shower had blown through early and left the rest of the day sunny.  Sunday started out the same way–with a shower in the morning–but by 11am it was sunny again.  The beach was calling to me, and after a round of pleas and threats, I was finally able to convince my brother to take a shore trip with me.

We didn’t get on the beach until about 2:30, but the late arrival and semi-cloudy sky worked to our benefit because there were hardly any people to step over as we picked a spot to camp out.  The only issue with the late arrive though was that the tide was coming in and this would possibly mess with my beach plans: to make The Red Keep, one of the castles from A Game of Thrones.

Geeks take their geekiness even to the beach, you see.

My brother, however, had an equally geeky idea about how to give me more time to build my castle, namely by building another GoT landmark: The Wall.

the wall, sand castle, game of thrones

I like how he even labeled it “Wall”.

Much like it’s namesake, The Wall did protect the realm of my castle as the tide started to come in.  And if you are reeling from nerd-overload already, this will send you right over the edge because every time a large wave barreled toward the shore we would scream, “WINTER IS COMING!”  Or if it was a particularly foamy wave we would howl about The Wall protecting us from the White Walkers.

(Shut up.)

Unfortunately the tide didn’t play fair and there was a cross-current that came from the side of The Wall and began to erode The Red Keep before I was even a third of the way finished.

sand castle

“The White Walkers” have surrounded The Red Keep and have begun to destroy it.

After the second wave of “White Walkers” the walls were crumbling and the largest towers had fallen.  I was undeterred though.  I knocked down a few towers myself and declared that the castle was now Harrenhall.

(Pound for pound this is pretty much the geekiest I’ve been in some time.)

sand castle

The ruined castle of Harrenhall.

My brother and I had done all that we could do to save the castle, so we moved on to playing Washers.  We had no sooner set up the washer boxes when the sky opened up with a downpour that would have sent Noah to building another Ark.  I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit so I wrapped myself in a towel while my brother held a sheet over his head until he gave it up for a bad job and let himself get soaked.  For a good twenty minutes we were pummeled with rain, and when it finished everything was saturated–except me (haha-thank you towel).  The funniest part though was that The Wall and Harrenhall made it (kinda) through the storm.

beach after rain

My brother inspecting the remains.

We resumed our game of Washers and then looked over to see that a rainbow had appeared over the ocean.  I have better pics on my camera, but here’s what my brother managed to capture with his phone.

rainbow at the beach

There must be GOLD in the Music Pier!

And then a leprechaun appeared and while he didn’t give us gold, he gave us the next best thing: grain alcohol.


Okay, it wasn’t really a leprechaun, it was one of the guys from the group who had been beaching next to us, but he was rather round and jolly and he really did give us a watermelon filled with Everclear.  My brother and I didn’t have knives, but did that stop us from eating the watermelon?  Nope.  We tore the watermelon apart with our fucking bare hands and ate it.  By the time we were finished, the already drenched beach blanket was further soaked in Watermelon-Everclear juice.  It was a lot of fun to haul the sticky, soaking lot of blankets, towels and bag back to the car, but all in all it was a pretty kickass day.

So what does this all have to do with No. 24 my List of Shameless Shit?  Well, that sea water surrounding my sand castle?  That was the first bit of the Atlantic Ocean that I’ve let touch my skin since I was eighteen.  Without wasting too much space with details, next week will be the anniversary of the day that I was at the shore and came down with a fever that would eventually burn so hot that it would cause brain damage and destroy my memory.  The doctors had told my mother that I must have caught something from the ocean and as a result I’ve had a panic attack whenever I’ve been on the beach and the water came near me.  This my No. 24 because I’m not over my fear of catching a fever from the ocean.

But I’m getting there.

(And because I’m emo, I took the rainbow as present from God for a job well started.)

If You Have Ever Had a Guy or Girl Treat You Like Shit Then This One’s For You

busted, you know what you didSTORY TIEMZ!!

And FYI, a writer’s brain is never their own.  It’s owned by whatever tale has hijacked them.  I wasn’t planning on writing this story, but since it keeps cropping up as I’m trying to get other shit done, then I guess I’m birthing the rude little fuck.


As much of a badass bitch as I am, there is some part of me that still wants to believe the best of people. I really want to believe that people don’t set out to hurt each other on purpose, and that even if they do that they are still capable of true remorse. It’s because of this belief that I didn’t tell Phil to go fuck himself when he approached me as I was reading on the eliptical machine.

“Could I talk to you for a minute?” he asked nervously.

Phil and I had a “relationship” based on the understanding that we weren’t going to be introducing each other to our families or picking out china together any time soon.  He had broken up with a longtime girlfriend a week before we had met, and I was still dealing with an overzealous admirer stalker, so neither of us were in a place to start anything serious.  Still, our pseudo-relationship ended when he would break dates ten minutes before we were supposed to get together, when he would say that he was going to call and wouldn’t, but most of all, when he would treat me like he didn’t know who I was when we ran into each other at the gym where we both worked out. The kicker was that he would act like an inconsiderate asshole at the gym and then call me to get together as if everything was peachy. The last time that he had called, I did get together with him but it was only to make sure that he knew that I’d had enough.

“Sure.” I closed my book but didn’t break my stride on my machine.

He paused for a moment and then got on the machine next to me. “Okay, I guess I’ll try to keep up with you,” he said grinning.

I mentally rolled my eyes thinking that I wasn’t rising to that bait to begin a flirtaion.

“So how have you been?” Phil asked as he started on the machine without bothering to actually select a workout.

“Brilliant,” I replied.

When I didn’t elaborate, he cleared his throat to fill the silence.
“I just…well, I think I owe you an apology,” he said. “I know I was an asshole, and I’m sorry.  I…at the time I wasn’t right.  Up in here.” He tapped his temple.

Something about his apology actually sounded sincere, so I shook my head slightly. “Don’t worry about it. I just let it go. I’m not a psycho chick like that.”

“I know you’re not, and that’s why I’m sorry.”

The elliptical beeped that my workout had ended so I finally stopped and gave him my full attention. “Well, thank you for the apology.  I really do appreciate it,” I told him. And because of that side of me that tries to be nice, I asked him how he was doing and we made chit-chat for a few minutes before I took off.

Over the next few months, Phil and I would talk here and there when we saw each other at the gym, and while I wouldn’t call us friends, I’d say that we were at least friendly. It even turned out that his mother was one of my patients at the optometry office where I worked. She was a very nice woman who showed me pictures of the wedding that the entire family had attended the previous week. There were several pictures of Phil dancing it up and snuggling a very tan, very blonde woman. Phil’s mother went on to say how much she adored Phil’s girlfriend and how it looked like they would be the next couple to be married, and I can honestly say that I was happy for all parties involved.

About a week later, I was leaving the gym when I saw Phil pulling into a parking spot. I gave a wave and continued walking down the sidewalk toward my house. Phil gave a shout as he got out of his car and trotted after me. He smiled as he approached and looked me up and down.
Alarms immediately started going off in my head.

“Hey,” he said leaning close to me.
I stepped back. “Hey. I met your mother last week.”
“Really?  Where at?”
“At my office.  She’s really nice.”
“Yeah, she is.” He looked me up and down again which would have annoyed me if I didn’t find it a bit amusing that he was eyeing up someone who look like as much of a sweaty mess as I did.
“Uh huh. Well, take it easy.” I turned to leave, but he grabbed my arm.
He must have felt my muscles stiffen because he let go and laughed.
“Preparing to spar me again?”
“No, but you know that I don’t like to be grabbed.”
“Maybe you should remind me.” He stroked my cheek and leaned in.
I snapped my hand up against his chest to keep him from coming closer. My eyes narrowed in the bright sun and I knew that they were fading from brown to hazel green as they did whenever I was angry.
“I thought that you said that you were sorry,” I hissed.
He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“You had apologized for being an asshole before, so why are you doing it again?”
“I’m not. I just thought that you might want to hang out again.” He smiled. “We had a lot of fun, didn’t we?”
“Go have fun with your girlfriend,” I told him.
The briefest flicker of surprise registered in his blue eyes, and then it was replaced by indignant confusion.
“What girlfriend?”

I’d had enough. There was something that I had always suspected when we were seeing each other and it was time to find out. I snatched his keys from his hand and skipped back a step.

“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m going to ask you two questions. If you lie to me then I’m taking your keys and you can walk home. Savy, boyo?”
He rolled his eyes, “Um, no.  How about you give me my keys and just walk away?”
“Um no,” I mimicked his bored drawl. “The truth is the least that you own me, and I’ll have either that or your keys.
His face twisted in fury. “What the fuck? Give me me keys!”
He stepped toward me, and I immediately dropped into a fight stance with my left leg forward.
“Stay the fuck away from me, Phil, or I’ll make that last trouncing that I gave you when we sparred look like your birthday spanks.”
That halted him, for which I was very grateful for since I’d been injured since we had last spared and I wasn’t as fully confident that I could take him as I had been before.
“Now take three steps back and I promise to throw your keys back after you tell me what I want to know,” I told him.
He obliged and then crossed his arms and glared at me.
“You have a girlfriend, don’t you?” I asked him.
Phil glared even harder at me. “Fine,” he finally admitted, “Yeah, I do.”
“Very good. See how easy this is? And you had a girlfriend last year when we were fooling around, didn’t you?”
The shock on his face was evident, but he still began to protest. “We had broke up!”
I turned and began walking. “I guess I just got myself a new set of keys.”
“Fine, fine! Yes, I had a girlfriend back then, too!”
I stopped and turned back. “Is it the same one?”
“Does it matter?” Phil sneered.
“Not really. Whether you cheated on one woman or two you’re still an asshole.”
“What-the-fuck-ever,” he snorted. “Now give me my fucking keys.”
“Of course.”

Phil still stood back where I had told him to move: exactly in front of the storm drain. I threw the keys toward him in an underhanded arc that flew just below his outstretched hand. They clattered against the bars of the drain and then dropped with a resounding splash into the water below.
“What the fuck!” Phil screamed. “What the fucking fuck!”
“Gee, Phil I guess I owe you an apology.” I shook my head, “I’m a terrible throw.”
“Fuck you! You did that on purpose!” he snarled.
I shrugged, “Maybe I did.  But then I’m not feeling right-” I tapped my temple, “-up here.”

The Time I Got a Brazilian Bikini Wax at a Jewish Community Center

I’ve wondered if my life is such a fucking dramedy because I’m a writer, or if I’m a writer because my life is such a fucking dramedy.  Granted some of it is a result of my own inanity, but then there are episodes where I am a complete innocent bystander.  I am seriously not joking when I’ve said that I’m a magnet for what-the-fuckery.  I can’t make this shit up.

For example, I was pretty stoked when I was given a gift certificate for a Brazilian bikini wax at a local spa for Christmas.  (You might be already thinking that this is a bit of what-the-fuck since who gets stoked over being given a gift where a complete stranger yanks all of the hair from your nethers by hot wax, but I’m really lazy and was thrilled to let someone else do this for me.)  I’d never heard of the spa where I was to undergo this aesthetic torture, but was assured that it was the best.  With summer finally here, I decided that it was time to use my certificate.  The first thing that I did was look to see if the spa had a website.  It did, but there wasn’t much to it except an overview of services and the address.  I happened to notice there was a “JCC”, but ditzy me thought that this was a business suffix like an “LLC”.  It wasn’t until I typed in the actual numerical address into Google maps that I realized that “JCC” was short for “Jewish Community Center”.

wtf, what the fuck, cat

I wasn’t even sure what a Jewish Community Center entailed but I was pretty sure that it didn’t typically include poon grooming.  Since I’m well-versed in the perverse, I just rolled with it and called to make my appointment.  When I spoke to the owner of the spa, she verified that she was indeed located inside the JCC, but assured me that I didn’t have to be Jewish to enter the building.  Good thing since I planned on praying the entire time that my pubes were being violently removed.

The first thing that I have to say about this JCC is that it’s bloody huge.  Not only is it three buildings, but each of the buildings is massive.  I didn’t know which one held my destination, so I chose the biggest building and it turned out that I was correct.  After signing in as a guest, I was pointed in the general direction of where I would find the spa.  After wandering the halls for ten minutes I finally stumbled in a panic through a doorway that I hoped was where I would just be waxed and not circumcised.  There was an elderly gentleman receptionist who assured me that I had found the correct place.  (Yeah it was a little weird to be asking an eldery Jewish man if I was in the right place to have my nonny-hoo-hoo primped, but again, I just rolled with it.)

As shocking as it might be, the waxing itself wasn’t traumatic.  Aside from being aware that there were small children just a room away in the daycare center as I was having my poon waxed, it went off without a hitch, in fact, you can read about the actual waxing experience and what to expect if you want to have one done in my article “Making Your Brazilian Wax a Smooth Experience” at The Indie Chicks.

In other news, I’ve started edits on my book.  I pretty much rewrote chapter one the other day (long story as to why) and I have to say that it’s something that I’m proud of–like to the point where even if it’s turned down my every literary agent in the world, I’ll still love it and be willing to show it off.  My posts are going to remain a little sparser for a bit longer, but as you can, a lot of the awesome that I’ve been mentioning in the past few months has been building momentum and I’m still adapting on keeping up with it.  It’s a lot of work–I pretty much live on my computer–but I love it.

You Might Be a Dick If

There are a lot of warning signs that someone might be a dick, but today I’m going to focus on the warning signs regarding cell phones that I’ve encountered while at my day job. Let’s begin.turn off your fucking cell phone sign

  • If I’m asking you how many hours a day you wear your contacts and you can’t even look up from texting on your phone to give me the dickish answer “all day”–this is another rant entirely–then you might be a dick.
  • If I’ve called your name to take you back to the doctor and you hold a finger up in a “one minute gesture” and continue your texting and/or cell phone conversation, then you might be a dick.
  • If I admit that a lot of medical machines are not affected by cell phones but that the one that I’m about to use on you is indeed affected by cell phones and ask that you please turn off your cell phone and in response you give me a “yeah right” look, then you might be a dick.
  • If I’m using the machine which is affected by cell phones and the screen is jumping all over the place and I then find out that it’s because you were getting texts after having not turned off your cell phone despite my asking, then you might be a dick.
  • If I’m teaching you to put in your contacts and you touch your phone not once, but twice, to answer a text and make me make you wash your hands again (cell phones are one of the most disgusting filthy appliances in the world so you do not want to touch them and then touch your eye), then you might be a dick.

I’ll admit that I’m being a little snarky here, so I’ll finish by clarifying that there is no “might” about it. If you do any of these things, then you sir (or madam) are, in fact, a dick.


In other news, my newest piece at The Indie Chicks went up on Monday.  “The Skinny on the 7 Day Detox Diet” is up, so check that out for want a breakdown (and an update) on what it’s really like to do the detox without all of the flowery, magical (aka bullshit) phrases that diet sites use to describe it.

Fifty Shades of Kat

What could be a better way to start a month than with a Soft Core Friday post? And what a SCF post it is, too! My laptop started overheating from only the notes of everything I wanted to cover! (Or uncover since this is SCF).

First up on this SCF is the bidding adieu to Zombie Awareness Month with the ultimate bang, namely by my writing some zombie-inspired smut. When I had originally wrote this piece several months ago, it was more humour than erotica, so I did a massive rewrite over the past few days (despite a summer flu) and I came up with something that I actually kinda love.** Seriously the piece is not as whacko as you are probably thinking it is–because how could zombie smut possibly sound whacko?–and I think that it’s one of my better written pieces, so please check out “Love Bites”. Don’t be shy about leaving comments either because you can leave them anon, and I’d love your feedback.

And zombie smut was just the intro, peeps! Now onto the post!

fanfic sex fail, fan fictionToday’s SCF post comes courtesy of those “Fifty Shades of Grey” books. Bloody fucking hell I am so fucking sick of hearing about these books! While I am admittedly more likely to disdain anything promoted by The Hype Monster, the reason these books make me so angry that I see fifty shades of red is because they are so fucking poorly written. They originated as fan fiction. As “Twilight” fan fiction. Twilight. Fan. Fiction. And the writer is making millions. Kill me now. The only thing that I can conclude is that people are really starving for BDSM stories, and since I’m all about being helpful, I’m going to provide the world with a little ditty about the topic from my own experiences. Off we go then.

I’d met my former shagbuddy while sparring so it wasn’t surprising that our sex always had a wrestle-y, competition for dominance to it.

“You are a bad girl and you should be tied up during sex,” he had told me one time while pinning my hands down.

I rolled my eyes, “You couldn’t tie a knot that would hold me, so I’ll pass.”

“Scared?” he was obviously trying to goad me, but in this case it wouldn’t work.

“No, I know how my brain works and the entire time I would be more annoyed that I was supposed to be restrained by a pathetic knot. Get some handcuffs and I’m your huckleberry.”

We continued our pillow play, and I thought that we were done with the subject until we were in the throws of the main course and he suddenly told me to hit him.

I ignored the first request, but when he barked at me again to hit him, I gave him a hard pat to the side of his face just to shut him up.

“You call that a slap? You hit like a fucking girl! I said to hit me!”

Now, there are a few phases that you never want to say to me, at least when you are within my reach. Number one, “I drank the last cup of coffee.” Number two, “I erased all of the music from your iPod and replaced it with Justin Bieber, Miley Cyrus and the best of Glee.” And three, “You hit like a girl.” Furthermore, none of these should be followed by an invitation for me to hit you. Because chances are that I will. (I really love my coffee.)

In this particular case I drew my hand back and I nailed that fucker with a slap that would have made the most jaded pimp weep with pride.

He didn’t ask me to hit him again.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I broke my hand.
(No, not really, but I find the idea is so hilarious that I almost wish that was true.)

No the real moral of this story is that you don’t provoke a trained fighter to hit you as hard as they fancy. To Shaggy’s credit, he at least laughed about it after we were finished.

That story probably didn’t titillate the way that you were expecting, so to make up for it, I’ll conclude today’s Soft Core Friday post with the next member of the sexy Writes Like a Slut crew. I purposely wanted to make sure that I posted her pic on a SCF since she is the originator of the idea. I give you the hotness that is my darling Random Girl from Random Girl Blogs.

writes like a slut shirt

Have a kickass weekend, my dear naughty ones! Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do–which means that you have free reign to do pretty much anything. And if you do, please blog about it since I’m sloooowly catching up on my roll.

The Shining at Victoria’s Secret

victoria's secret, VS credit card, VS VIP

You don’t get a black VS credit card without having a problem.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve a *ahem* problem with Victoria’s Secret, to the point where I can’t even part with their bags.  Luckily, I don’t like shopping and despise having to deal with large, roaming packs of humans, so I’m very unlikely to go into a mall where they are located.  Unfortunately there are times that I cannot avoid the wretched mall.  Like when I have to get false eyelash glue.

As soon as I walked into the mall, I felt a strange, almost other-wordly force pulling me into the Victoria’s Secret, and though it was in the opposite direction of my original destination, I found myself walking through their doors, dragging my confused mother behind me.  A saleswoman immediately appeared and handed me a shopping bag

“Hello, Kat,” she smiled.

The fact that she knew my name should have been the tipoff right there that I was in very big fucking trouble, but I was too mesmerized by all of the lacy, pretty things surrounding me.

“Yes.  Yes, I’ve been away, but now I’m back,” I mumbled.

“It’s good to see you, Kat.  What will it be today?”

“Hair of the bra that bit me.”

“Dream Angels,” her eyes glowed as she gestured to a display in the center of the store.

“That’ll do ‘er,” I said shoving a woman with a baby carriage aside and vaulting over the makeup counter.

One way that I’ve been able to control my Victoria Secret spending is because I only really fancy the one style of bra, and they were running out of colours that I didn’t own.  As I perused the drawer with my size, I saw one bra that was black under white lace that I loved, but given that I already had a white one under black lace at home, I was able to put it down.  I was about to make it out of Vicky’s without getting another bra!

And then the saleswoman appeared in front of me.

“The bra in the corner is a Dream Angel, too,” she told me.

I glanced over to the corner and amidst some PJs was an ice blue bra under silvery white lace.

This was a problem.  I did not have an ice blue bra.  I have antique blue, but that’s a completely different similar blue, and besides mine is antique blue under antique blue lace, not under silvery white lace!

I could only pray that they wouldn’t have it in my weird size.

The saleswoman reached into the rack and pulled out the correct size, and then handed me the piece of Kat-Kryptonite.

“How did you know what size I wear?” I asked her.

“I should know, Kat, I’ve always been here.  Just as you have always been the caretaker…of these bras,” she replied.

I looked to my mother for help, but the saleswoman was obviously working her evil mind meddling on her because she just nodded her head with a glazed look in her hazel eyes.

“I think we have the bottoms, too.  Do you want to see them?” the saleswoman continued.


‘Yes!’ I screamed in my head.

“Oh,” the saleswoman said sadly, “We only have one pair, and it’s too big for you.”

The bottoms were not too big for me, in fact they were my size, but using her telepathic power, the saleswoman knew that I feel that my ass is too big and that this last bit of flattery would be the thing to send me over to the edge.


Once again VS turned me into Gollum.

“Give them to me!” I demanded, “Give me the Precious!”

“We also have the matching gar-” she started.

I stuck my fingers in my ears and began humming “The Star Spangled Banner”, but then I heard the woman’s voice finish in my head, ‘-ter, you know.

“Red rum!” my mother suddenly yelled.

“You are so right, Mumma!  We need to get out of here right now!  I mean, like, right after I pay for the Precious!” I turned to the saleswoman, “So how’s my credit in this joint, anyway?”

“Your credit is fine, Kat,” the woman smiled.

“That’s swell.  I always liked you,” I told the woman as she took me to a register and checked me out.

“Come and see us again soon, Kat,” she told me as my mother and I began our escape, “Come and see us and stay forever…and ever…and ever.”

“I am never going in that store again,” I declared once Mumma and I were safely in the car.  But I know that I will.

The semi-annual sale is only a few months away.

**Today’s zombie survival tip is to not go to the mall ala Romero’s Dawn of The Dead.  As you can see the place is already corrupt.

Sleep well, M.C.A.

I’ve felt off for the past five days that not even a kickass Cinco de Mayo with my dear, awesome girl, Jewels, could remedy.  I know what my problem is though, and unfortunately one of the curses of being a writer is that writing is sometimes the only thing that gives us solace.  I guess I could write this all out and keep it to myself, but there would not be stores filled with thousands of books if writers were content to form words for themselves.  It’s another curse of being a writer.

For simplicity’s sake, I will refer to the man in this story as my “father”, though the fact that he was briefly married to my mother and donated a bit of his DNA to create me hardly qualifies him for the title.  “Stepbitch” is my stepmother, but not even for simplicity’s sake will I call her “mother”, unless it’s followed by “fucker”.


I had always hated when I had to stay the weekend at my father’s, but there was a period when I was about seven that I particularly hated it.  During that time my father and stepbitch had, I guess, “reconnected” with my aunt Karen and her current husband, and every Saturday, they would drag me, my sister and my toddler brother to her apartment where we would be quarantined with her obnoxious four-year-old son, Ian, in a small bedroom while the adults would drink in the dining room.  We would get there after dinner and stay until at least two in the morning.  One time I fell asleep on the living room floor and woke to find my father and stepbitch sleeping on the couch and the sun filtering through the blinds.  I remember that I was somewhat fascinated because I didn’t know that adults had slumber parties.

My aunt would greet us at the door, beer already in hand, and smile her blinding white smile.  There was something that I didn’t like about my aunt Karen.  Every once in a while her perpetual brilliant smile would fall from her face and I would see something cold and reptilian in her black eyes.  I couldn’t explain exactly what I saw, but I instinctively knew that this was not someone to be trusted.

“You’re some lucky kids, getting to stay up so late!” she would tell us as she closed the bedroom door with a decisive click.

I didn’t feel lucky at all.  And that’s what I hated the most: that the adults tried to make it sound like they were doing us a favour.  I had suspected that this wasn’t the case before, but it was confirmed one time when I wandered from the confines of my cousin’s bedroom and into the dining room where the adults were gathered around laughing loudly.

“What’s wrong, Kat?” stepbitch immediately asked in annoyance.

“Nothing.  I just wanted to come out here and visit.”

“Well, it’s adult time right now.  Go back in the bedroom and play.”

I glanced around the table.  Any traces of laughter were gone from the four adult faces.  My gaze fell on my aunt, and again I sensed danger in those black basilisk eyes.  The hackles raised on the back of my neck, and for some stupid reason I looked up to my father for protection.  As usual, he did not even bother to return my gaze, so I retreated back to the bedroom in silence.

Sometimes my aunt’s husbands two sons, Tim and Shawn, would be visiting, and then the tiny bedroom would be even more cramped.  Ironically I liked my step-cousins better than Ian who was my blood-cousin.  Tim was the same age as I and he hated our situation as much as I did.  I felt an especial kinship to Tim because one time, the adults called the two of us from the bedroom because they wanted to see who was taller.  I was already self-conscious about my height so to have it the subject of scrutiny made me want to hunch down.  The adults couldn’t tell by looking at us side by side who was taller, so my aunt’s husband grabbed me and spun me around.  I was instantly filled with terror at a man putting his hands on me, but panicked tears filled my eyes as I realized that he was pressing my back against Tim’s.  I started to shake as I realized that my butt was touching his butt, but I clenched my teeth and forced myself to stand as still as possible, telling myself that it would be over soon.  When the adults finally released us, I noticed that there were tears in Tim’s eyes as well.  We walked back to the bedroom in silence, but a look of understanding passed between us before he opened the bedroom door, and when my sister asked me why I was crying I just told her that I hated daddy.  It wasn’t a lie.

On one particular occasion Tim had brought a cassette player and a stack of tapes with him.  I was thoroughly impressed because I had only recently discovered the world of cassette tapes and was just starting to collect them myself.  Tim pulled one of tapes from it’s case.
“This one’s cool,” he told me as he put the tape into the player and pushed play.

“KICK IT!” suddenly blared from the speakers.

I listened in rapt silence to the first two stanzas, but my the third chorus I was screaming, “You gotta fight!  For your right!  To paaaaaar-tay!”

I insisted that Tim play the song again, and then again, and by the third listen I was screaming the entire song, though the chorus remained the highlight.  The other kids joined in, and soon we were all screaming and laughing.  While I did enjoy screaming just for screaming’s sake, there was some tiny part of me that knew that I was being noisy because I wanted to get the attention of the adults and make my anger known.  Stepbitch did eventually burst through the door and explode at us to shut up, but for once her wrath didn’t matter.  Disappointing my father didn’t matter.  For one brief moment, I wasn’t powerless and I had made my voice heard.

Decades later I still think of that night at my aunt’s whenever I hear “(You Gotta) Fight for You Right (To Party).  It was, in fact, the only memory that I could easily recall of those visits to my aunt’s.  It wasn’t until Adam Yauch died, and I was consumed by this, frankly absurd, feeling of grief over his death, that I realized the gift that Adam’s song gave to me.  All of these years I could have been plagued with only horrible memories of my aunt’s apartment, but instead the song and that one evening were the only things that I would spring to mind.  I’ve realized that in some warped way that I’ve felt as though Adam Yauch created that song specifically to save me that night.  He provided the protection that I so desperately wanted before I was able to defend myself.  Adams’ passing has made me feel like I lost the older brother that I’d always thought would keep me safe, one that lead by example and told me that it was okay to not be happy with the behaviour of adults.

Thank you, and sleep well, brother-I-never-knew.  You helped your “little sister” more than you could ever know.

(Many thanks to my friend Emmet at The Momus Report, for finding this.)

(Also, no comments necessary.  Sometimes there’s just nothing to say.  I’ll be back tomorrow, stronger and kicking ass harder.  Because I’m a rockstar.)