Racist Bible Thumpers

I respect, and do defend the First Amendment. All of you KKK motherfuckers, you have the right to publicly barf your hatred. You can march with your swastika flags and Confederate flags all you like, but the real Americans with functioning brains are on to you hillbilly motherfuckers. I can generalize you all as hillbilly motherfuckers on my blog without real repercussion, because First Amendment, bitches.

How many of you piss-ant wannabes know the origin of the swastika? Do you know it has roots in Hinduism and Jainism? Of course not. Because you’re all racist thunder cunts who adopted your beliefs from a psycho-path with halitosis–Adolf Hitler. It makes me sick that he was smarter than most of you fucking idiots. Have any of you even looked up Hitler’s history?

All of you racist pricks claim you are upholding the law of the Bible.

Motherfuckers, I don’t believe in the bible.  I believe in equality.

Come at me.








Rotting Penis Disease


Memories are just fragments of film. It’s odd, some of the events our brains retain, be they home movies, or pure fiction–intricate fabrications focused tighter and tighter over time. The power of suggestion is strong, indeed. My mother is one of those story tellers who believes in the fables she’s invented, says my dad. I have no reliable source of reality in regards to my childhood, though I do tend to put heavier stock in most things my dad has to say, because he’s not bat shit crazy. Or is he? Dad did a lot of hard drugs when he was young, says my mother–she’s mentioned angel dust and heroine more than a handful of times. But that was before I was born, so why should I care? Right? Right?

These are some things that I know are real memories.

I do recall, without uncertainty, my dad harvesting some of the plants he’d raised in the basement of our house in Lapeer; I watched him roll a joint for himself, and he said, “Don’t you tell your mother.” I also remember when our tabby cat, Thomas, somehow found himself locked inside “Dad’s Room,” and when we discovered him, several plants had been chewed to fuck all. Oh, Thomas!

Dad and Grandpa had fields of weed some fucking place in B.F.E. (which means Bum Fuck Egypt for reasons I do not know). Once my mother began working nights, dad had no choice but to take my sister and I along for the ride out to green fucking acres (I’ve just now come up with that). At age eight, or nine, or ten, I didn’t know what the hell dad was doing, parking his truck in the middle of nowhere, and wandering off into the tall weeds for thirty plus minutes. Tara and I would sit in the dark, and listen to hordes of crickets–or God forbid, the unholy June Bugs. Sometimes dad would leave the radio on for us. Other times we would play the Color Game–that’s when one of us would think of a color, and the other would guess; we’d take turns, guessing the same goddamned colors over and over again. I invented the Color Game one night when Tara couldn’t sleep, for whatever reason–she was an extremely anxious child. It was my way of trying to soothe her without allowing her to climb down from her top bunk and into my bed. She always did end up sleeping beside me. Tara and I grew up best friends, though my role leaned heavily toward mother, even before our parents were divorced.

I was five years old when Tara was born. I’d wanted a brother, for reasons only a five year old girl might be able to explain. My mother had had a long, hard labor. She’d lost a lot of blood, and Tara, who was ultimately taken by C-section, almost drowned in that blood. It was several days for both mother and newborn in the hospital before my dad finally took me to meet my sister. I remember it was night, and Dad had bought me a McDonald’s Happy Meal to eat on our way to Hurley. I sat in the back of the station wagon, stomach in knots, stuffing french fries, and chucks of cheeseburger into whatever crease and crevice available to me. I don’t recall the toy that accompanied my food. That’s a detail my brain did not retain, probably because seeing my baby sister for the first time was/is paramount. My dad held her up before me, and I fell immediately in love with the raven haired baby named Tara.

The day Dad was able to finally bring my mother and sister home, he discovered the remains of my uneaten Happy Meal. “When I asked you if you’d eaten all your food, you said, ‘yes, daddy.’ So why is there food smashed all over in the backseat?” I don’t recall my response, but it most likely involved tears. My dad scared the fuck out of me when he was angry. Hell, he still does, though anger is something exhibited rarely these days. Now, my dad is all enlightened and shit. He hasn’t raised his voice to me since I was sixteen, and his (then) sister-in-law caught me and my (then) step-brother trying to steal cigarettes from the grocery store where she worked. In our defense, back then store management was lacking considering the easy placement of tobacco products. Liquor, too.

Dustin, my (then) step-brother and I used to climb out his bedroom window when our parents were out and sit on the roof; we’d smoke stolen smokes and drink stolen Hot Damn. I had a pipe some dude at my high school made for me, and if I didn’t have any cigarettes, Dustin and I would use it to smoke tobacco we’d loosened from butts we found in ashtrays, or laying around the yard.

I loved Dustin. Until he molested Tara. Now, I hope he’s contracted a penis disease that’s left him dysfunctional, and makes women weep upon the sight of it. Like, I hate him so much, I hope he can’t even masturbate because it’s fucking broken all to fuck, and ugly as sin. I hope the sight of his own penis makes him cry out in terror. And I hope bits of skin fall off into the toilet every time he takes a piss. I hope it looks like an overly grilled bratwurst that has been soaking in a pot of stinking hotdog water. I hope the only thing he is remembered for after he dies is the stench of his rotting penis.








Quest for Fun


Jim and Kindra’s Quest for Fun


featuring the music of:

Fleetwood Mac*Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers

The Beach Boys*Billy Joel*Rob Zombie*The Cars*Roxette

Red Rider*Dio*Crimson Glory*My Vitriol*Fightstar

Blondie*Neil Diamond*Suicidal Tendencies*Blue Man Group

Led Zeppelin*Pearl Jam*Radiohead*Megadeath*REM

Bruce Springsteen*Johnny Cash*Dexy’s Midnight Runners

Disturbed*Bob Dylan*Creed*David Bowie*Queen*Duran Duran

Electric Light Orchestra*Guns N’ Roses*Madness*Muse

*Red Hot Chili Peppers*The Rolling Stones*Talking Heads


DESTINATION: St. Ignace, Michigan, The Mystery Spot 


2 August, 2017—Wednesday

Jim and I awoke at 7:30 a.m. to be on the road by 9:00. I was so excited, I dressed smart, and made up my face for pictures. Because I’m vain. Our trusty Bonneville (a.k.a Bonnie, a.k.a Silver Bullet) was clean, packed, and gassed up (courtesy of two winning Michigan lottery Lucky 7s scratchies)—totally ready for the 227 mile journey. What had begun as a joke quickly became our Quest for Fun. The Mystery Spot or bust. It was a bust, folks. Traveling north on I-75 at 75 mph fatigued dear Bonnie (the tach was reading 3500+ rpm), and we had no good choice but to exit in Rose City; Bonnie just couldn’t shift properly into overdrive—60 mph was her optimal speed. Not even blaring 80’s metal could keep her stimulated. So, Jim slipped our Silver Bullet some Lucas, and let her cool off while he and I ate lunch at the Rose City Cafe. Jim had a club sammich, and I had a fucking delicious grilled chicken with mmm bacon, lettuce, tomato, onion, and mmm honey mustard on a toasted Kaiser roll. Every bite, I was like, “What the actual fuck? Did this chicken sammich come down from Heaven?” On our way home, taking the backroads, Jim and I laughed about driving two goddamned hours just to eat. Fun fact: it had taken us only two hours to reach Rose City, however we spent four fucking hours getting home. But this setback only fortified our resolve to make it to St. Ignace.

P.S. We came to learn that it wasn’t Bonnie’s transmission that was malfunctioning, just the tachometer. Gee, whiz!

P.P.S. Jim phoned up his daddy upon our arrival home (because we didn’t know at the time that Bonnie’s transmission was fine), and asked to borrow his big-ass Dodge Ram, which would result in an 80 fucking dollar gas bill. Yay, trucks!


3 August, 2017—Thursday

The alarm went off at 7:30 a.m. I hit snooze. Three times. I did not dress smart, I put my hair in a Pebbles bun, and I did not make up my face (too much). Because I don’t give a fuck about what people think of me. I wore black cotton shorts that are too short, a John Lennon t-shirt, and old-ass pair of Guinness flip-flops equipped with a bottle opener. Jim wore the same set of clothes he’d worn the previous day. Classy. We were on the road by 9:15. When we blew past the Rose City exit in record time, I was like, “Girl, bye!”

Northern Michigan is fucking gorgeous, folks. Even when you’re looking at it from the express-way. I saw two fawns walking along the edge of the woods running along I-75. We were going too fast to snap a picture of the cute babies. So just imagine them when you look at this picture I’d snapped through the windshield of Daddy’s big-ass truck.


We stopped for lunch–again. But! This time we’d made it all the way to Mackinaw City. We did not eat at Wienerlicious. I’m just a juvenile who thinks Wienerlicious is a fucking hilarious name for a restaurant. Plus, the giant wiener on the roof is pretty cool.


Jim and I had fish and chips at Cunningham’s. I didn’t take a picture because I was hungry, and enjoying my food. Live in the moment, you know? After we killed our dead, fried fish, we made our way toward the Mighty Mac. I love the Mackinac Bridge. I could drive over that motherfucker, back and forth, all day long and never lose the excitement.




St. Ignace is lovely. I’d like to hit one of the car shows they host. My dad has taken his classic muscle cars up there, and he loves it.



Jim drove through St. Ignace with such purpose, I’d believed he knew where the hell he was going. But when we stopped for more gas, (after accidentally getting back on I-75, and pulling an illegal U-turn via the “Authorized Vehicles Only” access road), he asked me, “So, how do we get to the Mystery Spot?” Thank fuck for smart phones. Six minutes later, we were face to face with The Mystery Spot. It was magnificent. Like an outskirts liquor store. We did the Mystery Spot guided tour. A young girl working her summer vacation escorted us into a slanted house built into a hill, and thrilled us with optical illusions. The experience was just as delightfully lame as I remembered from my childhood. Jim and I had a super rad time at the Mystery Spot. He even freaked out the guide by showing her his super power–hyper extension knees. Truly, Jim is a mystery worthy of St. Ignace. I bought an awesome Mystery Spot long sleeved t-shirt, and Jim did the zip lines. I’m not allowed to do zip lines, or anything else fun because of my replaced hip joint. Boo! Hiss!


Upon leaving the Mystery Spot, Jim discovered the poor state of his daddy’s Ram’s brakes. Thank you, Daddy, for letting us borrow your reliable vehicle. Hahahaha! Love you, Dad!


On our way home, we stopped at Sea Shell City. Can you say Sea Shell City three times fast? Sea Shell City. She Shell Shitty. Damn it! Sea Shell Shitty, She Shell, Shitty, She Shell Shitty! I love She Shell Shitty. Here’s why.



Thank Glob for my hero, Jim. He saved me from these ocean predators. And bought this shell and shark tooth necklace for me.


Jim and Kindra’s Quest for Fun was a success. I can’t wait to see where next summer takes us.

A Special Sammich, and Twelve Tubes of My Blood



I had taken some meds at 11:00 before running errands. It was a hot and humid afternoon, and this particular sort of weather exacerbates my Fibromyalgia, so I wasn’t feeling super-duper, folks. I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up some over-the-counter stuff, and I chatted with my daughter (she’s a CPhT) for a bit while she worked. The time was 12:00. By the time I left the pharmacy, I was feeling itchy and burny from the inside out.

At 12:30, I picked up a giant sammich to share with Jim–we live just a few blocks from his work, and he comes home every day at 1:00 for his thirty minute lunch break. I had taken a shower upon returning home from the sandwich shop because I had broken out in hives. It was the worst case of hives I’ve ever experienced. My eyelids, earlobes, and lips were swollen and red. Wheals were raised all over my body–my scalp, neck, face, chest, armpits and legs. It was painful, still I wasn’t worried. I’d just have to go back to the pharmacy for Benadryl after lunch. I really wanted to eat that gorgeous sammich. In fact, I’d been so looking forward to lunch, I’d skipped breakfast. I do kind of hate the love I have for a meaty and vegetably sammich on nice bread.

At 1:00, Jim arrived, and upon entering the house he said, “Hello, Beautiful!” as he always does; this time I didn’t run into the kitchen to greet him like Edith Bunker always did with Archie. “What’s the bad news?” he asked.

“I don’t feel good,” I answered, creeping into the kitchen. “I’ve broken into hives, and it’s bad. I can’t catch my breath, and my chest is so tight and twisty.”

“Do you need me to take you to the doctor?”

“I need to go to the hospital. I can’t breathe. It hurts so much.”

Jim doesn’t fuck around when it comes to me. He drove 75+ miles an hour to get me to the closest E.R. On the way, I was coughing and wheezing. My skin was on fire, and my nose was bleeding.

At the hospital, I explained that I had taken such and such medication, and an hour or so later, I broke into hives and couldn’t comfortably breath. My skin was so inflamed, the nurse had a difficult time finding a vein for an IV. She had to settle for one on the inside of my forearm near my elbow, which was fucking uncomfortable. The lab tech couldn’t find a vein to do a blood draw to save a goddamned life. He tapped me everywhere, trying to coax one into puffing up. He found a weak one, and tried to fill the required six tubes, the vein wouldn’t give. He passed the task to an R.N. who managed to fill the last two.

Meanwhile, another nurse was injecting three different meds into my poorly positioned IV. My breathing was labored, and I wanted to crawl out of skin. But I didn’t cry–I’ve been through worse, and never cried. Unless you count child-birth–thanks, Nicole (P.S. you were worth it.).

Fast forward:

After hour one had passed, a different lab tech showed up with her equipment, and apologized straight away. “I’m sorry, but we have to draw your blood all over again. The earlier samples were no good, and she proceeded to explain medical shit that I had no patience to try to understand. At this point, the itching and burning had long faded, and the wheals were beginning to disappear. My arms were bruising, and so fucking sore. All together, I’d been pricked at least twenty times to draw twelve tubes of blood.

Hour two–I’d had an X-ray of my lungs, which came out clean, and I was ready to go home. But my chest tightness remained. The doctor had come in to see me, and said that if the chest pain persisted, he was going to admit me. I was in the E.R. for five hours. Thank fuck my breathing returned to normal, and the chest tightness finally relaxed.

When Jim and I arrived home from the hospital, I killed that sammich. And it was fucking beautiful.




Always the Outsider

I can fit into a lot of places. Even places I’d rather not belong. It’s my nature–or more correctly, a learned behavior I’ve carried with me since childhood. My ex-husband used to accuse me of being insincere, and I would argue that I was simply adaptable. To this day, I stand by adaptable.

On Saturday, Chesaning held its annual car show. My husband’s friend and his wife always host a party afterwards; Jim and I have never missed one of Darren’s car club parties. Women/wives/girlfriends don’t usually show up–the party isn’t any more than a bunch of dudes standing around, drinking beer and talking shop. I fit right in, having been raised in a garage by a father who rebuilds cars, and has won several trophies. I’m always the cool chick at the shindig because little is lost on me. I’m one of the dudes, and I’m fucking hilarious. Plus, Jim and I are best friends; if I’m not welcome, he’s not fucking going either.

This year, for some reason, the wives of the car club decided that Darren’s party needed food, and well…the wives. So, there was a pot luck of unoriginal cold pasta dishes, grilled meats, loud ass kids, and giggling women with French manicures dressed in designer “mom” clothes standing around drinking sweet fruity rum drinks, and bitching about how much time their men spend on pampering their classic cars.

I was invited into this clique of car wives, and being the outsider, I flipped on the adaptability switch. I was the DD, so I had to do SOMETHING to occupy my time. I cracked jokes, and I was polite. But then, one woman said, “Didn’t I see you in the paper? You published a book, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” And I proceeded to answer questions. “What’s your book about?” “Why did you write a book?” “Did you go to college?” “Do you need a degree to publish books?”

I answered them all happily, but then it came…the question I could not answer politely. “Don’t you just love 50 Shades of Grey?”

“I’m a snob when it comes to books,” I said. “I’ve read excerpts, and in my opinion, a fifth grader could produce a more interesting narrative. By the way, did you know 50 Shades began as Twilight fan fiction? Ridiculous.”

And one by one, these women turned on me. I LOVE romance novels. Blah, blah, blah, Harlequin; blah, blah, Meredith So-and-So. (Gag me with a spoon.) I never pay more than 1.99 for an Amazon book. Nora Roberts, blah, blah. Have you read Something-something Cave Bears??? It’s the best romance series I’ve ever read. (Kill me now.) Who is Sylvia Plath? She was insane, wasn’t she? Science-fiction? Who even wants to try to understand that crap? Anything over two hundred pages is like–ugh! I have a short attention span, you know–because I’m raising kids. Who has that kind of time? I like brainless romance. Romance is life. There’s no romance in your book? (Fuck. You.) Like, what’s it even about? Maybe I’ll look it up. (Don’t do me any favors.) It’s really cool though, you wrote a book. My kids are getting older, and I have more free time. I should write a book. Since you don’t need a degree. (Fucking try it, bitch.)

It drives me crazy that people think writing is easy peasy. No. I work every day. Writers work, every fucking day. We bleed our truths, difficult as they are to spill. My mother thinks my job is easy. She thinks I just sit down at my computer, and like magic, words erupt from my fingertips. Even dime-a-dozen romance writers have to work.

So anyway, I didn’t feel friendship vibes with these women. I tried to be polite, until I couldn’t be anything but honest. Because even though I’m adaptable, honesty is trump. For me, at least. But my real problem with these people wasn’t about literature, or writing. It was about drunk driving. They were fucking wasted, as were their husbands; and all night I thought, you motherfuckers are going to pack up your kids and drive home. I’m not at all good with driving drunk, especially with kids in the vehicle. That’s why when they asked if I wanted to play a drinking card game with them, I reminded them of the importance of a DD. Which further put them off me. And I don’t give a fuck. It’s not I walk around handing out friendship applications, ffs.

What really upsets me is that I try hard every day not to judge others. It doesn’t give me a high to be critical. In fact, it makes me sad. That is saying A LOT, given that judging others comes as easily to me as breathing. I know it’s not right; but I AM critical of others for various reasons, especially when it comes to parenting–driving drunk with children. AND when it comes to people who think I don’t do anything really productive–playing on the computer. Writing novels isn’t easy. 

I realize this post is all over the place.

What I’m trying to say is that I even though I can fit in anywhere, it is with great effort. And often, the effort isn’t worth being dishonest. It isn’t worth keeping my mouth shut. I used to be able to fake it without thinking. Maybe that’s why my ex-husband said I was insincere–because I faked my way through situations so cleanly. Now, I’m in touch with myself in a way I’ve never been before, and I quite honestly, I don’t care about appearances. I’m me. Take it or leave it. I’m no longer married to man who cares about how other view me. I’m married to a man who loves me for who I am, and whose family thinks I’m pretty cool, too. With Jim, and his family, I don’t have to pretend to be the perfect Catholic. I don’t have to be subservient–in fact, in Jim’s family, that is frowned upon!

Wow. Now this blog has gone way off point. I’m rambling. But whatever. It’s MY blog. I can do whatever the fuck I want.

And the title: Always the Outsider…with Jim, I’m never an outsider.

I wish everyone in the world could have a partner in life that is as amazing as Jim. I only wish I had him, or someone like him in my life when I was growing up.

Jim makes my imperfections feel forgivable. Even when I’m busting on rich housewives who like shitty romance, and drink like fish.















Dreams of Ben (a dream journal excerpt)


“Have a peek through the keyhole,” Benjamin says. He prefers plain Ben, but every morning I forget this predilection as his face is erased by fresh daylight. My waking eyes are blind to the spectre I call Benjamin. In my recurring dream, he is boyish, and handsome–that is all I do recall.

“What will I see, Benjamin?”

“I’ve told you to call me Ben.” He is annoyed; I had been reminded just yesternight.

“I don’t want to look, dear Ben. I’ve seen such ugliness already–a blonde woman, emaciated, on her back in an abandoned warehouse; she was dead and naked with odd shapes carved into her belly. That was the first night. The second, I saw myself against a monochrome landscape of dirt and rocks, and surrounded by hissing Komodo Dragons; they licked my hands, snapped at my fingers. The third night, sepia, my hands were taken at the wrists by the beasts, and I bled in violent color. Crimson hot and syrup sticky. Please, don’t make me look tonight.”

“We all must look.”

And look, I did. The dead blonde woman lay naked and ashen on dusty concrete, spread-eagle. A great Komodo Dragon, red-mouthed, walked ’round and ’round, as if guarding the body. When I screamed, the sound was muffled, echoless. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Jim’s voice seemed to grow from the inside out. He shook me harder…

and Ben was lost. Again.

(photo credit: Shutterstock)








Me Says

It’s been several years since I’ve had to check in with a man. Now, I answer to no one, save a person I call Me. Me says I can spend my free time any way I please, without apologies, without explanation. Me says I have the right to my silence whenever I feel emotionally overloaded; I don’t have to be the caretaker of everyone else–and it’s not my fault they require constant validation. Me says I can still love others totally, while addressing my own needs first; after all, what good am I to the ones I love if I’m no good to myself?

Me says you’re a child for being so demanding. Me says you might get an answer you don’t want. But Me also says that you don’t mean to be a dick–so don’t prove Me wrong.


Take “Dishonesty” and Shove it

You had an emotional crisis, and I went to you despite my poor physical health because I love you endlessly. I slept on a blow up mattress for seven days straight, and pretended every morning that my Fibromyalgia was under control; I pretended that my right hip, so fucked up from Rheumatoid arthritis didn’t bother me that bad because you needed me, your best friend, to help you through this dark time in your life.

And now, you have the solid gold balls to tell me I’m not a good friend because you had to read online that I was publishing my novel; you think I should have told you beforehand. I tried to tell you beforehand, but you wouldn’t answer my phone calls, or acknowledge my text messages because you were too busy being pissed off that I didn’t need your advice. Funny, right? I could have used your advice, but you wouldn’t answer my calls. You’re the cause of this shit.

And I’m fucking pissed! I’m pissed you had the nerve to call me DISHONEST. Me. Dishonest. Have you met me? Are you motherfucking new here?

I’m not fucking sorry. Even if it means our friendship is over, I’m not fucking sorry. Because taking the blame would be dishonest.