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

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,

Sparklebumps

Charlie

Previously…

An almost inaudible sound came from his throat when I did it, and I knew I had him. I felt his cock straining against the fly of his pants, but when my fingers pulled his zipper down, he moved out of my reach. His fingers slipped out of me once again, and his other hand left my breast. My body felt absolutely bereft from the loss of his touch, and I couldn’t help the whimper that happened to come. I should have known better.

Charlie demands complete control- during fucking and everything leading up to it. Not that he’s into S&M, though he isn’t above a playful bite or spanking every now and then. I mean that every move, every act no matter how small, must be his decision. He will allow me to undress him, but I am only permitted to once he decides it is time. To so blatantly disregard this rule sets the mood for everything that follows. I’ll tell you a secret: I didn’t forget on accident.

I watched his face in the mirror; I saw him struggling with the thought of breaking his own rule, and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t. I felt a moment of relieved anticipation when I saw his jaw firmly set, but I was not expecting what happened next.

His hands were on the neckline of my dress, and the next second, a bold ripping sound filled the silence as he forcefully tore my dress from neckline to hem. My Urban Decay’d lips formed a surprised “o” as I and Charlie looked at my now mostly-nude body in the mirror. I felt gooseflesh run up and down my skin in the split second before Charlie’s hand pushed my upper body down against the table in front of me.

He entered me roughly, but I was ready. So ready. His very first thrust left him so deep inside that I cried out, from pain or pleasure, or maybe a little bit of both. He withdrew, then again thrust himself into me. His hands gripped my hips, not gently, and I felt the familiar pleasure already beginning to rise in me. My right hand pressed against the mirror, causing it to fog there, and I pushed my rump ever so slightly into Charlie. I was immediately reprimanded with a welcome slap on my rear, warning me to stay still. His cock buried so deeply inside me, and the thrill of his spanking heightened my excitement; I wriggled against him, inviting another smack. The second one stung, and Charlie drove himself into me again and again, not waiting for me to further taunt his itching hand.

With every thrust, he reached the end of me, and my pleasure blossomed. I tried to move in such a way to prolong it, but my lover held me firmly in place, and was unrelenting. He knew what he did as he repeatedly pulled himself out of me and then pressed himself in again, hard and at an unwavering pace. It was clear he meant to punish me for my slip with his zipper, and I relished every moment until he pushed himself into me once again and pressed my hips harshly to him. He was as deep as he could go, and he filled me so completely that my growing pleasure exploded, and I let out a heartfelt moan. Charlie shuddered, and spent himself inside me. From my bent-over position, I could feel every throb of his cock. I used my inner muscles to squeeze him, and he moaned loudly before pulling back.

“Damn you, woman.” He said it because rough sex hadn’t been what he was in the mood for, but I couldn’t help giggling when he said it, because of the irony of his words. I made eye contact with him in the mirror, and when I saw the amused sparkle there, I knew he wasn’t really pissed.

I stood up as Charlie put himself back together and assessed my torn dress. There was no saving it. Damn. I hadn’t even gotten to wear it out in public yet.

Charlie eyed me, reading my thoughts. “I’ll call Nina and get you another dress, ” he assured me, and I smiled, because it amused me that not only did this man know who the designer of my dress was- he also knew her well enough to call her up out of the blue. Yet another reason to adore Charlie.

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

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.

Chores

In an attempt to get my Rockstar’s Daughter out of my hair and into better habits, I suggested coming up with a list of chores with which to fill her summer days. I was surprised at her unexpected fervor for said task, and even more surprised when one of the chores she thought of was picking up dog poo. (A job not even the most dirty of people relish, I expect.) Of course there were the typical chores a child should learn to accept: washing dishes, cleaning their room, etc… As well as a few that consisted of a bit more fun- giving the dog a bath with the garden hose, washing my truck with the garden hose, watering the flowers with the garden hose. (There does seem to be a disturbing obsession with the garden hose.)

I got to thinking about how we as children are bogged down with such minimal tasks as these; usually with the expectancy of reward upon completion. Why is it as we get older, these tasks no longer hold promise of payment? I object.

In lieu of starting a riot over such injustices, I have composed a list of chores that I might accomplish that very well may result in acceptable annuity. I trust you all approve.

1. Blow jobs.

To quote Samantha from Sex and the City: “Buddy. It ain’t called a job for nothin’.” From what I’ve heard in passing conversations, (yes, most of my passing conversations consist of blow jobs and the like, so shut up) most girls just don’t like to give blow jobs. This is completely foreign to me, for I love giving them so! There’s nothing like having my Rockstar’s hard, throbbing cock shoved down my throat. But! This isn’t all about me and my favorite penis.

Since some girls detest the act, this could be one of those chores they go to with dread, in hopes of a nice big allowance afterward. A nice, big, throbbing allowance- one that you can ride on and get extreme pleasure from….

2. Cooking.

Some women like to cook. I am some of these women sometimes. It’s when it’s an everyday occurrence that I begin to detest it. (Trust me, there’s a reason I always end up working in a restaurant.) They say that a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; I always thought it was through his dick- but I guess if his stomach gets filled because I cooked for him, and the end result is him making sweet love to me, that’s almost as good as a good hard fuck.

3. Laundry.

It should go without saying that if you wash a man’s underwear, there will be no surprises when you’re down there doing your oral business. That is reward in itself.

4. Reading.

Because there has to be something completely enjoyable on the list. And reading always comes with knowledge. And the more you know, the more you grow. 🙂

Ok, I’m bored of this list now. Goodbye.

 

Nothing But Nonsense

I must say that of late, I’ve had not even one interesting Spam comment. For that matter, I’ve had hardly any comments at all. (But I completely appreciate all the comments I HAVE had!)

However, when I was looking through the Spam comments just now, I noticed there were several of the same comment made on a number of different posts. I’m paraphrasing here, because ’tis not worthy of a direct quote: Something something about that’s nothing but nonsense.

Basically, I have been found out. It takes a ballsy Spamator to call me out on my utter nonsense. I’m amazed it took someone this long to realize I’m a hack.  (a excessively busty hack, but a hack all the same.)

Sure, I can be witty, and surprisingly creative at times, (have you read my smut?) but I openly admit my blog holds very little of import. You will not find great life lessons written here, (other than to NOT propose to your forty-something boyfriend in a post-it, because he will deem it  unworthy of an answer) nor will you learn valuable truths (unless they are about me, in which case, if you ever are lucky enough to meet me, are very valuable indeed). To most, it would probably be said that my blog carries less entertainment within than a child’s Dr. Seuss book. (Fun fact: Dr. Seuss wrote for Playboy occasionally.)

To prove it, I will prove how nonsensacle I can be:

It’s true , what They say,

about money growing on trees,

it doesn’t.

But the best things in life are free.

BAM! 30 second poem.

9 Things All Kids Should Be Taught

Perhaps this is pompous of me, writing such a list when I clearly do not own any children. But after having waited on a plethora of teens in the last few weeks at  my job, I feel it necessary to produce a guide for parents, because they are evidently clueless. Why 9, you ask? Well, I was going to do ten, but we all know how I feel about even numbers.

1. Leave a fucking tip.

Yes, I am aware that teens have real lives that are crammed with tests and hormones and peer pressures,  and so cannot be bothered with minute details such as tipping their server, or hell, even acknowledging them. But you fucking know what, you self-absorbed little assholes?! That person who listened to you closely enough to get your order right, and brought it out to you, and refilled your drinks, and cleared your shitty messy dishes away has a life too, and is NOT your mother, and so isn’t expected to wait on you hand and foot for free just because you haven’t had the decency to learn respect, and haven’t yet reached the age of twenty.

To the parents of such asshats- shame on you, and you should be caned daily until you feel remorse for not having taught your kids basic decency.

2. Chew with your goddamn mouth closed.

You are not a dog, so you do not have molars that, when in use, prohibit you from shutting your fucking mouth while you eat. So parents, teach your kids not to sound like canines when they eat, unless you want me to treat them as such.

3. Pick up your clothes, you ungrateful cretins.

If your mother, (or father) has the decency to buy you bodily protection from the elements, and to wash them, the least you could do is put them in the fucking laundry basket. And hang up your towel.

4. “Please” is not really optional.

Why the fuck would anyone do a damn thing for you if you can’t even be bothered to include this simple word before or after your request? Do it your damn self.

5.”Thank you” is not really optional either.

Yes, I bought you beer even though your are underage just so you could get up the courage to try and get that skinny blonde bitch to take your virginity. The least you could do is thank me.

6. Save your money.

If you spend all of your hard-earned McDonald’s check buying booze and paying for fake I.D.s, you’re going to have to ask your parents for money. Parents, you don’t really want that, now do you? And for the record, spending $58 on yoga pants from Victoria’s Secret is not wise. Your ass looks just as good in the $11 ones from Target

7. Stop interrupting.

If the adults in your life are having a conversation that doesn’t include you, it’s because they are talking about something of which you have no idea about. So just shut the fuck up until they’re done. There are plenty of times when they WILL want to talk to you, and instead of being a little shithead and saying, “Mom, I gotta go,” remember there was a time when you actually wanted your parents to talk to you.

8. You don’t know everything.

Yes, I’m well aware that teenagers are superior when it comes to wisdom, until they turn about 28. Just remember that all those things you’re going through, or will go through, or are just finding out about, are all things that someone older than you already experienced. So instead of poo-pooing their advice, listen just a little bit, even if you have to pretend you’re uninterested.

9. No one owes you anything.

So quit acting like they do.

Suck It, IRS

Dear IRS,

I have afforded you the courtesy of a “dear” in this letter, as I did not in my previous letter. You may (or may not) wonder why you have found me in such a pleasant disposition. I will tell you.

Today, for the first time in almost ten years, I owe you no money.

(Pardon me while I complete a little victory dance. No, I’m not having a seizure, I just grew up Baptist, so I don’t have the rhythm most normal people have. But yes, that was most certainly a completely vulgar hand gesture I was making in your general direction.)

I realize that there will always be poor unfortunate souls that your corporation will always prey on mercilessly, but no more shall I call my bank to find that you have withdrawn my last twenty-one dollars and thirty-seven cents without my permission. I will no longer need to write on my bill calendar your most deplorable automatic withdrawal payment that has been plagueing me like a virus for the last four years. With my now liberated monthly $100, I intend to purchase a ridiculous number of shoes, and books that will be added to my already multitudinous collection.

It has been brought to my attention that you do not care in the least about my opinion, oh wretched IRS, but that will not stop me on the 16th of every month from interrupting whatever it is I’m doing at the time to howl to the heavens most barbarically “SUCK IT, IRS!” while simultaneously re-creating the move made most famous by the wrestling tag team DX of Triple HHH and Shawn Michaels viscously several times in an unladylike manner.

Have a nice day,

Sparklebumps

An Open Letter To All Things Pizza Hut

To the general presence of Pizza Hut,

Since I am no longer a slave under your employ, I feel it completely necessary to release the vile feelings I’ve been forced to keep inside for the past two-odd years concerning you. I must warn you that while the composition of this letter will be remarkably therapeutic for me, it may be at times inelegantly written, and show no signs of the self-educated woman that I am. Let me begin with something that I’ve been waiting to say for some time:

FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ahem. Now that I have gotten that off of my sizeable chest, I will move on to everything that is wrong with your corporation.

Let me first say that the customer is NOT always right. Especially in the case of your customers. Yes, there may have been an occasion or two where extra cheese was not administered as requested,  or tomatoes were placed on a super-supreme pizza (which is completely inappropriate), but I stand by the fact that I did NOT jip you on your toppings, and every pizza made by my own two work-worn hands was properly spec-ed and lovely to behold. Because your company has the policy that you should give the customer “whatever they want”, you can surely expect that at some point you will run out of money after giving away free food to all  the trashy motha-fuckas who lie to get a comped meal. To this I say- it is your own goddamn fault.

Secondly, it is shameful that you pay your shift managers such low wages. Truly, when promoting your team members to such a status, you should include in fine print this:

We promise to work you until you bleed, if not outwardly, at least until you suffer from stomach ulcers because of stress. You will be forced to work all holidays and weekends without any thanks, and if you refuse to work any of the afore mentioned days, you will be shunned by our district managers and dramatically have your hours cut. You will NEVER receive any type of raise until you are so frustrated that you find a new job, at which time, we may consider gifting you with  our feigned appreciation and only a miniscule raise- enough to keep you in our chains. If at any time you tell your overseeing managers exactly what you think of them or their performance, even if it perfectly accurate and politically-correctly stated, you too will be shunned.

To the Pizza Hut customers,

I will admit that there are a few of you who are endearing and affable. To you, I show my utmost appreciating for having made my stay in Hell a little less horrifying.

To the rest of you, the entire uncivilized lot of you, I must once again show how uneloquent I can be.

FUCK YA’LL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

To those of you who would seat yourselves, completely ignoring the sign that distinctly states, “PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED”, as well as overlooking the fact that I and my fellow coworkers are human beings, and will greet and seat you at your convenience, I must say that you are pitiful creatures, and it is my hope that at some point in your despicable little lives someone treats you as though you are not worthy of basic consideration.

To those of you who insist on no pork coming in contact with your food, and a clean blade being used to cut your halal food, I will say that if you asked once, and politely, and in no way treated me as an inferior person, I followed your requests religiously. (I even wore gloves.) To those of you who made such requests in an incredibly rude and obnoxious manner (i.e. repeating said request as though I were in some way deaf or not listening, using an outside voice though we were clearly indoors, acting as though my female anatomy deemed me unworthy of human decency) even though I had helped you in the past and could clearly tell you were Muslim by your burquas, I will tell you that my hand may have once or twice slipped into the nasty, dirty, unkosher pork before touching your chicken pizza. I just can’t remember for sure.

To a certain district manager,

To quote every employee that ever came in contact with you who were not of the naïve and unknowing variety:

“You’re a piece of shit.”

I will admit, in the beginning, I was one of these naïve people, and was momentarily distracted by your lovely masculine height and vibrant blue eyes. In fact, I recall turning down a job at an amazing craft store when you asked me to because I felt bad that your beautiful little boys would not grow up knowing their dad because you were so overworked and would be even more-so if I were to quit. I did not realize then that the lack of general managers in your district was only due to your own egotistical,  self-absorbed, castigating style of managing. Yes, I realize that you know not what castigating means, because at one time, you asked me to use common and ordinary words that were easy to understand. I refuse to demean myself because you are too busy being Big Boss Man to read a fucking dictionary. You very recently stated that it was in the best interest of the restaurant and all the employees that I be demoted; to that I say, “It really wasn’t, because now you will see what the store truly runs like without one competent shift manager.” You will never, NEVER have a completely-staffed district, because you refuse to focus on what it truly takes to run a successful restaurant, but instead nit-pick at stupid shit that doesn’t matter. Perhaps if you begin treating your employees like people, instead of like the smushed Italian sausage that is on the bottom of your over-sized shoe, you will truly find success. Because you certainly don’t have it now, and you know it. Also, your wife is ugly.

This all being said, I release now my demons and will never again think of Pizza Hut in any way, even though the remaining employees who worked with me will think of me at least a little bit every single day.

Fuck you very much,

Sparkle