Hello There

“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days…”

Or more like seven months since I last posted. And for that, I am sorry.

I’m sorry because what devoted readers I did have have probably forgotten my very existence.

I’m sorry because I have found myself in a maelstrom funk that has continuously tried to drown any creativity out of me since I’ve quit writing.

I’m sorry because the drama of my life still exists, and you’ve all missed out on the daily dose of neurosis.

So let me sum up:

My child is now a cheeky little shit, who’s favorite thing to do is yell “SHIT!” at the top of his lungs and giggle uncontrollably, or to get right in my face and mimic a howling monkey. Actually, he’s a pretty good kid, who loves me more than anyone else, so all the other stuff is alright.

I took my Rockstar to Vegas for my birthday, where we mostly had a fabulous time, other than the moments following my  hour-long search for him during a concert, where he drunkenly cried, “Fuck you! Fuck you!” at me for no good reason. This was followed by my walking three miles down the Las Vegas Strip by myself in a tipsy rage, which was somewhat stabilized by the many offers of hugs (and money) I received. Whatever fun we did have was dampened by having a crazy man open fire on innocents from Mandalay Bay the very next day after we got home.

I’ve replaced my serving job with teenagers with a serving job with college students and am now suffering through the hell that is called Endless Shrimp. My coworkers all think I’m completely nuts, and I think they are not wrong.

I have in mind a new book series I must bring myself to work on, so it is yet to be determined whether my re-entrance to blogging will be successful.

To all of you that are still around, I’ve missed you, and will endeavor to try and get my muchness back.

XOXO

P.S. In the meantime, enjoy a Halloween picture.

The Anthropologist Formerly Known as Prince

I remember thinking once,

“I’d never want him to produce my music.”

Fool that I was.

I didn’t realize then

that the sound I had mistaken for

messiness and chaos

was actually the character of mankind

caught on tape.

It was,

truly,

anthropology at its finest.

You entangled each one of us

in the snare of your guitar strings;

furiously jotted endless lyrical notes,

and then released us back

into the wild with a song.

You were an incomparable teacher;

you taught us to Gett Off,

what doves sound like when they cry,

and that not everything that glitters is Gold.

At times,

it seemed as though you even

controlled the weather-

it rained Purple;

it snowed in April.

A lesser man would have agonized over

such a petite figure;

but you strutted yours.

Ruffled, tailored, Purpled.

You masqueraded as a sex object,

and no one ever realized you were

preaching the Gospel while you did it.

You told us of a Park

where life won’t be so bad;

it was in our hearts,

but now we can tour the frickin’ place

for a hundred bucks.

I guess it’s just a Sign O’ the Times,

isn’t it?

“The Beautiful Ones you always seem to lose.”

My 2016 Book List

A bookwhore who never talks about books is no bookwhore at all, right? (Sidenote: you would think by now that my computer would know that bookwhore is so a word! And spelt correctly.)

So anywho, since I am feeling lazy and must soon sleep, I will share with you the books I read in 2016. Yay for me- there are almost twice as many as there were in 2015! It seems that my interest in biographies made itself manifest this past year. Enjoy!

Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov (I was more disturbed than I thought I would be while reading this, considering all the controversy I’d heard about it.)

The Antelope in the Living Room by Melanie Shankle (I bought this to give to my friend as part of her bridal shower gift; however, it sucked balls, so I didn’t.)

Lake Wobegon Days by Garrison Keillor (A native of my Minnesota, Garrison is, and went to high school with my Auntie for a minute. The best part of this book was that, while Lake Wobegon is a fictional town, all the towns surrounding it are very real, and are all towns I live near.)

Secret Diary of a Call Girl by Anonymous (This book was only interesting because the author’s sexual inclinations rival my own. That is not to say that I have been or will ever be paid to do those things I so like doing. )

I’m No Angel by Kylie Bisutti (written by a former Victoria’s Secret Angel who gave up her wings because of her religious beliefs; how easily she gave up something that some of us of shorter stature could never hope to achieve…)

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern (Received as a Christmas present from my best friend- damn does she know how to pick ’em.)

Playground by Jennifer Saginor (growing up hanging out at the Playboy mansion was such a drag, having all those boobies about..)

Sex, Drugs, Ratt and Roll by Stephen Pearcy (Yet another attempt of mine to get my Rockstar reading; I think I actually enjoyed it more than he did.)

The Great Gatsby  by F. Scott Fitzgerald (Great, of course.)

The Bride Stripped Bare by Nikki Gemmel (Another book I was going to gift to my friend as a bridal goof. I don’t remember much about it, except that I didn’t give it to her because it was horrible.)

The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff (A fictional telling of Brigham Young’s 19th wife. I learned a lot about them there Mormons.)

Whistling Past the Graveyard by Susan Crandell (Stolen from the bookshelf of my friend because of the title; a very fitting story to read during the times in which we live. I ended up suggesting it to my Aunt for her bookclub.)

Boundary Waters by William Kent Krueger (Another Minnesota author who I missed having lunch with because I was sick when my Auntie invited me to her silent auction winning.)

Kushiel’s Chosen by Jacqueline Carey (My only repeat read this year; I had planned on going to a masquerade based on the series, but alas, I spent all my moneys on books and glitter.)

Slade House by David Mitchell (This was read only because my friend denounced this book as the worst ever after HER friend raved about it. My friend was right.)

The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo by Amy Schumer (I really wanted to like it. Amy is a much better comedienne than she is a writer.)

Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham (Sorry, Amy. Your friend Lena is much better at writing about her life in such a way that makes me want to keep reading about it.)

While Beauty Slept by Elizabeth Blackwell (Winner of my Surprising Find of the Year, seeing how I found it at THE DOLLAR TREE. So good. A superb retelling of a classic fairytale with none of that ridiculous fairytale bullshit. Did I mention Sleeping Beauty gets the pox?!?)

Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs (Because, ya know, the movie came out.)

An Open Letter to Ibuyjunkvehicles

Salutations, Ibuyjunkvehicles.com,

I would not normally address such distasteful behavior as you have displayed, but at this time, I feel that I must.

It is true, comments that have been filtered into the junk pile automatically are of little consequence. In fact, since I have been absent from my blog of late, it may seem silly that I would even waste my time sifting through said comments. However, I recall a time when a complimentary remark was filtered by accident into that pit of desolation, so I have become accustomed to taking the time to reassure such a snafu is not repeated.

Which brings me to your wretched comments, Sir. (or Ma’am) It has come to my attention that you have found my “last several posts to be kinda boring” and these posts have been a “bit out of track.” Well, I am sorry.

I am sorry that you’ve been unable to (without my permission, I might add) “snatch my feed to keep updated”.

I’m sorry that you’ve forgotten how you raved about my writings in previous junk comments; using such words as “astonishing” and “extremely remarkable” to describe my posts.

I’m sorry that you “couldn’t depart my site prior to suggesting that you extremely enjoyed the standard information a person provide for my visitors.”

I’m sorry that your first language is clearly not English, and that you have obviously failed to find a suitable tutor to teach you how to properly use the English you do know.

I’m sorry that you buy junk vehicles, because in actuality I do not think you buy junk vehicles at all, since my junk feed is filled to overflowing with your ridiculous bipolar comments. It seems that you would have very little time to buy all the junk vehicles you so blatantly advertise in your email address.

I’m sorry that you will never meet me, because you were correct in your assumption that I am “an expert” on the subject of dancing babies. (Even though, by the title, I have no idea what that blog post was about.

In closing, I would like to state that I most certainly will not “come on”, as you so boorishly urged me, and I will write about WHATEVER the fuck I want whenever  the fuck I want to- writings which are always fucking fabulous and “astonishing.” (OK, I can’t be mad at that last word you used.)

No Regards Whatsoever,

Sparklebumps

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

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?!

Entertainment for Women- 1980

The thing about being a bookwhore is- you need a designated space just for the plethora of books you’ve picked up throughout the years. Luckily, when we bought our house, my Rockstar understood this, and so did-eth not protest too much when I claimed the third bedroom as the sleeping place for my tomes.

Being the girl who was jealous of Belle when the Beast gifted her with an entire castle library, my vivid imagination has always envisioned my own fantasy-like library. Sadly, my budget is somewhat lacking. So instead of replacing the drop-ceiling nasty-ass foam tiles with a ceiling of pure gold, I opted to cover said ishy tiles with textured wallpaper that will be painted in bronze to match the antique-ish looking loveseat I found for a steal on Wayfair.com. (If anyone who works at Wayfair is reading this- I’m giving you free advertising. Feel free to send some gift cards my way.)

As I was squinting to avoid spider webs and dust from getting into my eyes as I struggled to get ceiling tiles down, a magazine dropped from the heavens (or the water pipes). Imagine my excitement when I stepped down from my dangerously-chosen folding chair step stool and saw that the gazette that had nearly poked my eyeball out was a Playgirl  from 1980. No, my thrill did not come from the thought of becoming engrossed in the pictures of disturbingly-hairy men within; (I prefer the the sight of naked boobies over a man  lounging with his near-flaccid dick pointed at me) my enthusiasm was of the nostalgic nature. Though 1980 was a year before I was born, so I cannot properly pay homage, I take great pleasure in the obscene media of an earlier day. After all, isn’t it always a good time seeing how sex has evolved since the times of a full bush and Burl Chester? (Yeah, I said “Who?!” too.)

Oh yes, believe that I absolutely DID read the thing cover to cover. After balking at the surprisingly low price of such pornography (only $1.95), I took in the not-so-sexy face of Robert Urich- the “hunky” star of TV’s Vega$– a guy I’ve never heard of. I do believe even if I had been of age at the time, I would not have found Robert to be very salty.

Of course, women only read Playgirl for the articles, right? The most interesting article advertised on the cover was “The Joys of Three-Way Sex”; which, when I think about it, I’m not quite certain I want to think about that much bush in one room anyway. Since I am a fan of older men, I thought I might be pleasantly surprised when I saw there was an eight-page photo spread “in praise of older men”. Let us just say I got slightly distracted by the number of Magnum P.I. mustaches and Farrah-Fawcett-ish hairdos. I suppose in 35 years, my kid will look at the current beard craze in exactly the same distaste.

I was slightly appalled and greatly amused to read the letter portion. “Please help me. My cousin and I are having a relationship. Is this considered incest?” and “At the age of 23, I still don’t know what an orgasm is all about.” Oh, the innocence. Were women in the 80’s so naïve? My personal favorite was “I’ve just broken up with my sixth lover in five years. Am I a slut?” My response to such a question would have been, “How many women did that lover sleep with in those five years?”

The best part was an advertisement for “Stud Wear”. Somehow, I really just don’t think  a pair of briefs featuring Pinnochio with a special pocket to show just how long his nose can grow would be very alluring. Although I do laugh my ass off every time I think about my Rockstar donning a pair.

Of course every nekkid dude pictured was quoted to “love long walks and sunsets” and to love “falling asleep in a woman’s arms ” before awaking to go “make love on the beach as the sun rises.” Let me tell you where that gets you- an elbow in the eye and a crack full of sand.

Too, there was a special section on “Men of the Eighties”. It’s good to know that “men of the eighties are beginning to realize that there’s a lot more fun to be had in bed when their lovers fully participate.” What? Did men of the seventies just expect their women to lay there like blow-up dolls while they humped them? Seriously. I wanna know.

I really want to send in my $12 and see if I receive the see-through briefs with the tear-away tabs for my Rockstar so I can “get a piece of the action”.

Trust that this magazine is now one of my greatest treasures and will make an appearance any time I need a good laugh.

Living Dead Girl

It started with my kidneys. One day I woke up and they just weren’t there anymore. I don’t know how I knew. I mean, it wasn’t like that urban legend where the girl wakes up in a tub of ice to find a massive gash in her lower back that’s been stitched up after someone removed her kidneys. I woke up in my own bed, not in ice, but actually with my body temperature high because of my lime-green-and-fuschia-striped comforter. I panicked, and called Riley, my boyfriend at the time, at work.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he had asked when I told him about my missing kidneys. “Are you high?”

When I said no, and tried to explain the situation, he blew up at me and told me he was busy at work, and that I needed to quit making stupid shit up. I realize now what an asshole he was, because he didn’t seem the least bit concerned that my body parts were beginning to disappear, even when he came over that night after work and saw how freaked I was. He stuck around for a few more months, but when I wouldn’t let it go, and then my pancreas disappeared, he told me he’d had enough of my shit. By that point, I wasn’t really sad to see him go.

I know, you’re wondering how my body can still function without kidneys and a pancreas. I don’t have an explanation, except to say that I’m not actually alive anymore. My shrink says I’m hallucinating; that if I take a minute and really ponder it, I might realize how silly it sounds that I’m still walking around and going about my life if I’m actually dead. My response to her was, “Why don’t you  think about how silly it sounds that a living person is functioning without the necessary body parts?”

Yeah, she didn’t like that. So she wrote me another prescription that I didn’t fill.

My sister was with me when my lungs disappeared. By then, I was pretty much resigned to the fact that I’d never be an organ donor, what with all my parts vanishing, but I let her know anyway, in case we happened to run a marathon and I came up short of breath. She knew about my other body parts, so she was sufficiently sympathetic. She offered to drive me to the clinic, and seemed relieved when they presented us with X-rays that clearly sported a healthy-looking set of lungs. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that they’d done that before- gotten my X-rays mixed up with another patient’s. I want her faith in our medical community to remain intact.

After that, I kept that fact that I dematerializing to myself. It’s bad enough that I’m dealing with the fact that I ceased to exist. I don’t need my friends and family aggravating the situation by telling me I’m more unhinged than Kanye West at an awards show. I may be missing internal organs, but my feelings are still there. I’m just hoping my heart dissolves before it gets broken, because at least that won’t hurt. I’ve always heard a broken heart is a tough thing to deal with. The real question is- can my heart still break if I’m already dead?

A Letter to a Modern-Day Adonis

Dear Charlie Hunnam,

As I have stated in my post title above, you, Charlie, are a modern-day Adonis, and so must be the recipient of my latest letter. Kudos to you.

It is true, you are best known as the tortured soul Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy, and while I have not been privy to much of your other work, I do believe the multitude of sex scenes with delectable ass shots in SOA may have had something to do with that. (It’s like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream…) I must admit, there are very few nude males that I would gladly torment my eyes with, (as I am very much a boob gal, and do so adore a good titty display) but you, kind sir, are welcome to remain naked in front of my vision indefinitely.

It is still a bit disturbing to me that you hale from Newcastle upon Tyne. As well-read as I am, I had no idea what the fuck that meant, but investigated enough to find that it was somewhere in England. Cheeri-o, mate! I actually hope to never hear your original accent, which I assume is British, because you seem to be so down-to-earth and not at all pompous as generally English people tend to be. However, if you ever decide you wish to share your man-meat with me in a carnal fashion, I will allow you to adopt whatever foreign crappy accent you deem appropriate. Just know that I am not quite certain what my reaction may be if I hear, “Tha’ wus fookin’ gright, love.” after we’ve spent ourselves. I may be forced to shut you up by sitting on your not-quite-shaven face.

You may be delighted to know, too, that even my very straight Rockstar has taken notice of your perfectly-sculpted physique. He does not blame you in the least for incessantly posting shirtless pictures of yourself on your official Facebook page. “After working out like hell to look like that, can you blame him?” were his exact words. I think you may just have a chance with him…

I seem to recall having watched a little-known movie a few years back starring you, in which, I’m sure, you were superb. Sadly, I do not recall you being naked, and so it was not noteworthy. Do not get me wrong, oh Gorgeous One- you need not be bare-assed for me to adore you. I can prove it is true by saying I’ve had two dreams in which you starred, neither of which you were nude in. (Sadly.) I must ask: why weren’t you naked in my dreams? I mean, for real. What the fuck?!

I do not think you are aware of my ….fetish for long-haired men. Let me only say that when your hair is of a shorter ilk, I would not so readily do you. But, if you were there lying naked in my bed, I suppose I could lower my standards a tad so as not to waste a good boner.

I applaud you for turning down the role of Christian Grey in the movie version of Fifty Shades. As beautiful as you are, not even you could have saved it from sucking balls. Although, if you had retained the role, I would have, of course, rushed out to buy the DVD no matter how terrible the film was, if only to see you shirtless and spanking someone. Do not be discouraged. I will write for you a well-written smutty book that can be turned into the biggest blockbuster of all time.

In closing, I would like to say that you, Charlie Hunnam, have almost cured me of my insane love for Christopher Meloni; I haven’t dreamed of him since you came into the picture.

Always yours, (even if it is only in my dreams)

Sparklebumps XOXO

 

Survive and Thrive Workshop: Prompt #3

MM.

How many times did you autograph that monogram

and wonder,

What if they realize I’m not really

Her?

They’ll be so mad when they find out

that this piece of paper

isn’t worth a cent.

I know.

I know what it’s like when people think

you are someone you’re not.

Sure, I’ve never exactly obtained the fame you did,

or been described as the ultimate “sex symbol”.

But,

I guess I’ve had my moments.

Yes, I get it;

Wanting to drown your sorrows in a bottle of gin

so deeply

that you forget the real you

and actually become the glittering figure

They believe you are.

They say you were either

the greatest actress that ever lived

or the biggest joke ever to grace

the silver screen.

Having great tits

tends to make people not take you seriously.

And yet,

you pursued your search for love,

still working toward your goal of becoming a

“real actress”;

even in the end,

you had Them fooled.

As the ambulance drove  your adored body away,

They continued to refer to you as

Marilyn Monroe.

But I know the truth.

You were so much more than that.