The 12 Days of Christmas (Sparklebumps Style)


Have a holiday-spirited repost. XOXO

sparklebumpsthebookwhore

On the first day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

a boner-er in my coochie.

On the second day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

two stillettos and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the third day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

three french fries, two stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

four brand new books, three french fries, two stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! Four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

six sparkly dresses, FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my Rockstar…

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I Know What It Feels Like To Hold the Sun Now


I know what it feels like

to hold the Sun now.

As I cup his beloved face,

my hands are warmed by

that smile,

the most brilliant of smiles;

my arms tingle with the heat of it.

The fire spreads through my body

and I feel like Icarus,

burning up from such close proximity.

The flames of this

Love

dance in my muscles,

causing me to hold him

a little tighter than I should.

His tiny doll’s hand reaches out

to hold my cheek,

and I wonder if he feels

the warmth

of the Moon,

reflecting the glory of his Light.untitled-5

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We Sold Their Lives Today


We sold their lives today.

Sixty years of collecting,

lying there like so much rubbish,

just waiting for someone to make an offer.

Selling memories is heartbreaking business.

First it was two for a dollar,

then six for a quarter,

and finally,

ten for a penny.

I waded through

too many

salvaged coffee cans, flower pots, and garden tools.

Shame on you, Grampa.

We all thought Gramma was the pack-rat.

Everything is half off.

I watched her struggle to maintain composure

when the offers were low;

she wanted to hold on to that tiller-

the one he used for so many years.

I wanted to scream “NO!” for her

when she sighed consent

and hung her head,

too weary and old to

argue again.

So many times she heard it-

“Do you want to keep this?”

“Take it,”

was always her reply.

What she meant was,

“Take it, because I have to

know my memories are being held

onto by those I love.”

We hauled them away by carloads, their belongings.

Some were worth much;

others just worth the idea,

“This was Grampa’s.”

or

“This was Grandma’s.”

Now they’ve become our memories.

Memories of the time when

we couldn’t

make time wait,

and our hands were useless to

stop life.

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My Aging Metabolism


I’m getting older. As if working with a bunch of underage teens has not helped me with this realization, for the last few weeks, I’ve had unsolicited email notifications blowing the fuck out of my phone with these taunting words in the subject line: Your Aging Metabolism.

I could be wrong here, but I do believe that repeatedly sending emails to a potential customer badgering her about her worst dread is just bad advertising. What is it about “Your Aging Metabolism” that makes this asinine company think I would ever respond, and in a positive way to their dim-witted emails?!? Surely, said company is hoping to sell me bottle water from the mythical Fountain of Youth, or whatever magical potion that makes Christopher Meloni maintain his Adonis-like good looks; it seems to me their attempts would be more successful were they to fawn over my general fabulosity, rather than mentioning a little flaw I may or may not even deal with.

I have decided I will respond to them in a blog post…

To the Displeasing Ones It May Concern,

I have received a good many of your emails. Unfortunately (for you), I have opened none of them. I’ve no desire to buy whatever the fuck it is you may be selling, since you have been impertinent enough to remind me of “my aging metabolism”-  a matter that I have little to no control over.

Let me tell you something, you inconsiderate assfaces. My metabolism quit aging when I was ten. My metabolism was thought to be about 107 years old, judging by the pictures of me at that time. Yes, I may have lost my “baby fat” when I was a teen, but that was mostly due to not eating for about four years, and exercising instead of sleeping.

Since you have been so kind to call to mind that I’m getting older, we may as well assume that my metabolism is about 500 years old now. Which means there’s nothing you can do about me getting fat in my old age; I plan on eating the French fries that cross my path, and not foregoing the cake Marie Antoinette so graciously said I should eat. No pill advertised by dumbasses like you will be able to save me.

For future reference, next time you want to try to manipulate unsuspecting victims, try something along the lines of “Let us help you maintain your amazingness”. Not “Buy our shit, Fat ass”, which is essentially the advertising you went with. If you wish to fire your ad execs and hire me, I would consider gracing you with my talents; however, at this point, I’d be charging you up the butt.

I will let you know that I most certainly will tell every person I know who receives emails about your shenanigans, and urge them to also completely ignore your abhorrent behavior.

Love Never,

Sparklebumps

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Five Years


Hey there, Strangers. It’s been a long time. If you, my lovely readers, and I were in a relationship, you’d have every right to toss me aside for someone who doesn’t neglect you a…

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Five Years


Hey there, Strangers.

It’s been a long time. If you, my lovely readers, and I were in a relationship, you’d have every right to toss me aside for someone who doesn’t neglect you as I have the last few months. But, let me tell you something- after five years, relationships tend to go through a stale time before they get stronger. For yes, WordPress has informed me that it has been five years and a few days since I did begin a little online rant called sparklebumpsthebookwhore. Said action forever changed my life, I believe, completely for the better. It is hoped that it did, too, change all of your lives for the better. My histrionica convinces me it most certainly did.

Though I have not yet found life-altering fame, I will say that I am taking baby steps (sometimes very literally) to expand my horizons and experience new things I’ve never before experienced. I’ve thrown my best friend (who I met through my blog several years ago) a rather fabulous bridal shower, and just this past weekend joined her and her other favorites for a bachelorette party that included a horse-drawn carriage ride through the city. (Numerous Uber rides were also a first; I shall never forget the four of us piling into a Ford Fiesta driven by a friendly individual resembling Austin Power’s Fat Bastard. Good Times.)

My life has vastly improved in the last half-decade; this is mainly due to a little man who  resembles me too closely at times- mostly when he’s butting his head against whatever’s nearby when he’s pissed off. Yes, I have the mental maturity to not actually smash my head against inanimate objects, but, I promise, I’m doing it in my head constantly. Perhaps this is the reason I sometimes forget what I’m saying mid-sentence, and find it hard to focus on pretty much everything….

Yes, my Babe is too much like his mother, but in some ways, that’s great. (in my opinion.) His constant growling and attacking his stuffed animals and the dog proves that his wild imagination is intact, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Things with my Rockstar are less sexy that I’d necessarily wish them to be, but that will happen when there’s a toddler about and our work schedules are completely opposite. He still has amazing hair, and a habit of buying very expensive guitar gear. Ah, well. Boys will be boys.

My Rockstar’s Daughter is now officially a high-schooler (cringe), and I have come to realize that for the most part, we will have to ignore each other for the next four years for both of us to make it out alive. That’s all I’m going to say about that for now.

I’m still masquerading as a waitress until I finish my book, but as of this week, I got a $3 an hour raise, so I can’t really complain…even though one of my joyful “managers” refers to me as a “stupid fucking cunt”  to whomever will listen. Let’s just say the feeling is mutual. Even if he is a dude.

I am making more of an effort to use my time more wisely toward writing, which should go swimmingly unless they add an unknown season of Sons of Anarchy on Netflix, so you shouldn’t have to wait so long again for me to entertain you again. We’ll have to see if being a mother has drained me of my general amazingness.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

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The Vagabond (otherwise entitled Why Parents Need Cocaine)


My child is one. I suppose if you want to be technical, he is one and a little more. The point is, I haven’t slept in over a year.

Yes, ok, so that’s not exactly true. I just this afternoon slept for a good half hour while the Babe napped. And I guess my Rockstar watched him yesterday morning so I could sleep in a wee bit. But a whole eight-hour night’s sleep? Such things are the things of myths and fairytales.

I’ve been remiss in my writing of blog posts; a fact that is proven by my last post which was sometime in March, I think. Too, I find myself not a whole lot further in the writing of my book- because Pinterest is the Devil’s hippodrome, and he very successfully distracts me in his evil game of idle pin surfing. Spring has brought hours of yard work, and a kid who freaks out every time I attempt to Brazil butt-lift my saggy ass have also preoccupied me from becoming my most amazing self. On the plus side, my kid is ridiculously awesome and my exact mini male replica.

The thing I have learned in the past year? Anyone who has ever gotten hooked on cocaine must first have had a child. How else would you explain the need to be awake for extended hours and days at a time? How else would the dishes ever get done and the lawn mown and the laundry folded and the kids get fed and bathed and read to?

As I am generally not of the criminal ilk, I have opted for a more legal path. Diet vitamins and other assorted energy-boosting products. Along with reaching my goal weight, I shall now find the energy to create my most interesting characters.

I must admit, the true origin of buying such energy-boosting items stems from the fact that I’m just too lazy to exercise. But, ya know, maybe I won’t be after a week or two of partaking in legalized speed.

My real question is- how the hell does anybody get anything done with more than one kid?!

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