Category Archives: Books

A Response to a Hater


Almost a year ago, a wrote a letter to Tara Knowles, the fictional character in Sons of Anarchy, HERE. It seems there were many SOA fans who agreed with the contents of that letter; so many, in fact, that it has become the single most shared of my posts on Facebook. Sadly, we cannot all agree on how wise and generally hilarious I am, which leads me to my next post, a letter to “Tara’s biggest fan”, the person who left this comment on that post just the other day:

Tara’s biggest fan!

Fuck you and this post. Tara loved Jax more than anything. He chose the MC and his ‘mommy’ over a girl who could have and should have done way better. But instead trusted her heart that she could wait out and he would change. Became a mother to his first son while he left her alone to have his second while he was in the pin. Because of him and his false promises she lost the use of her hand that provided an out for their family, lost the love of her life to his club and bitch slut control freak druggie mom…and chose to raise her sons HIS sons so much she was the clear conscience he couldn’t be she was loyal to her role as a mother over herself and her piece of shit cheater ass husband. She lost her life trying to do what he wanted but couldn’t. She went to jail for his club duties and see how being loyal to her husband and the mc got her….it turned her into gemma which was the level she had to get on….to protect her sons from their father just like gemma did. She was the best thing that ever happened to jax, those boys, the mc, & charming! She’s the only thing that DID make sense in that show. She sacrificed everything for love and just when her husband decided to be a man and take credit for all the shit he’d caused her to do and become… once again crack hore slut bitch mom protects her baby boy….

For u to say she is ugly and deserved to die.. you must be a gemma skank ass bitch that gets off by homewrecking real relationships and it helps you sleep at night because you have NO respect or pride for yourself. If u hate her so much you must love Wendy. Well, I hope you are the pussy jax runs too and have a mother in law like gemma that stalks ur ass and leaves u know room to be alone wirh ur man or ur kids and u get stuck between becoming a bitch or serving as an old lady with no place ro speak ur mind if a man doesnt allow it…. u must think porns a real buisness of respect and killing innoscent people for sport is fun too huh?

I just thought I’d be the one to stand up for Tara and what she stood for on a page that everyone seems to have lost their minds and be Gemma themsleves. you must be a gemma skank ass bitch that gets off by homewrecking real relationships and it helps you sleep at night because you have NO respect or pride for yourself. I wish u the best in your life…because tight pussy and a pretty face only gets you so far until youre used up stretched out and he throws ur wringly ass out. Then what do u have to show for respecting urself??

I must respond, and defend my “tight pussy and pretty face that will only get me so far.”

Dear Tara’s Biggest Fan, (and hater of Gemma),

I respect your opinion and your devastatingly noble devotion to any fictional character, namely one Tara Knowles.

That being said, your comment gave me great pleasure, and continues to give me great pleasure as I respond in kind to it. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Firstly, I would like to address the bluntness with which you begin your comment. “Fuck you and this post.” You say. Being an eternal fan of the ever satisfying “fuck you”, I must say that I admire your quick and unadulterated use of the phrase, however, might I suggest that in the future, you refrain from beginning any lengthy rant with it, as the unfortunate timeliness of using it thusly can put the recipient on edge, and anything written thereafter will be received with ill feelings, and convince the reader that you are, in fact, not of a well-read or intelligent ilk. In other words, save if for the end. If it’s the first thing you say, it is likely no one will care one wit what it is you have to say after.

As I read further, I was again struck by your commitment to, might I repeat, a fictional character, as well as the loathing you have for some of the others. ‘Tis true, my contempt for Dr.
Tara Knowles did inspire me to write a letter to her, which, in some circles might be viewed as an act of absurdity. But not at any time did I address or insult a real person in my letter as you have done in yours. You must be a gemma skank ass bitch that gets off by homewrecking real relationships and it helps you sleep at night because you have NO respect or pride for yourself, you say. I suppose according to some, I may be a “skank-ass bitch”, though if I have wrecked any real relationships, it is solely because I am more adorable and funnier than the women in said relationships. (I must state at this time that I have never partaken of the man-fruits of these wrecked relationships, only made these men realize not every woman is as bitchy as their current girlfriends.) That being said, I clearly haven’t an issue with self respect or pride; I expect my histrionic personality disorder has something to do with that.

I do respect those who are comfortable enough to be employed in the porn business, because who among us at one time or another have not whored ourselves out for money? Perhaps not sucking cock and taking it up the butt, but surely everyone out there has stayed at a job they hate for money, while mentally getting fucked in the ass by their boss, or taken a pay raise to do something they detest. I applaud those of the porn industry who have given many hours of pleasure to many people who have partaken of their whorish efforts. As for killing innocent people for fun, I’ve never considered doing it, but I have it on good authority that many angry men in our country sign up for the armed forces to have a chance to do just that. I do not speak ill of our Nation’s army, for I understand the urge.

I will not address you, Tara’s Fan, quite as harshly as you have addressed me, but I must at this time mention the dreadful spelling errors and obnoxious punctuation mistakes in your tirade. You seem to think Gemma was not actually Jax’s mommy, as you have mentioned her as ‘mommy’. Apostrophes are used to show possession; I believe mayhap you had meant to use quotation marks, which really wouldn’t have made any more sense, since Gemma was, in fact, Jax’s mother, and referred to in that way throughout the show by your beloved Tara. Sadly, there are many instances in your rant which lack the proper use of apostrophes- far to many to mention. Your repeated use of “ur” and “u” suggest that perhaps you have the spelling mentality of an ever-texting teenager; your copious other spelling errors lead me to believe you spend more time watching TV shows and becoming obsessed with their fictional characters than you spend reading books, in which case, I feel sorry for you, and can only hope things change for you sooner, rather than later.

I wish u the best in your life…because tight pussy and a pretty face only gets you so far until youre used up stretched out and he throws ur wringly ass out. Then what do u have to show for respecting urself?? In response to this last bit of your angry diatribe, I assure you that I have not at any time possessed a “wringly ass”; I don’t exactly know what that is, but I assume it is not something most people want. As far as being stretched out- it will never happen. I take my Kegel exercises very seriously, and my Rockstar assures me there are no worries of my ever having a vagina that resembles a hallway having a hotdog thrown down it. If by chance it does happen, I have the knowledge that I will always use the proper spelling of “yourself.” There is no greater self-respect.

Have a nice day,

Sparklebumps

 

 

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A Letter To My Baby


Dear Baby,

I would have addressed my letter “Dear Little Bastard”, but there are those who might have taken offense. Luckily, I am your momma, and shall teach you to have a great sense of humor, and to never be ashamed of who and what you are.

So, hello, baby. I’ve been waiting a really long time to be able to write a letter to you. You would think I’d have given a bit more thought to what I would write, but considering that I never actually thought I’d have an opportunity to write such a letter, you will understand my faltering. It seems very cliche’, but I love you, baby. I’ve loved you for a very long time.

I promise you will be the most loved baby there ever was, (I know that seems pretentious, but you will learn soon enough that I am very exactly that). And don’t worry, I promise to teach you what pretentious means, and how to spell it, because I don’t want you to be one of those silly people who only use simple words and nod stupidly when educated people talk to you. You will know many many things, and the things I cannot teach you, you will learn from other people who love you dearly, like Auntie Delightful, who will be your Fairy Godmother, and who did a happy dance in public when your existence was confirmed; she will teach you all about poetry and to love books like I will, and she will never run out of crafts for you two to o together. And my godmother Auntie, who has been waiting for you for a long time too. She will teach you to accept everybody, and to be kind to people you don’t necessarily understand, and, if you ask her to, she will teach you to quilt beautiful quilts that will keep people you love warm.

Your daddy will love you too, even though he might not say it. (You and I will get him to eventually, though, I know it.) He will teach you all about music, and how important it is, and how rockers wearing women’s makeup is not only funny, but very cool. He will also take you to car races, and watch football with you, and will play with you even though he is kind of old, and really just wants to take a nap. Don’t get mad when he doesn’t respond to all your questions- he doesn’t have as many words to use as I do; but that just means you have to listen closely when he does talk.

I have always hoped you would be a boy, because dinosaurs are so much cooler than Barbies, and teenage boys are less of a pain in the ass than teen girls. But if you are a girl, I will teach you to love dinosaurs anyway, and to not be a pain in the ass.

The most important thing you need to know is that life is beautiful, and all people are beautiful in their own way, so you need to treat them like they are special, because they are someone’s baby, too. Also, God is a cool Guy, but He sometimes will do things you don’t understand just because He can; don’t get discouraged, because you are tougher than anything He will throw at you.

I’m sure there will be many more letters for you, baby, but for now, I should really work on my book, so I will have more time and money to spend on you when you get here.

Love You Forever,

Mommy

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News


Hmm….. what to write about….

 

….Sex always seems to go over well. I could write some smutty smut smut….

Maybe I could write about…. oh! How I told my Rockstar his kid was an asshole a few weeks ago….or maybe about how much of an asshole I felt like after I said it…

Sleep! Oh, how I adore sleep at this moment! It’s as if the soul of the dwarf sleepy has magically taken over my body and told me I am only here to sleep. I feel that I must obey.

Or, I guess I could actually write about how I’m going to have a baby. I guess maybe there might be a little bit of excitement over such news.

Yeah, ok, so I’ll write about that.

If you skimmed the last few sentences and weren’t really paying attention, I’ll say it again- I’m going to have a baby. Me. The chick who has never been pregnant in her life and was thought to be barren. Funny things, those little sperms, eh?

It was only about a month ago I said to myself, “Self, I’s ok with no babies. With no babies, I can sleep as much as I want, and work as much as I want, and generally go about my life like a pathetic blob if I wants. Nevermind that I won’t have anyone to take care of me when I’m old. I’ll probably die on the back of a Harley long before then with no babies, anyway.”

I told you God likes to fuck with people.

I’m not complaining, trust me. Well, except for the constant urge to vomit that I’ve been living with for the past month. But according to What to Expect, that’ll pass soon enough. And then I’ll have a new set of digestional problems. But whatevs. I’m gonna have a baby!

I must admit, my first thought after I peed on that little stick and saw the positive sign was something akin to disbelief and fear at what my Rockstar’s reaction might be. But I did what I do best, and wrote him a letter that I left on the counter for him to read upon his arrival home. Considering how cave-man-like he is when it comes to communication, I was satisfied with the “If you’re happy about it, I don’t mind.” that I got from him. Hey. It was more than I expected.

Anyhoo, a whole flurry of thoughts ran through my head. Like how my three bookshelves of kid’s books will now be read, (by someone other than me), how my boobs are going to get huge, (or huge-r, if you want to look at it that way), how there are a million things I need to teach my baby so it (yes, I call it It, because it has not yet a gender, and in reference to Cousin, not the creepy clown) will be the smartest little bastard that ever lived. (Yes, It is a bastard in the very base definition of the word, so I will not deny it. It’s not my fault It’s dad doesn’t want to get married.) Oh! And how I must quickly learn Spanish, so It will be bilingual and fabulous.

I also had the terrifying thought that if It gets my Rockstar’s hair color with my hair texture, it may very well end up looking like Carrot Top. (Eesh.) Or Annie, minus the orphan part.

What I didn’t realize was that being pregnant is akin to having your life energy sucked out of your ears by an alien mothership. I don’t know if it’s because I’m constantly preparing to hurl whatever healthy thing it was I ate  (yes, it seems that pregnancy has strengthened my willpower to deny myself the finer things in life, like McDonald’s) on the nearest bystander or what, but I literally have done next to nothing other than work for the past week. I may be pregnant, but I kinda feel that there really is no free pass for taking 3-4 naps a day after sleeping in.

Well, anyway, my kid is gonna be the cutest damn kid there ever was, and yes, it IS a little scary that there might be a miniature me running around pretty soon. Are you ready for that, world?

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Xanax VS. Books


I was texting my friend Cat Woman last night, and since her life is in crisis at the moment, the conversation turned to shrinks and happy pills. I myself am a firm believer in just ignoring problems until they go away, and imbibing copious amounts of alcohol to aid that process. Luckily, most of the normal world, (including Cat Woman) does not share this belief, otherwise we’d be a planet filled with angsty drunkards.

Anyhoo, when Cat Woman offered selling me some Xanax at fifty dollars a pop to better cope with my ignored issues, I refused profusely, stating what a large number of books fifty dollars would buy me. She then asked an interesting question: What can a book do that Xanax cannot?

Well. You Book People out there already know. Clearly, my pal is not one. So, to quote my favorite character Inigo Montoya in the greatest movie of all time The Princess Bride: “Let me ‘splain. No no. There is too much. Let me sum up.”

A book has no adverse side effects. Sure, if you read a sad one, you may shed a tear and suffer post-reading depression, (this has happened to me after reading Where the Red Fern Grows, yet I’ve read it again and again.) but you have no worries of urinating less than usual or not at all, or becoming jaundiced or twerking unintentionally. (All possible side effects of Xanax.)

A book will calm you down. I am aware that Xanax is meant to do the same thing. However! A book may also excite you, or anger you, or frighten you! I’m not going to go through all the other emotions, because, well, we’re not in the third grade here. But you get the point.

A book may cost you fifty dollars a pop, but generally those are only those pretentious coffee table books not many people look at anyway. Yes, ok, if you are like me, you may find yourself spending fifty dollars every time you exit a bookstore, (a used one, it is hoped) but what do you have to show for it? At least twenty-four hours of reading, and after it wears off, you have the memory of what you just read, instead of the anticipation of an anxiety attack until you read another.

Depending on the book, the use of one will not cause controversy with other people who don’t believe in Western medicine. Not that we’re trying to keep Eastern doctors in our good graces here, but you know, it couldn’t hurt.

A book will distract you from your problems. Sure, Xanax will do the same thing, but only temporarily, and when you are done with it, there is no plethora of knowledge swimming around in your skull. If you find yourself sinking down into the depths of despair because the euphoria of finishing a book has worn off, read another. And incidentally, there is a whole Self-Help genre that will probably do the same thing Xanax will.

Well, there you have it. I may not be your first choice for the debate team, but I think I got my point across.

P.S. If you really think you’ve got it bad, read a book about the Holocaust. Then you might think to yourself, “Hey, at least I don’t have to stand in the sun for thirty-six hours before some Nazis gas me and my kids.

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642 Things To Write About #2: Trouble


Since it has been many moons since my last blog post, and I am feeling completely uninspired at the moment (due to the somewhat early hour of the day), I have decided to take another writing prompt from my handy book 642 Things to Write About. This shall be the second time I’ve used this lovely little writing aid, as the first time is posted HERE. My topic for the day?

Five things that always get you into trouble.

I’m sure that if I answer this with no filter, I will get into trouble. Is that what this question is supposed to do, I wonder?

Well, here goes….

1. My mouth.

And not even in the way you pervs are thinking, so get your mind out of the gutter! Ok, well, maybe in the past my mouth has gotten me in trouble that way…. but anyhoo, I digress. What I meant to say was, my mouth is like a moving box that’s been crushed and mangled and used one too many times. No matter how much you tape it up and try to get stuff to stay put inside it, stuff just continues to fall out, even when you put your hands over the top of it. Maybe it’s not such a huge deal now, but damn. I’m fucked if I ever become famous. Prepare yourselves for the continuous controversy of Shit Sparkle Said. I just hope people don’t despise me as much as I despise Kanye West.

2. My boobs.

You knew it was coming. Need I explain? Excessive boobage has caused dispute throughout history. Just look at Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and Anne Boleyn. Ok, that last one was a guess, but it is probably a good assumption that a well-endowed chest had something to do with Henry VIII’s decision to renounce Catholicism and dump his first wife.

3. My histrionic personality.

Which causes me to flirt incessantly, even with people I don’t necessarily find attractive, which in turn causes feelings of adoration and infatuation to fester into feelings of malice and hostility in people unlucky enough to wander through my fickle attentions. I would not consider  myself a heartbreaker, but I’ve certainly pulverized a few.

4. My book addiction.

And my shoe addiction. Which have both been detrimental to my wallet. Luckily, I have never suffered from buyer’s remorse.

5. I suppose, my blog.

Having been fired the one and only time in my life because of my online writing, and having appalled my parents and perhaps a countless slew of others, it is safe to say that my blog may justly be included in the list of five.

 

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Open Letter


Due to my inability to focus this day, I have decided to write a letter to all the things running through my head.

To my feet,

It is not because I abhor you that I dress you in less-than-comfortable fabulous shoes. It is simply because there are enough people out there who detest feet, and I should feel badly if I didn’t do my best to make them like you. As such, I bid you reconsider your cruel decision to continuously crack and flake and generally appear unappealing. I shall punish you by making sure no one is allowed to lick and fondle you until you react differently.

To a certain annoying person,

You are irritating as fuck. No, you don’t know everything, and it galls me to no end that you think that you do, and that you think I care to hear your narcissistic self boasting of how you plan to take measures in hopes of making things better. Things could only be better if you went away. So please, do.

To bad tippers,

I pity you, because karma waits for no man, and when you are being eaten by governmentally-enhanced were-people, you probably won’t even realize it’s your own damn fault.

To my Rockstar’s Daughter,

When I tell you to go away from me, it’s because I want you to be quiet, and as you are 12, and have a voice that echoes through three counties, that is clearly impossible. Do not misunderstand. I love you. I just love you better when I can’t hear you.

To my mailman,

I appreciate your rubbernecking due to my choice in gardening attire, as it reconfirms my suspicions that I am not completely a disgustingly fat turd, as my mirror and scale repeatedly tell me. However, I do not appreciate you delivering only undesired bills to my house. Just once, could you perhaps leave a check or accidentally deliver someone else’s issue of Playboy, please? Hey…. are you listening?

To my Rockstar,

I find you to be completely adorable, and your tush to be an incredibly inviting place to rest my teeth and/or hands. I do, however, wish that for just a day or two, you would cease working on our beautiful house, so I could feel a little less terrible about being a pathetic, lazy piece of donkey poo.

To my book,

Get out of my head, already. Find a perfectly blank computer screen on which to sit, instead of my overwrought, bipolar brain.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

P.S. Chris Meloni, I haven’t forgotten you, no matter how hard I try. I suppose it doesn’t help that I see your daily posts on Facebook. I noticed you never even bothered to respond to my comment on your page, which made me sad.

 

 

 

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Writing Assignments 101


My friend Delightful takes college classes tirelessly, and mentioned yesterday that she didn’t want to do her latest assignment. I offered to do it for her, but since it was a somewhat personalized assignment, she did it herself. Luckily, having a friend in creative writing gives me great ideas for blog posts!

The assignment: Imagine yourself as a car. What color are you? What’s in the glovebox? What’s in the trunk? What kind of music is playing on the radio?

My response:

I’d love to say that myself as a car would be a 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500. Good old-fashioned all- American muscle encased in a body sexy enough to give any guy with half a brain a hard-on. The kind of car a guy can just get in and go 100 miles an hour in.

Sadly, I am not the owner of long, flowing blonde hair,  or legs that go for miles, or capable of causing most guys to rubberneck when I walk down the street. I have curves in all the right places, and a few in the wrong places. It takes a certain kind of man to want to pick me out of all the other cars that are out there. So I would have to say I’m probably a convertible Volkswagon Rabbit. Pretty cute, reminiscent of a better day, sturdy, and better with my top down.

Maybe I don’t have the generic beauty of a Mustang, but I maintain that under my hood lives the engine of such a beast. Fast enough to challenge anything that comes up, (like a new, not-so-sexy Camaro) and strong enough to handle the rough bumps in life.

My adorable Rabbit body would be a bright shimmery fuschia color, which, upon closer inspection, would change to a deep royal blue. A paint job that draws women in immediately, and one that, if they take the time to notice, guys actually think to themselves, “Yeah, that’s pretty cool.”

In my glovebox? A whole lot of things with words on them. Books, maps, diaries, what have you. A general catch-all for everything that finds it’s way into my innards. There’s probably quite a few receipts from McDonald’s and Victoria’s Secret too.

What’s in the trunk? Heh heh. Junk. Isn’t that what the guys want in the trunk? Of course there would be an umbrella I never use, but for the most part, my trunk would be filled with speakers sufficient to melt the faces off of anybody who turned them up.

As for the radio, it would be a flow of music constantly changing so as to avoid any interruptions like commercials. Rock, country, classic rock, hip-hop, R&B, easy listening on occasion, and little bit of rap thrown in. Rest assured there would be a steady stream of Michael Jackson “Hee-hoo!” ‘s and 80’s music blaring.

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