V-Day Ponderings

I'm single. Again. For Valentines. The last Valentine's date I remember going on was in 2012. Yes. 2012. If I've had any since them, I don't remember.

Yesterday, on Valentine's Day, I was thinking about how people traditionally celebrate, and I thought to myself, that's not me. It was me at one time, I'm sure. Before. When I was married, freshly single...when I was younger. I guess I used get caught up in the Valentine's Day romance whirlwind. But no, that's not me anymore.

Am I jaded when it comes to romance now? Am I just too old for that shit anymore?  I don't know. I'm not sure what thing inside me changed for me to feel this way.

Last night, on Valentine's night, I went to play trivia at the local bar with single friends. I stated out loud, that even if I had a boyfriend, this is still what I'd want to be doing, how I'd want to spend my Valentine's night. A few drinks, fun and games, hot wings and tater tots...that is the perfect date night for me. Hell, that's the perfect ANY night for me.

I'm not going to get cliche on you with the whole, "we should show our love for each other all year, not just one day," because, duh. But seriously, I don't want someone paying for an overpriced dinner, buying me jewelry I won't wear, and chocolates I won't eat. Okay, maybe I'd eat them, but I wouldn't WANT to. Spending time in an over crowded restaurant full of strangers is not romantic to me. (I'm not mentioning flowers, because flowers is a whole 'nother thing. I love them, but I also buy them for myself when I want them, so there's that.)

So, I guess what I'm saying is, I'm over it. I'm over Valentine's Day and its traditions. Maybe I have been for a long time. I mean, I'm still a romantic (I'm a self proclaimed jaded romantic, but a romantic nonetheless), but romance looks very different to me now.

What does it look like? Sitting on the couch watching movies you've seen 1000 times, spouting out our favorite lines? Sitting in front of a fire next to each other on the couch, not even talking, just being in the same space doing our own things? Talking smack during a heated game of Yahtzee or cribbage? Cooking together and laughing at other people's expense? Staying in bed all day with Netflix, pizza, and wine? Yes. All that.

So, keep your extravagant, store-bought signs of affection, your gooey greeting card, and your expensive dinners. Give me your time and your respect. Write me a love letter or tell me how you feel. Give of yourself, not your wallet. Make me laugh. Especially make me laugh. That's what it looks like. That is me. And that is romantic.

Queen of Dirt Part Deux

I check Amazon daily to see if I have new reviews, to check Never Eighteen's ranking, and see if I'm still on top book lists. I know I'm selling books if I'm on lists. Usually I'm on the following lists.

Books > 4-for-3 Books > Children's Books > Issues > Illness

Books > 4-for-3 Books > Children's Books > Issues > Death

Once I was on the romance list. 


Today I made a new list.


 Books > 4-for-3 Books > Teens > Health, Mind & Body > Sexuality

Um, that's different. I suppose the book has bits of sexuality within its pages. Very little bits. But, hey, this is a new realm. Will it help me sell more books? I have no frickin' idea. In truth, I have no idea what these lists really mean. What's a 4 for 3 book? Do you buy three and get the 4th free? I don't know. 

I am obviously still the Queen of Dirt. Maybe someone will send me a sash and a tiara this time. Oh, and if you want to find out just how much dirt and sex is in the book you can go buy it by clicking the title of the book at the top of the page, or you can enter my contest here.

Writing Wednesday: A Tattered Life

This is a new WIP (work in progress for you lay people).  It's unedited.  Let me know what you think. (No I'm not done with Sad, but sometimes when an idea pops in my head I have to go with it, to at least jot a little down so I don't forget it).

 March 18, 2011 

I’m tired.  Tired of living in this sardine can of a home with its lack of windows, torn curtains, and the smell of dog piss emanating throughout.  I’m tired of going through the motions as daughter, sister, and friend when I feel like nothing more than a speck of dust on a window pane ready to be wiped clean away.  I’m tired of the snobs and flakes and posers at school who think they’re either better than you, smarter than you, or more pathetic than you and take pride in it.  When did we come to strive for depression.  The Emo boy and girls with their dark makeup and their skinny jeans brood in the hallways acting as if their blue-collar lives are pure hell while they listen to their iPods, play on their Xboxes, and talk on their cell phones.

They don’t know what it truly is to ache.  What it’s like to watch your dad walk out the door and never come back.  To watch your mom spend every waking moment with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  To be the sole provider for your family, the mother to your sister.  To be mocked and bullied at school because of it all.

And this journal, and the art, it’s not enough anymore.  I can’t do it.  I’m ready to free fall from life, to plunge into the unknown.

I’m ready to let death take me away from this place.  I don’t care what’s waiting for me on the other side.  It has to be better than this . . .