A Thank You Letter to Shitty Tippers

To Whom It May Concern,

I have taken it upon myself to show my gratitude for your extremely benevolent behavior toward me during my past 17 years of service for you. As you have so courteously treated me, so now will I return the favor.

I would like to thank those tippers from large groups or big families who insist on paying the substantial bill for their obnoxious get-togethers. It is true, I noticed you trying to get the best deal out of me when ordering your food, as I also noticed how you flinched when another member of your party ordered additional appetizers without checking with you. I am indebted to you for the 5% tip you left as you paid with hundred dollars bills. The  horrendous mess your gathering left behind- the crayons littering the floor, the parmesan cheese dumped into leftover beverages, the ketchup that so eloquently spelled out the name of the birthday girl on the table- most certainly made up for the missing 15%.

To the “family” man who was forced to bring his toddler boys out in order to give his wife a Girl’s Night Out- my sincerest gramercy. I appreciated that you so graciously thought to leave me an entire dollar as you towed your little shitkins out after they left my coworkers and I with headaches because of their incessant screaming. Your  largess, and your decision  to leave an upturned bowl of spaghetti all over the floor has shown me exactly what I don’t want in a husband.

To the elderly peeps who believe that “two bits” is an acceptable tip- trust that if ever you find yourself in a nursing home in your last years and I am lucky enough to be employed there, I will show you and your full Depends the same courtesies you have bestowed upon me these many long years.

And finally, to the endless list of people who cannot even be bothered to tip at all- I promise to pray for you. I pray that you are warmed by the hottest fires of the deepest hells; I pray that your children are carted off by the Slender Man, and I pray that you will be arrested by military officials and forced to listen to Taylor Swift songs for the entirety of your despicable lives.

With my  deepest appreciation and most passionate loathing,


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My Boy

IMAG0507_1My boy,

I think you are most beautiful

while you sleep-

arms stretched “this big”

and legs splayed, frog-like.

But then you awaken,

and I see

how completely wrong I can be.

You smile,

and even though your mouth

is as empty as an old man’s,

that smile holds

the whole world within it;

and I cannot help but

hold your tiny grinning face

in my hands.

I can scarce believe

that without a single intelligible word,

you make me fall in love

over and over again.

There are times

when I’ve felt a failure;

but looking into your beloved face,

I realize that whatever may come,

I’ve already succeeded.

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Filed under Beauty, Children, Family, Life, Love, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized


I picked your dirty T-shirt up

off of the floor today.

Dirty isn’t the right word,

because as my fingers lifted it,

the smell of your cologne

wafted up to my nose.

That scent,

the scent of you,

intoxicates me.

In my altered state,

I wondered once again

how you manage to stay smelling

so fresh.

There has never been a time

in the past six years

when I’ve even caught a hint of

unseemly body odor.

I brought your shirt

up to my nose,

closed my eyes,

and inhaled deeply.

It reminded me

how I love to breath you in

as we make love;

your skin,

your hair,

your breath.

I awaken from my reverie

and grin.

All that just from doing

your laundry.


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Elegy for a Crayon

th7M0IL8VOI saw you lying there

Used up and broken.

Your flaming shade

the color of blood-

I half-expected to see

a pool of scarlet oozing

from your stubby ends.

Your wrapper

had been peeled away

completely from one of your pieces;

the other lay in shame

very like a rape victim,

in tattered vestment.

Your identification had been

ripped away.

Only the bold letters OLA


As I cleared the table,

I placed my hand over you


To conceal your

wretched state.

I recall a time

when I had adored ones

such as you,

and would never have thought

to leave them in

such a pitiful condition.

I wonder how many more

rainbows you would have


had fate not sent you such a

vicious end.

I toss your remains

into the trash,


and I think to myself.

Children can be so cruel.

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Baby Mine

I wrote this for a flash fiction contest. The writing prompt was to write about a demon who is really bad at their job and keeps making the life of the person he is possessing better. I can’t get it to publish on the website, so I guess you guys get to read it…

I know it’s against the rules to possess a baby, but come on. It was just too easy.
Felix Bartholomew Embry was born at 3:01 A.M. That was how he caught my attention in the first place. Any baby born just in time for the witching hour has a special pull for all of us demonic spirits. There were several of us in the hospital that night, but I was the first one to hear his borning cry.
“Ahh,” I thought to myself. “A pure soul ripe for the picking.” If I could feel anything remotely delightful, little Felix’s squalling would have filled me with a thrill to the tips of my toes, if I had toes. Instead, I had to be satisfied with a nefarious sensation as I made my way to the birthing suite.
As I entered, I took in the scene. Squalling babe resting not so silently on mother’s magnificent chest, proud father beaming down at them. I’ve never been fond of newborns; my newest conquest being no exception. In fact, for a moment, I wondered if some other insidious spirit had already beaten me there. Felix was a disturbing shade of violet, and his toothless mouth looked much wider than is comforting for a baby’s to look. I should have left right then.
“He’s so beautiful.” I would have laughed when his mother said so, but demons cannot laugh without a voice to use. I took one more look before attempting to enter Felix’s flailing body, and then I made my move.
I felt his limbs stiffen momentarily as I slipped in, but as I was not completely immersed, I couldn’t see what was happening. For a split second, I saw the hospital lights above burning down like brimstone from Heaven when his eyes rolled back in his head, but then I was stuck, and saw nothing. I shook myself, and felt the mother’s grip on him tighten when I did so. Ah. There. I settled in. I reached deep within myself and found my darkest, most terrifying voice. I couldn’t wait to see the parents reactions when they heard the voice of Beelzebub come out of their “beautiful” spawn.
“Hello, mama.” What the fuck?! I tried again.
Their faces reflected the shock that I was feeling. Not only were my words not coming out how I was saying them, but they were emitted in the most angelic child-like voice ever heard. I growled, and it came out in an adorable infantile giggle.
“Did you hear it?” The father looked in awe at his wife, and then his son, and back again. I tried to look around, but this gelatinous baby body I was in refused to obey.
This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Basically, no matter what I do, it comes out making little Felix look like an infant prodigy, and I’m stuck in here living a real-life version of Charlotte’s Web. Fuckin’ A.

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Filed under Children, fiction, Humor, Life, short story, Uncategorized


In the beginning,

you thought you knew

what love was.

We felt it;

that scorching, all-consuming excitement.

The thing that makes you think,

“This person is my everything.”

We were fools.

It was love, yes-

in it’s birthing stage.

Messy. Squalling. Ignorant.

I know that now.

If it had been stable love,

we would never have said

all those terrible things

we said to each other;

we would never have

treated each other so unspeakably.


There were times,

a good while later,

when you were not my favorite person.

In fact, I despised you.

I know.

I ask myself the same question:

“How can you loathe someone you love?”

Beats me.

But you can.

You felt the same at times.

I could see it when you wouldn’t look at me.

It didn’t feel like love anymore,

and we both doubted.

But then,

within  the smoldering pile of ashes

left from our rabid inferno,

a single spark, a memory,

left us clinging to each other

in the midst of our woeful rhapsody.


The hurts healed,


Sometimes painfully.

The ugly scars were made beautiful

because we knew the agony

of the recovery.

You  didn’t look at me

the way you once did,

back in the infancy of Us.

I missed that,

but I was comforted

in the knowing that we chose Us.

That flame seemed cooler

than it once had been,

but more steady.

Instead of self-preservation,

we learned to

give ourselves away to one another.

We never even noticed

when our Selves melted into one.

I guess the blaze was hotter than we thought.



we are both wiser.

Love, you say?

I laugh.

We’ve barely scratched the surface




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Contemplating Motherhood

IMG_0854_TranquilI always said I would be a good  no, a great mother if I ever had kids.

Well, I have one now, and I’m starting to think I might have not had a fucking clue what the hell I was talking about.

I don’t find myself rambling on non-stop to every ear willing to listen about my son’s sleeping habits, bodily functions, learning progress, etc. Of course, I tell them if they ask, but when people ask, “How’s the little one?” I am quite at a loss for words, and stumble around in my head frantically searching for the right words I’m supposed to say. My response is usually- “He’s good. He’s the cutest baby in the world. He’s a happy boy.” People look at me after I’ve said so, waiting for me to add more. What else is there to say? He’s a baby. He sleeps a lot and cries when he’s hungry.

Then there are the times my Babe and I are at home. Of course I read to him, which he seems to relish, perhaps because I do all the voices. I give him the recommended Tummy Time, despite the fact that he came out holding his head up and possessing of legs pretty much strong enough to walk on. We go for walks sometimes, during which I worry that the cracks in the city sidewalks are bad enough to cause shaken baby syndrome. I feed him when I’m supposed to, and play with him so I can see his adorable smile; but then I hear these women talking about how much they love babies and always want to hold theirs, never wanting to put them down. I put mine down. In fact, the only time I hold him is to feed him, read to him, and occasionally cuddle profusely with him. But what I wonder is: do all those women obsessed with their babies have maids? Because I have a house to clean, and a dog to take care of, and a yard full of flowers to take care of, and how the hell am I supposed to hold my baby all the time when I have all that shit to do?

I don’t look ahead and think to myself that, “Oh, hey! I’m going to want another one of these little papooses in a couple of years so this one has someone to play with, or so I have another baby to hold.”  I love him to bits, and I want him to grow up to be a strong, respectable man, but how could I possibly love another one when this one has my whole heart? Even if he did make me completely miserable the entire time he was growing inside me. And I already want him to be 2 or 3, so he can talk back to me and I can at least understand him.

I haven’t dropped him on his head, but neither do I gingerly hold him as if he might break the way my Rockstar does. I don’t like to see his sad face, but when he cries when he’s not hungry, I don’t immediately pick him up, and I tell him he doesn’t need to fuss, because I know he’s faking it. I know this, because during these times, I walk over to him and start singing “Somebody to Love” and his little fake cries turn into squeals followed by smiles. At least he has good taste in music.

Honestly, the only proof that I have at least one motherly bone in my body is the plethora of pictures that have filled up my phone and my Facebook wall.

I’m not even sure my Rockstar finds me to be motherly, since he asked me why do I have to cart the baby around all over the place. I just thought I was acclimating him to the general public. And I thought him being with me was better than leaving him with a babysitter….

I suppose I’ll not really feel like a mother completely until he gets old enough to actually call me “Mommy”. I guess if he believes it, then there’s no reason to doubt it.




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