Listen Up, Santa

Look here, Santa, you tubby piece of Christmas cheer,

I’m done being Miss Nice Sparkle. I couldn’t help but notice that you COMPLETELY disregarded my last year’s letter. What? You think just because you wrote back and told me no that I was going to just shut up and let it slide? Fuck that shit.

You need to remember your sole purpose- that of bringing hope and PRESENTS to all the good little girls and boys in the world. Yeah, so maybe I’m about 20 years out of the age range of your average clientele, but damn it! I have a child-like imagination, you fucker! And, you know, maybe I wouldn’t necessarily be categorized as “good”, or “well-behaved”, but I’m tired of letting people walk all over me; and nobody was supposed to know about that whole selling booby pictures for money thing. How was I supposed to know that dude was going to sell them on Ebay? Anyhoo, you’re old enough that you could probably just forget about that whole incident. Except I thought it was kinda weird that the username of the purchaser of afore-mentioned photos was S.A. Claus. Ha. Did you realize your initials spell “sac”? I bet you got alotta shit for that in school.

So, here’s the deal. I’m gonna give you one last chance to bring me everything I ask for. I kinda wondered if you were pissed off because I didn’t leave any cookies for you last year, but hey. I have people I’ve actually met who deserve lovingly-made assorted baked goods more than you. It’s time now for you to be made aware of my demands:

1. I’ve been waiting more than patiently for that Mustang I mentioned last year. When you didn’t bring it, I thought- Fine. I’ll go buy it myself. I don’t need any handouts from a bearded fruity geriatric. But when I went to the Ford dealer, I remembered how fuck-traded the salesmen there were, so I just rolled my eyes and walked out. I’m pretty sure they were looking at my ass the whole time. So yeah. If it won’t fit in your sleigh, frickin’ buy a barge and ship it down here.

2. I decided that even though one can never have enough books, I should maybe read some of the thousands I already possess. So call up your dealer in Columbia and hook me up with a steady supply of coke, so I have enough energy to read after my normal 12 hour days at work. I also expect one of those awesome antique wingbacked chairs to sit in.

3. Since you have an army of elves, I don’t think it would be too difficult for you to just give one to me. I always wanted my very own little person to do my bidding. Not to be racist, but it seems normal for an elf to be sub-servient to someone of slightly higher stature. Just to be on the safe side, send one of the runty ones, though. And make sure that little shit is one of the good singers. I expect to be serenaded in an acceptable high-pitched manner.

4. To make it look like I’m not completely selfish, can you send another elf to help out at my Gramma and Gramps’? Gramma won’t admit they kinda need some help with cleaning and other menial tasks, but I think she wouldn’t mind if an elf showed up to help. She’d probably just think he’s a kid and shower him with presents anyway. She probably won’t be cognizant long enough to wonder why he hasn’t grown up in 10 or 12 years.

5. This may seem like it’s not for me, but trust me, it is. You need to bring my Rockstar a Custom Les Paul goldtop for Christmas. He’s been pretty depressed lately because of his job, and if he gets one of those, maybe he’ll buck up and finally write some awesome songs we can record. And just maybe, he’ll come out of his haze long enough to remember he’s dating a horny little bitch who needs to get some more than the average person.

6. Since things have been going swimmingly with my Rockstar’s Daughter, I suppose you can bring her something. She’s been wanting a drumset, but if that’s what you decide to bring her, you better fucking bring one of those electric ones she can bang away on through headphones. And don’t think I’m being mean, because that’s the kind my Rockstar was going to get her anyway. but if you bring it, then he’ll have more money to spend on me. And that’s good for everyone. 😉

7. So, I know the whole baby thing threw you off last year. So instead of bringing me a newborn, you can just get the adoption papers all ready for the cutie at church who’s in foster care. She’s the same age as my Rockstar’s Daughter, (But way sweeter) so I figure they’ll get along great. She also has a baby sister who I’ll take too.

I guess that about sums it up for now. But just remember, if my demands aren’t met to my satisfaction, I’ll let everyone know what a booby-obsessed funky little perv you are.

With all my Love,

Sparklebumps

I Can Be German, Sure

Once upon a time, a wonderful blogger named Pharphelonus from Playing with Words is Fun nominated a babbling mess of a woman for the Leibster Awards. While this was not the first time she had been the recipient of this award, she graciously accepted it anyway, and virtually sent a booby squish to he who bequeathed it to her. Because she was much to lazy to explain in her own words the meaning of such an award, she copied and pasted (and edited it to her own satisfaction) the definition of this amazing gift:

Liebster (pronounced: leeb-stir) is a German word meaning sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing and welcome. (Why thank you! I am flattered that you believe my blog is all these wonderful descriptions. You have only got one wrong- the “welcome”. Because, in fact, YOU, dear readers are welcome. XOXO)  The Liebster Blog Award recognizes up and coming bloggers and winners are asked to “pay it back and forward.”  The award is given to those bloggers who have less than 200 followers. (Technically, I have more followers than that, but we needn’t be bothered with minute detail, do we?)

The Rules for the Liebster Award are as follows:

• Link back to the blogger who gave you this award
• Post the award to your blog
• Post 11 things about yourself.
• Answer the questions asked of you, plus create 11 new questions for your nominees to answer
• Nominate 11 people you think deserve the award and link them to your post.
• Go to their pages and tell them they have been chosen.

Having done the linkage to the amazing Pharphelonus who’s blog I didn’t realize I wasn’t following (that has been rectified, my Lovely) I shall proceed on with the trivia of myself:

1. I have tiny hands.

While I have never considered my phalanges and carpal parts to be small, it has come to my attention very recently (as in, last night at work) that they are indeed of the miniature sort. My coworkers were questioning my judgement in ordering Small gloves for our supply, when I proved to them there was at least one person who could don such dwarfish accessories. (That would be me.) Despite the ability of my hands to fit into kid-sized gloves, my ring finger will not admit any jewelry that is smaller than a 9. This gives them sufficient  power to poke attackers eyes out or to manually pleasure myself at any given time.

2. I am computer-illiterate.

You would think that an individual who writes a blog would be tech savvy, buy nay, it is a sad fact that I cannot set up a new computer on my own, whether it was I that bought it or my rockstar. (He was very disappointed in me.)

3. My first favorite color was red.

I recall a time long ago when I was five where I was proud to announce that my favorite color was red. (And that I hated pink.) It seems I misused this wonderful primary color to the point of exhaustion, because I have never felt the same adoration for it since.

4. To me, the artist known again as Prince is approaching Celestial status.

I’d admire any 5′ 2″ 90 pound man who wears stillettos and creates massive amounts of music. (I’ll admit I don’t like all of it, but still) The fact that he lives in the same state as me also adds to his mystery.

5. I love to sing, and have been writing songs in my head since childhood.

It is questionable as to whether my singing voice is worthy of fame, but my Rockstar has yet to yell “Shut the fuck up!” while we’re cruising around in his car. The odd thing is until I was about 20, my singing voice was buried under a heavy coat of self-consciousness. But then I realized Cyndi Lauper sounded like shit and was still awesome, so I thought, “What the hell?”

6. I could be a vegetarian very easily.

I get through eating meat by not thinking about the fact that whatever I’m eating pooped and had a face. I prefer the taste of freshly steamed broccoli to the taste of a butchered cow anyway, but to keep from seeming arrogant or supercilious, I will on occasion snarf down a couple pounds of steak in one sitting.

7. I must be barefoot.

This may seem strange coming from a girl who spends her spare dollars on stillettos and patent-leather wedges, but once the shoes come off, there is no putting on of socks. Ish.

8. I was supposed to be a Victoria’s Secret model.

Except they keep hiring the tall, lanky chics who need to wear push-up bras to enhance what they have. Just think how much padding they’d save if they’d just hire me….

9. When I was younger, I aspired to be like Audrey Hepburn. Alas, it seems I have become a Marylin Monroe instead. Or at least, that’s what people tell me.

10. I always wanted to drive a Zamboni.

When I was fifteen, the pastor’s son made a joke about being a Zamboni driver when he grew up. I have since then always thought that was a grand idea.

11. I cannot swim.

I may have mentioned this in the past, but despite having my own gigantic floating devices attatched to the front of me, I sink like a rock.

Now on to what other people want to know about me:

1. Who is your life hero, or person you most admire, and why?

If we are talking about real life people, I would say my Auntie, because she is nice to everyone and has her own business doing what she loves, and is 60, yet still acts like she’s a mature 23. She will never say no to anyone if they need help.

2. If you had one chance to go back and say “yes” to something you said “no” to in life, what would it be?

My used-to-be-friend and I were going to leave everything here and move to Colorado (for some reason I don’t remember). We didn’t go because I changed my mind and wanted to stay here with the person who would become my ex-husband. Look how well that turned out.

3. If money was no concern, would you consider plastic surgery to make you look younger?

It’s called pigtails and attitude. Why would I waste money on pain when people already adore me and there are shoes to buy?

4. Are you inspired more by people you like, and want to be like, or people you detest and want to be better than?

Well, I’m already better than the people I detest, so they are no inspiration to me. And to be honest, I don’t want to be like anyone else. I just want to be me.

5. What arrogant, but silly contradiction in people annoys you most (mine is petty as hell: people who order a wedge of lemon as “dressing” for a salad in a restaurant, then go lay in the sun all afternoon)?

Fat people ordering Diet Coke. (Although, I could probably be considered one of them.)

6. Mountain cabin or beach house, and why?

A Castle. In a mountain cabin, there is danger of a bear coming to maul you in the night. In a beach house, you’re likely to be swept away in a hurricane. In a castle? You can be a princess that sends flaming arrows down on attackers.

7. Your dream cruise would take you to ________, and why?

I would never dream of going on a cruise. Way too many people. I dream of taking a road trip to wherever with the person of my choosing and an MP3 player with 4000 awesome songs.

8. If you were going to be stuck in an elevator with one person for 6 hours, and you got to pick the person without them knowing you picked them, who would you choose, and why? Also, would you tell them, while stranded, that you are the reason they are the one in the elevator with you?

Again, my amazing Auntie. Because 6 hours of conversations is just us getting started.

9. Is there a person in your life you willingly admit things to that you could never tell your spouse?

Yes. It’s called the internet. My blog is the vessel.

10. Favorite fruit?

Starburst

11. It’s 1 p.m. on a weekday and you get a visit from God, and you have no doubt it is legit. He tells you you will die suddenly in 24 hours. How do you spend those 24 hours?

First of all, why would God show up at 1PM? And honestly, if God came and said I’m gonna die in 24 hours, I’d say, “What the hell, Dude? Take me now.” And I’d be yelling “Hoo-fuckin-rah, mothafuckers!” all the way to the pearly gates.

As for the rest of the rules, once again I must admit that I am too lazy to be doing all that linking and notifying, and so I will just tell you to check out anyone who has ever “liked” one of my posts, or commented on my blog. Because obviously, they are very smart peoples. XOXO

A Lesbian Romantic Monday

I am slightly disturbed that none of Edward Hotspur’s Romantic Monday Banners have two women on them, because I am forced to use the less-than-tantalizing cherry blossom pic. There can be romance between women dammit! I’ll write you a story just to prove it:

“I’ve never had an orgasm.”

Frankie was shocked; whether it was at the fact a coworker at her new job was bringing up this subject, or the fact that it was a late-thirty-something woman had yet to experience true pleasure she couldn’t say. Either way, she decided to ignore her unsettled brain.

“Did the guys here say something to you?” Frankie asked up front. She didn’t go around boasting her interest in women, but if someone asked her, she didn’t deny it. All it took was a group of guys standing around talking about hot ass for them to find out she was very opinionated on the subject; despite the fact that she had a boyfriend. It usually didn’t take long for everyone she worked with to find out she was bisexual. She figured that was the reason this woman she’d only been introduced to was spouting her most intimate secret to her.

Heather looked at her quizzically. “No? What would they have said?”

“Nevermind.” Frankie shook her head and changed the subject. “So really? You seriously have never had an orgasm? You mean with intercourse?”

Heather looked at her pointedly. “No, I mean, EVER.”

“Whaaaaaaaat?!?!?!!?!??!?!” Frankie’s brain was going nuts. She cleared her throat so she didn’t blurt out what she was thinking- something along the lines of “Well, that explains alot.” Instead, she said, “Wait. So you’re telling me that you’re thirty-eight and you’ve never had an orgasm. What about with a vibrator?”

“No, I have one, but it doesn’t do anything for me. My exboyfriends all said I’m too uptight and need to relax. The last one was really pissed when he couldn’t get me off.”

Frankie let out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Holy shit, she thought. “Sooo, what are you gonna do about it? You need to be having an orgasm before your 40th.” she said it jokingly, but she meant it.

Heather threw up her hands, frustrated. “I don’t know! I feel like I don’t know what I’m missing. I mean, I guess I enjoy sex, but it’s not like there’s big finale or anything.” She looked at Frankie and then looked away quickly, as if she was ashamed. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell anyone? Like ANYONE? I would be so completely embarrassed.”

Frankie shrugged. She didn’t like people enough to be caring what secrets who had, so she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to break this woman’s confidence. “Sure. I won’t tell anyone.”

The brunette took a deep breath before she began. “I’ve always had this fantasy of going down on another woman. I mean, I feel like if I could figure out how to give someone like me an orgasm, then maybe I’d be able to figure out how to give myself one.” She looked at Frankie sheepishly. “Please don’t be all weird, but all the other girls I’ve told that to just freaked out and didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

Frankie laughed inwardly, wondering if Heather had realized that she wouldn ‘t be able to pleasure herself the way she fantasized pleasuring another woman. The image of Heather bending like a contortionist in order to tongue her own clit made Frankie emit a noticeable giggle.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Heather asked, hurt.

Frankie waved a hand. “No, I’m not, I promise. I just…” She just what? She didn’t even know. She cleared her throat again, and gave Heather her flirtiest grin. “So, are you asking me if you can go down on me?” She always deflected awkward situations by flirting; it seemed the most natural thing to do.

Heather shook her head. “Well, no- I mean, I don’t even really know you. And you have a boyfriend. Do you think this means I’m bisexual?”

Ugh. Frankie hated the titles. Gay, lesbian, bisexual. Why did everybody have to put a label on things? She always wondered why people couldn’t just accept that some people are attracted to who they’re attracted to, regardless of gender.

“No, it doesn’t mean that at all. It just means you want to have an orgasm.” Frankie’s blunt manner sometimes got the best of her, and she couldn’t control how she worded things. “I like girls, and I don’t consider myself bisexual.”

Frankie found it intensely amusing that Heather now looked at her with different eyes. “You like women? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well, you’re probably the only one who didn’t.” Frankie stood up. “So anyway, you need to have an orgasm already.”

Which is how they’d ended up here. For weeks after their initial conversation, Heather had continuously broached the idea that Frankie bring her home. Because Frankie wasn’t appalled at the idea of two women together, Heather had asked Frankie to talk with her boyfriend and ok a sort of Orgasm Finding Ceremony. Frankie’s boyfriend had been as shocked as she about a nearly-forty year old woman not having an orgasm, and told Frankie to do what she had to. Heather was certainly neurotic, which was exactly why Frankie didn’t let her know what she was planning. So after work, she grabbed Heather’s hand.

“You’re coming with me tonight.” She didn’t want to Heather to feel awkward because she was a woman, so she took a no-nonsense manly approach.

In the car ride, she could tell Heather was nervous, because she wasn’t saying anything. Heather talked incessently, which was one of the reasons Frankie had given pause to this decision, but then the whole ridiculousness of Heather’s dilemma got the better of her. She pulled into the parking lot and put the car into park.

“Let’s go.” She spoke gruffly, but when Heather looked at her, she winked and Heather’s face split into a wondrous grin. Frankie knew she’d put Heather at ease, and breathed an inward sigh of relief.

Frankie had rented a hotel room, because if this turned out to be a bad experience, she didn’t want either of them reliving it every night they came home for the foreseeable future. She took ahold of Heather’s hand, and pulled her into the room. She reached around Heather and pulled the door shut, making sure her breath landed on the side of Heather’s neck as she did so. She berated herself for wearing her shorter heels today, because Heather was a good 5 inches taller than she, but she figured that wouldn’t matter soon enough.

She led Heather to the bed, and guided her to sit down. Heather remained mute, and Frankie could see the tendrils of her hair shaking nervously. She knelt down in front of Heather so they were face to face.

“Listen. Tonight is nothing to be nervous about. I’m here to be what you need, so you don’t have to worry about anything out there.” She nodded her head in the direction of the outside world. “And you don’t have to worry about anything in here. I want you to relax, and not think about what other lovers could or couldn’t give you. I’m not them.”

Heather nodded, and with that silent admission, Frankie set out to deliver pleasure.

She removed Heather’s shoes, a dingy unstylish pair, and ran her hand up Heather’s leg. Heather was wearing a black skirt that fell just above the knee, and Frankie placed a kiss on one knee, and then the other. She  looked up to see Heather looking down at her. She winked again to lighten the mood, and continued her journey.

She straightened up and pulled Heather forward enough to slide her skirt off. Heather was forced to lean back, and she did so, resting her elbows on the bed and watching intently. Frankie figured this was as good a position as any, and pressed Heather’s knees apart to that her panties were squarely in front of Frankie’s face. Frankie ran her tongue along the inside of Heather’s thighs, first one, and then the other, before burying her nose in the satiny fabric. She heard Heather gasp, and she smiled to herself. It was a sweet musky smell; and Frankie inhaled deeply. She never tired of that scent.

She pulled down Heather’s panties, and admired the well-groomed landing strip that was underneath.

The End.

P.S. Just kidding, but I’ll finish it tomorrow.

Too Much Style (For Some People)

It is true that I use fashion as a means to express my personality. No, I do not agree that you are what you wear, because I know many amazing and interesting people who wear nothing exciting at all. And sometimes there really is nothing more comfortable to wear than a pair of yoga pants and a white Tshirt. (sans bra, of course) But if one were to look into my closet, their eyes would be blinded by a sea of satiny, overly decorated fabrics. My dresser drawers are stuffed with sparkly, fashionably-torn leggings and jewel-toned turquoise blue jeans. The amount of black clothing I own is minimal, yet necessary, because of the many rainbow colored shoes I possess. If one of the afore-mentioned boringly-clad people would come over to my house and ask to borrow some clothes, it is safe to say that they would be distraught to find nothing that would fit their less-than-desirable fashion standards. (or their chests.)

While it is true that bold decisions in fashion may be questionable at times, I have yet (almost) to have anyone blurt out, “Your outfit is hideous!” as I walk by in my banana-colored peep-toe pumps and poofy silver skirt. My Rockstar, though open-minded about fashion, has complimented me only on my more conservative ensembles, yet appreciates the fact that there is effort put into my getting dressed every day. A Sunday morning would not be complete without at least one individual at church stopping me to openly admire my new pair of stillettos, or my ruffly green blouse. Aquaintances have described me as dressing as a “prom queen” or a “fashionista”, and to that I reply, “What the hell is wrong with that?”

The other day, my Rockstar’s daughter and I were deeply engrossed in the painting of many Christmas presents. We were carrying on a lovely conversation that somehow turned to makeup and fashion. The day before, the Daughter had mentioned the excessiveness of the makeup I was wearing, and since she has never been bothered by the glitter and sparkles before, I decided to ask her about it.

“So I wear too much makeup, eh?” I asked proddingly.

She shrugged. “I don’t think so; I think your makeup is BEAUTIFUL, but my mom says you do.”

Ah.

“She also says your clothes are really ugly.” She continued.

Normally, I would take offense, but since the “ugly” comment is coming from a person devoid of fashion personality, I feel only pity.

“Oh. Well your mom’s clothes are a little bit less flashy than mine.” I replied democratically.

“Well, I don’t think your clothes are ugly at all! I think they’re awesome! The very first time I saw you I thought how I wanted to look just like you. My mom tries to put makeup on like you and then she’ll come out of the bathroom and be all like, ‘Oh, don’t I look BEAUTIFUL?’ and I tell her, ‘No way, Mom, you look ugly like that’ and then she gets really mad, but it’s just because she doesn’t know how to put makeup on like you do. And all her clothes are BROWN.”

I refrained from letting the “heehee” that was floating around in my brain seep out from my mouth. “Well, maybe she just didn’t have anyone to teach her how to put makeup on. But you know, lots of makeup should never be used to cover up your face. You should only use that much for fun, ok?”

“Yeah, I know.”

We continued painting in companionable silence, my little fashion protege’ and I.

I do not feel malice or animosity toward the Daughter’s Mother, because I realize she is just using her jealousy as a defense mechanism. Even without having her ex as my Rockstar and her Daughter as my Almost-kid, I would still have more wit, and personality, and boobs than she. But if she would ever ask, I would also have the decency to coach her in makeup technique.

If you are wondering what this person looks like, you may refer to here.

 

 

Bitch? Please.

I have a brother.

I don’t know if you’ve been paying enough attention to know that.

Despite having the same mother, we were raised on the complete opposite ends of the parenting spectrum. Where I was raised in a strict and suffocating household, my brother was oft times ignored and then left to his own devices. Upon my arrival into this world, my brother was then treated as a irritating leftover from a previous life, and I was withheld from his aquaintance in the hopes that his juvenile delinquency wouldn’t rub off on me.

Many years later, after he was hospitalized for having a mental breakdown, my shy self felt it necessary to get to know the brother I remembered from my youth. We soon became fast friends, and I realized that we are truly related, as we both inherited the one good trait our mother possesses- empathy. We both of us at times worry about other people’s feelings more than our own, which sometimese results in our own misery.

Being the sister of a brother I did not know deeply from youth, the subjects of our conversations may not necessarily be the norm between siblings. This may be the reason I ended up knowing about my brother’s unbelievable decade-long dry spell.

My brother’s non-self-imposed celibacy had throughout the years been the butt of jokes between us, yet I was greatly relieved for him when he called a few months ago and revealed that he had once again lost his virginity. He rambled on about his newfound sex partner, and then proceeded to shock me with the information that he was, in fact, not in a relationship, but had gained a fuck buddy.

Let me be clear- I condone all forms of sex (that do not include animals), and so a fuck buddy relationship is not what is shocking. The fact that it is my brother, who has the somewhat-womanly mentality that sex actually means something, who is having a fuck buddy is what’s shocking. Upon receiving more information, I found that his “buddy” is in love with her baby daddy, and from the sounds of it, likes to use my brother to buy her alcohol and to babysit her kid. My brother assured me that he was fine with the situation, but after receiving many phone calls from a deeply sensitive brother who is upset because of his feelings for a certain someone, I find myself to be unbelieving about his assurances.

I was willing to give his “buddy” the benefit of the doubt in the beginning- perhaps she was just lonely; perhaps she realizes my brother is a good guy and wants more to do with him; perhaps she will someday forget about her baby daddy and live happily ever after with my brother. Perhaps.

I went to visit my brother this last week, and after spending the day with him and hearing all about how terribly this woman makes him feel, I was intent on never meeting her. From what he told me, she needs a shrink and a beating. I found that I am more than willing to be the one to administer said beating. Imagine my irritation when the bitch calls my brother when I’m visiting, and insists on coming over to meet “the wonderful sister he talks so much about.” I could not contain my inner groan when my brother informed me his bitch was on her way over.

I rolled my eyes and told the truth. “Look. I wanted to meet her because you like her for whatever fucking reason. Sadly, after hearing you say ONLY negative things about her all the day, I must tell you that I no longer have that desire, and so I must depart before this devil woman arrives.” My brother, while maybe disappointed, understood where I was coming from, and so walked me out to my yellow truck. Sadly, I was unable to make a clean getaway, and the bitch wandered out of her building and sauntered over to meet me.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you! Oh! You’re so pretty! I can’t believe how pretty you are!” She gushed and continued. “Your brother’s a good man. He’s a really good man and my son loves him.” I agreed whole-heartedly that indeed my brother is a good man, yet in my head I was wondering why on earth any woman would introduce her child to a fuck buddy. Like kids don’t have enough going on to confuse them. I civilly accepted her hug, and automatically returned it (because I cannot NOT give a hug) and then gracefully waved a non-friendly goodbye.

A few hours later, my brother called to confirm that I returned home safely, and corroborated that I am not the stellar actress that I thought I was. He said to me, “Yeah, as soon as you left, she asked, ‘She hates me, doesn’t she?'”

For the record, my histrionic personality makes it impossoble for me to completely hate her, because she said I was pretty. But the healthy side of me does indeed loath her.

Validation

You may recall that once upon a time I worked in a bookstore, and was fired for voicing my unedited opinion of my manager on my blog. While I do not regret the reason for my firing, (because my manager WAS a dipshit and now everyone knows it) I do regret the fact that I no longer spend my days amongst beloved (and sometimes donated) books.

I think back to my days in the bookstore fondly (unless I think of the dipshit), and I miss some of the people I was aquainted with because of my place of employment.

One of these individuals was the man in charge of the finances of the bookstore, The Money Guy. He was the original owner of the bookstore, and had started it to have something to do after he retired. The fact that he was setting upon a new venture after retirement always endeared him to me. He was also a baker, and taught baking classes, and a beekeeper. He had passed down the ownership of the bookstore to his son, but was involved in the counting of monies.

He and I had always had long and interesting conversations about bees, and honey, and his teaching days long past. Once I was fired, I never did get to tell him that I admired his Old Man gumption, and I wished him every happiness.

This morning, I set out to finish my Christmas shopping, (and to buy new shoes). I entered the mall and nearly bumped into the Money Guy. He greeted me warmly and held out his hand to shake mine, and I enveloped him in a bear hug. We chatted about the goings on in our lives, and he was not surprised in the least that I have taken over my Pizza Store. I asked him about the bookstore, and how things were fairing, and he shook his head sadly.

“Things have rapidly gone downhill in sales for the past year. If they don’t improve by March we’re going to have to shut down.” Then he looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Sparkle, you sold a TON of books for us. It hasn’t been the same since you left.”

I am saddened that my bookstore may no longer be in existance in the very near future, and I am bewildered that if I were still there, little old me may have been able to do something to prevent that, but in my mind, when he told me this revelation, I couldn’t help thinking, “Damn straight! There are repurcussions when you fire Sparkle!”

Presenting “Wordy and Rambling”

I was bored on my drive home today, so I decided to scroll through my phone and text random people I still have phone numbers for but are better left forgotten. (Clearly, I pay no heed to the “No texting while driving” law. Mind you, I make sure there are no vehicles within crashing distance of me, so if I cause an accident, it is only I who shall perish.)

Me: *Scroll scroll scroll* “Oh! Angry homicidal ex-lover! Let’s just say hey!”

(For the record, he was homicidal not toward me, but to people that made him angry, namely his at-the-time newly exed wife. He was probably one of the more well-read people I’ve known in life, but showed sociopathic tendencies- as in he cared not a bit about people’s feelings.)

This is how our text convo read:

Me: Hey

Him: Who is this? (Apparently he obeyed when I told him to delete my number.)

Me: Sparkle

Him: Oh… what’s up?

Me: Nothing. You should read my blog. (I am not above a little shameless self promotion)

Him: I did one time. I found it wordy and rambling.

OH yes. I remember exactly now why he and I would never have worked out. He was highly arrogant and hoity-toity, and found my lack of desire for money to be disturbing. The fact that I never did attend college also did not sit well with him. Continuing on.

Him: I didn’t mean to be mean; I just kept wanting you to get to the point. I got bored. It was like Sex and the City with no sex. (Clearly, he didn’t read much.) Sorry.

Me: Don’t be sorry, it’s your opinion.

It IS his opinion. I cannot help it if he is slightly retarded and has the wrong one.

I will admit that I am completely and utterly babbling most of the time.  I began this blog not knowing what my direction was going to be; should I post fiction, or my opinions, or try to write something grandly inspiring and emboldening? Should I channel my inner humor goddess and post only laugh-inducing entries? Being the Libra that I am, I was unable to make a decision, and decided to just write whatever I felt like writing. No rules, no boundaries. In the end, it has served me well. I have been asked to write a short story for charity and to be a guest writer on someone else’s blog; I have had several readers write posts about me, and I have had many people assure me that I am at least a little bit entertaining.

Let me point out- I do not understand what it is that’s entertaining one bit. The closest thing I’ve gotten to answer is that people have said my realness and unconventional musings are what make me amusing. That’s more than enough for me.

I appreciate every single one of the people who have even clicked on a link that bears my web address. I appreciate more the people who have actually read what they were presented with. Every person who has commented or pressed the “like” button deserved a booby squish, and I would cover every follower with kisses if it were humanly possible.

Well, now that I’ve rambled on so that you are sufficiently bored, there will be no more carrying on. No excessive words. No gimmicky babbling. To he who I have permanently deleted from my phone and my mind, let me just get to the point:

You can suck it, you imperious unfeeling douchebag. I pity the fact that you will not be treated to the entertaining posts I present. You are not worthy to lick the gum off of my satiny ruffled stillettos, and the sex wasn’t that good. So there. XOXO

P.S. I realize that wasn’t very mature; but I never said I was.

 

Marry Me, David Tutera

My Dearest David Tutera,

It is confounding to me that up until a month ago, I was unaware of your fabulous existance. My friend Delightful was unendingly rambling on about your expertise and general amazingness as the famed wedding planner on your show My Fair Wedding, and I foolishly brushed off her suggestion that I watch your show at first. It was not until I was completely bored that I decided to check out your show on Netflix, and at that very point in time, my life was changed forever.

I am desperately in love with you, and cannot imagine life without you. I cannot eat, and I cannot sleep, because I am so obsessed with watching all the beautiful weddings you’ve created unfold on my TV screen. My blogging has suffered because of you- for I would rather watch you create amazing experiences for beautiful (and sometimes not so beautiful) brides, than to concentrate on writing something entertaining. You would think that the lack of my pursuit of fame would make me despondant; but no, it matters not, because I have wasted many hours of my life admiring your reality TV persona.

I must admit, my heart was crushed when I looked you up on the Wikipedia and my suspicions were confirmed that you are, in fact, gay, and in a relationship. What a lucky lucky man you have in your grasp. While the relationship between you and I could never be one of tradition, I would gladly be your female beard if you ever fancied to take one.

While most women would watch your show and fantasize about you planning their wedding, I do not do so. It seems my opinion of weddings and marriage have been slightly marred because of past experiences. Instead, I dream of planning weddings with you, or at least being your chauffuer, or some other person in slight servitude to you, so that I may be close enough to maybe only touch the hem of your fashionably -forward garment.

You are a beautiful man, with a beautiful heart, (and a beautiful faux-hawk.) I love you so because you are so ensconced in creating realities out of the dreams of brides everywhere. Since I am assuming that you are desperately in love with your man partner, would you at least consider being my best friend? What wonderful memories we could make shopping for shoes and watching Wizard of Oz. If at any time you feel the urge to change your sexual orientation, please know that I am waiting here for you, ready to prove that women aren’t so bad.

Love,

Sparklebumps

P.S. If my Rockstar DOES ever propose, please consider this letter an application to your fabulous show. No one could plan a wedding between a Rockstar and a should-be-princess better than you. XOXO