Thanks an Effing Lot!

Dearest friends and family the world over,

You all deserve ponies, and ice cream sundaes, and bouncy castles, and…I don’t know. What is like, super balls awesome? ATVs? ATVs, I suppose, are pretty fucking rad.

The encouragement I receive in support of my dream is incredible, and incomparable. I’m an author now, not only because I finished a manuscript. I am so loved. If my heart swells any more, blood will leak through the pores of my skin. Literally.

Don’t you hate it when people improperly insert literally into their conversations? “I packed so many egg rolls down my throat, my stomach, like literally exploded.” I was so fucking mortified, I like, died. Literally, dude.” “I rolled my eyes so fucking hard, they literally fell out of my head.” “I’m a vacuous cunt. Literally.”

And I am literally grateful.

You all are bananas, and I love you endlessly.








An Open Letter of Aggression

I am in fact, ignoring your phone calls. Leave a message, and I will listen to it at my earliest convenience. Send me a text and I will likely answer promptly, so long as it’s not an invitation for company. I’m avoiding company, as my own is the only I desire at the moment. Unless I gave birth to you, that is; Babe is always welcome. Because Babe and I understand one another. To share a space with her, even deep in heartbeat silence, is to feel a more meaningful connection than I do with anyone else in my world.

But I digress.

There is a difference, to me at least, between being a recluse, and being reclusive. Presently, I am reclusive. You can’t begin to fathom the mechanisms that make me tick-tock. Unlike you, I process on my own; I do not seek your ears until I’m certain I need them. You may not fucking get me, but you accept me. For that, I thank you.

I have become exceptionally introverted since my hip replacement surgery. Contrary to popular belief, I’m an introvert anyway, so I am not at all concerned about my mental welfare. And I know you’re not either because you’re accustomed to my bouts of stillness; that, and you know my strength of will; you’ve seen me walk through every level of hell. Believe me, it’s a specfuckingtacular feeling, knowing that in your eyes I am a tough mutha–and someone you can count on for sound advice and a patient heart.

But Jesus, fuck! I am too damned tired right now to play psychologist. I don’t know how many more ways I can convey this to you without punching the words into your head. I need someone, anyone to fucking hear me. So, this is what you’ve reduced me to–bitching in a blog entry. One that I know you will read…and feel offended by because that’s how you operate. I know what makes you tick-tock.

You are good, honest, and loyal. But when the shit is thick for you, self-absorption rules you.

I pity you. And I love you.

Damn it, I wish you loved me as much as I love you.



Dear Norman Reedus,

I dreamt of you (again). It was an epic dream, the kind that picks up where it leaves off after waking a few moments to roll over, or take a quick middle of the night piss. You were a school janitor, and dressed accordingly. I don’t know what the fuck I was doing in school; and I have no idea what I was wearing, as I was dreaming in first person–I can only hope I looked hawt as all hell’s acres.

The details are dingy, but I do recall leaning against a set of tall grey lockers next to the ladies’ room, and you were nearly pressed against me. I playfully jingled the keys attached to your belt loop while you explained I was too young to kiss. Bullshit, Norman. I’m a grown ass woman–37, thank you very fucking much!

I awoke for good just after you asked me out. “Let’s get together tonight and throw some darts,” you said.

It’s a start, Norman. I’m free this Saturday.

Ever yours,

Kindra M. Austin

Fuuh! I can’t even right now, with your colossal fuck-uppery.

Dear Verizon, and HTC

I hate your actual guts. Both of you bastards have driven me to drink. On a fucking Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday! What the actual fuck is the Verizon Cloud? Where are my goddamned files and contacts??? The only thing that’s easy about using this back-up service you provide is losing my shit. Sure, I can manually enter my contacts, but how am I supposed to recover the 300 photos of my cat? 100 selfies? And eleventy hundred photos of my family? Oh! And HTC, you’re the fuckest-uppest. My phone keeps telling me I don’t have a SIM card installed. I can see the motherfucker in its slot! So what the actual fuck goes on during assembly there in Taifuckingwan? I can’t send a simple text message to my daughter telling her how much I hate your actual guts! I can’t make a phone call!

All of you motherfuckers don’t know me. You don’t know how quickly I go from 0-fuck you. I’ve already destroyed my old phone trying to get to its insides. See, the Verizon Cloud needs me to use my new phone to scan a goddamned QR number on my old phone in order to transfer my files and contacts. And the information will not scan!

Fuck you all so hard in the butthole. I hate you.

Eat shit,

Kindra M. Austin




To the asshole in charge of Skittles flavors

Dear Sir or Madam,

Admittedly, I do not eat candy regularly, so my opinion means fuck all to you, I’m sure. Nonetheless, I feel it is my duty as a consumer to inform you, the Wrigley Company/Mars Inc. that a grave injustice has been perpetrated against all who love the lime flavored Skittle. Green apple replaced the lime Skittle in 2013–I had no knowledge of this until today. Imagine the distress I felt this afternoon as my taste buds were brutally assaulted by this heinous impostor dressed in green.

I cannot pretend to know the struggles your company must overcome to remain relevant in the colorful, fruity confectionery sea; though I can guess the pressure to be perpetually fresh and exciting is great. Had you decided to change strawberry to cherry, I wouldn’t be angry beyond consolation. Because swapping those two flavors is a fuck ton more logical than taking away the beloved lime flavor, and tossing us the vomitous green apple. Seriously, what the hell damn fart is wrong with you people? If you were to display piles of strawberries, grapes, lemons, limes, oranges, and green apples, then ask a five year old which fruit is least like the others, that child would tell you the goddamned green apple is least like the others. Because they learned about differences from Sesame Street–a program you clearly have never watched.

I don’t really expect you to right this wrong. But I would love to see you shove a green apple up your ass, then remove it, and take a bite. Because that is what green apple Skittles taste like, you stupid twat.

Ever yours,

Kindra M. Austin



Dear Bag Of Dicks,

Late afternoon, yesterday, I was tending to my blog–reading my friends’ and catching up with comments. Whenever I receive a “like,” “follow,” or comment notification from someone I’m not familiar with, I always click to view their WordPress site. You, Bag of Dicks, ruined a perfectly good mood–a mood I don’t feel much of anymore, fuck you very much.

To my dismay–no, sheer horror! I clicked on your blog link to check you out. Because I’m a fucking nice person; I wanted to give your blog a look-see, and possibly “follow” you in return. But instead of finding a lovely blog, my screen froze, and a dialog box appeared explaining that my computer had been compromised by Trojan malware–you fucking prick–and that it was imperative I phone the Windows technicians at such and such number to resolve the issue (so we can steal all of your fucking money, max out your credit cards, assume your identity, and steal your awesome manuscripts).

That’s not how shit works, dude–Windows doesn’t do pop-ups. AND!!! I know I have a fully functioning firewall, you pathetic donkey fucker. I feel badly for all of those you have tricked with your scam. Shame on you! I wish I could junk punch you! I’d make you infertile, I would junk punch so hard!


Go to Hell and wait for me there, asshole.

Most sincerely,

Kindra M. Austin