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Posts tagged “love letters

A Tiny Thumbelina Tale

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imagesPinch me because I must be dreaming. Today we have another amazing addition to the Blogger Compilation Project better known as F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES (I know, I know, the asterisk fools no one, but I’m trying to class my blog up, okay?)

Anyway, this little bit o’ tome comes from none other than our very own Beach Bunny Sandy Floyd, better known to Blogworld as Sandylikeabeach. Her take on the classic Thumbelina is as witty, clever and brilliant as this tiny writing powerhouse is herself. Please to enjoy, A TINY THUMBELINA TALE.

 

by Sandy Floyd 

It was a dark and stormy night. Not really, but I always wanted to start the story of my life with that line. I have no idea if it was a dark and stormy night on the night of my birth or if I was even born at night. I was just a baby so I have no clear memories of the event. I’m not even sure I should start at the beginning. So let’s begin again.

I’m special. Well, as special as a person can be in a world populated by people, each one thinking he or she is special. Of course, if we’re all special, then special isn’t really special. It’s ordinary. It is the normal order of things. But I’m the Abby Normal of ordinary though my name isn’t Abby.

I wish it was Abby. Christ! I got stuck with an awful name. I swear to God, if there is one, that if I ever have children I will not stick them with some cutesy or super esoteric or just plain fucking weird name. And the lovely name that was bestowed on me? Thumbelina. What the fuck? Who names a kid Thumbelina? What the hell is a Thumbelina? I loathed my name. I shortened it to Tina. However, there was always that one teacher who insisted on calling every child by his or her proper name, no nicknames allowed. And of course, the first day of school each year my embarrassing name would be called out and I would have to acknowledge it and then say, “But I just go by Tina.” Then the more compassionate teachers would make a note on their rosters but the damage was done. The more obnoxious poets among my class liked to chant “Tiny Tina, Thumbelina” whenever I happened by.

Of course, even without the embarrassing weird name, I still would have been teased because of the tiny thing. Just as it’s not easy being green, it’s not easy being tiny and tiny is what I am though I’m not green and tiny, just tiny. Though now that I think about it, if green is the color of your species, then how hard can it be to be green? And if tiny is the size of your species, then being tiny wouldn’t be hard either, but tiny is not the size of my species so being tiny is not easy except that it is easy to be overlooked and easy to be treated like a child and easy to be thought of as younger than you really are which will be nice when I get older.

I am a very small person though not dwarf small, and unlike most dwarfs, I am exquisitely proportioned. But if other people didn’t feel compelled to state the obvious by telling me how small I am, I would rarely think about my lack of height unless I needed to get something off the top shelf at the grocery store. Of course, I’m sure one of the functions of the lowest shelf is to serve as a step for those of us who are vertically challenged to reach the stuff we need that is always on the top shelf. And I will admit to always being surprised when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or some sort of reflective surface standing next to a normal sized person. Honest to God, again, if there is one, I look like a miniature person.

So despite all my name loathing during my formative years living on a farm with my foster mother after being abandoned as an infant with a note pleading for someone to take care of “our little Thumbelina” thus dooming me to a lifetime of name loathing and forever linking me to a shadowy group of people with weird names, my feelings about my name took a somewhat nuanced turn. Translation: I figured out how to cash in.

Upon my successful completion of high school, I knew college was a financial impossibility. I also knew that I did not want to spend the best years of my life waiting on people be it as a waitress or a retail worker. Cubicle life sounded no better. So having no moral compass, or any compass at all, I decided to put my decidedly good looks, flexibility and passion for my passion to good use. I became a tiny stripper and Thumbelina was my tiny stripper name even though that name is not tiny and doesn’t often, or possibly ever, come up in that internet what is your stripper name thing. But I was dancing and dancing made me happy. It also made me money.

Now some people might think stripping is demeaning and they have valid arguments and indeed, I would agree it is demeaning if the stripping is involuntary. However, if stripping is a personal choice, there is power in that choice. And pardon the obvious use of the word, but stripped of its moral questions, at its heart, it is art expressed in a very specific form of dance. The best strippers embrace this. I know I did, and I was one of the best. I even won the International Pole Dance Championship a couple of years ago. Though to be fair, Miss Australia probably would have won if she hadn’t had that embarrassingly awkward slide down the pole. A little lube goes a long way.

You might not think that a strip club would be the best place to meet the love of your life and before it happened to me, I would have agreed with you, but then it happened to me though the actual meeting thing took place in a coffee shop across the street from the club, but that first sighting was in the club. He was part of a bachelor party though not the part that was The Bachelor. He was just one of The Bachelor’s buddies helping The Bachelor celebrate one of his last nights of bachelorhood.

He didn’t look like the usual regulars, but boy, did he look good. He had this tall, dark and handsome bad boy with the scruffy beard thing going on even though he wasn’t particularly tall or dark, but he was definitely handsome. And he had that scruffy beard thing which looks great on a male model, though male might be redundant because no one ever thinks a scruffy beard would look good on a female model, but I’m not typically a fan of the scruffy facial hair decision. It’s not even a decision. It’s a mark of indecision. Make a choice, already. Grow a beard or shave, but damn, it looked good on him.

I could have looked at him all night. I didn’t, because I also wanted my usual haul of tips and it’s not just the dancing that does the trick, you have to make eye contact and smile at everyone to make the most tips. But I did glance his way every now and then, and each time, he was looking at me, but not in the way the usual strip club attendee does. When our eyes would meet, he smiled ever so slightly. It was warm and sweet and it felt like we were the only two people in the room.

After my shift that night, a couple of the other dancers and I headed to the coffee shop for our usual after work confab. We settled in a booth and that’s when I noticed him. He was at the counter and he was alone. I’ve never been a big fan of fate, but fate might be a fan of me, because as fate would have it, Amber’s phone rang.

“Ugh, that was the sitter,” she said as she returned her phone to her handbag. “I’ve got to get home.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No. Jason has a touch of a fever so I need to get home. See you later, TIna.”

“You going, too?” I asked Nina.

“Yeah, she’s my ride tonight. Good night, TIna.”

“Bye NIna, bye Amber. Hope Jason’s feeling better soon.”

The girls had no sooner walked out the door when the scruffy beard guy appeared at my table.

“Mind if I join you? I’ve never been a fan of eating alone.” His voice was like velvet – soft and smooth. A voice that could be on the radio, maybe a classic rock station or maybe even smooth jazz although much of what smooth jazz stations play isn’t even jazz, it’s more yesterday’s pop and soft rock.

“Um,” I hesitated because it’s usually not a good idea to get involved with customers, but he was good looking and he smelled good, or maybe that was the bacon cooking in the kitchen, but he looked and seemed to smell good enough to eat and I was hungry.

“It’s just a little food and conversation,” he said. And then he smiled.

“Yeah, company would be great.” I smiled back.

He slid into the booth across from me and smiled that smile. “I’m Cooper.”

I wasn’t sure if Cooper was his first name or last name, so I asked. My foster mom always told me I shouldn’t ask too many personal questions too soon, but how else do you find out stuff that you’d be wondering about and all that wondering would keep you from being able to concentrate on the conversation. And I was going to need all the help with concentration because I wasn’t really thinking about having a conversation with him, if you catch my drift.

“It’s my first name. It’s a little unusual but I like it.”

“It’s a great name. I’m..”

“Thumbelina. The tiny dancer.”

“I go by TIna.”

“How’d you come up with Thumbelina for a stage name?”

“It’s my real name. And you thought Cooper was unusual.”

He laughed and his laugh was even better than his smile. “Well, I think Thumbelina is a beautiful name. It rhymes with ballerina and you are an exquisitely beautiful dancer.”

He had me at ‘exquisitely,’ or maybe he had me at ‘mind if I join you.’ It doesn’t really matter when he had me, much like it doesn’t matter when the heart finds love, only that it does and mine did that night. We talked for hours or it seemed that way. At last, we noticed the night was easing into dawn and we made our way to the parking lot. He asked me where I was parked and I pointed to my car.

“I’m right next to you,” he said.

“That’s your bike? It’s gorgeous.” Though I didn’t add ‘just like you,’ but I was thinking it.

“Yeah, you like bikes?”

“I’ve never been on one but it looks like fun.”

“It’s just about the most fun you can have with your clothes on.”

“I always thought that about dancing, but of course, I don’t always keep my clothes on for that.”

He laughed. “Here’s my number. Call me and we’ll go for a ride. And you can keep your clothes on the whole time.”

I smiled at him and climbed in my car. “It was nice meeting you, Cooper.”

“See you soon, tiny dancer.”

A few days later I had my first bike ride. I climbed on the bike behind him and as I wrapped my arms around his waist I said, “I think this is going to be the best part of the ride.”

He laughed. “Not by a long shot. Hang on.”

And off we went. He was partially right. Holding on to him wasn’t the best part, but it wasn’t the best part by a long shot. It was a very close second. The ride was exhilarating. Sitting behind him, looking over his shoulder, the wind in my face was a great feeling. We spent the afternoon on country roads, stopping here and there to admire the scenery or grab a bite to eat.

It was just like one of those Hollywood movie montages the writers employ because they suck at writing dialogue. And it did feel like one of those too good to be true but wouldn’t it be lovely if it could happen to me Hollywood scenarios right up until it turned into a killer zombie movie but without the killer zombies, but Killer Bees instead. But not African killer bees, but the biker gang. I know it sounds like a silly name, but the backs of their jackets have this evil looking killer bee and they used a sinister typeface for the name, so it doesn’t just sound silly, it looks silly, too. But I kept my silly thoughts to myself.

We ran into the Killer Bees at Roady Toadies, a little dive bar on the outskirts of town. Of course, we didn’t know the bikes we saw outside meant there were Killer Bees inside. In fact, Cooper said he recognized one of the bikes as belonging to a friend of his. We walked inside and let our eyes adjust to the light after being in the bright sun. Cooper spotted his friend and we headed over to where he was sitting.

“Jack, this is Thumbelina. Thumbelina, this is my good friend, Jack Sparrow.”

“Like the Johnny Depp character?”

“No,” Jack said. “I had the name first but I like to think he got his character’s inspiration from me.”

Cooper laughed and said, “I think he got the inspiration from Keith Richards.”

I smiled at Jack. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”

“Likewise. Thumbelina, huh? That’s not a name you hear everyday.”

“No, it’s not,” I replied, except that I was hearing it more today then I usually do and right about then, a loud voice behind me bellowed my name again.

“Thumbelina! I’d recognize that ass anywhere even covered in jeans.”

I turned around and there was the biggest Killer Bee I had ever seen. Of course, it was the first Killer Bee I had ever seen so thinking it was the biggest one ever was a big mistake. Behind the loudmouth Killer Bee, were more Killer Bees and they were even bigger than Mr. Bigmouth which was how I was coming to think of him. Mr. Bigmouth didn’t look familiar and I had never seen men attired in Killer Bee attire in the Pussycats club. But he was looking at me, the way hungry men look at a grilled steak.

And before I could reply, Mr. Bigmouth looked around at his buddies and said, “Boys, this is your lucky day. We have a celebrity in our midst. This here itty bitty thing is Thumbelina, stripper extraordinaire!” Then he looked at me and said, “I watch your World Pole Dance routine on YouTube all the time.” He glanced at Cooper and added, “She won the championship a couple of years ago. You know that?”

“No, I didn’t, but I can’t say I’m surprised. She is quite extraordinary.”

If I hadn’t already fallen in love with Cooper, I would have right then especially since he didn’t know about how Miss Australia should have won except for that embarrassing slip or in her case, slide down the pole.

But Mr. Bigmouth wasn’t done. “Why don’t you dance for us Thumbelina? Just climb right up on the bar and show us what you got.”

“You can see me dance at Pussycats,” I replied in an even tone.

“I want to see you dance right now!”

Cooper stepped between us, “Leave the lady alone.”

“She ain’t no lady.”

And then Cooper slugged Mr. Bigmouth.

“I’m not a fan of double negatives either, but I usually refrain from hitting the illiterate,” I said to him.

“I would have slugged him even if he was grammatically correct. No one gets away with saying you’re not a lady.”

But before we could congratulate ourselves on just how clever our repartee was becoming, all hell broke loose. It was the three of us, okay two of us because I’m not much good in a fight and I’m really tiny, against all those Killer Bees. Fists were flying, glass was breaking and I was ducking. I could feel strong arms around me pulling me backwards and then everything went dark.

I wasn’t unconscious, just locked in a closet. I banged on the door, but I guess Cooper couldn’t hear me over all the noise of the fight and last I saw, he and Jack seemed to be on the losing end. After what seemed like an hour but was probably much shorter because everything seems to take longer when you’re locked inside a closet, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. My heart stopped, but not because I got shot but because I was afraid of who might have. I could hear voices but I couldn’t make out what was being said or who was talking. Then it got quiet again, so I started banging on the door and screaming to be let out.

The door opened and a rather mousey looking woman was standing there.

“It’s all right, dear. Toadie put you in there. He thought you’d be safer in there.” She smiled at me and there was kindness in her eyes.

“Toadie is a real person?” I couldn’t believe how many people had parents that made such bad choices when naming their kids.

The mousey woman laughed. “Oh, he’s real all right, but Toadie is a nick name he picked up when he was a roadie for Z Z Top back in the day. I’m Mrs. Fields, Toadie’s mother. I help out in the kitchen.”

I refrained from asking her for a chocolate chip cookie and instead asked about my friends.

“Well, they’re a little banged up, but no permanent damage. Come and see for yourself.”

She led me through the kitchen and into the bar. I spotted Toadie right away because he looked like a toad, kind of like how that senator looks like a turtle. Toadie was holding a shotgun but when he saw me, he smiled and said, “Sorry to stick you in the closet like that, but a bar fight is no place for such a pretty little lady.”

“No worries, Toadie. Thanks for looking out for me.” I was looking around for Cooper and Jack. “Where are my friends?”

“They’re in the john cleaning themselves up. Those Killer Bees did a number on them, but as badass as they think they are when you point a shotgun in their general direction and let it discharge, they run away like little girls.”

I laughed. Then I heard a noise behind me.

“She does have an incredible ass, Coop.”

I turned around and flew into Cooper’s arms. “Everything about her is incredible,” Cooper replied.

“I think I’m in love,” I sighed.

He smiled at me, “I know I am.”

Jack said his goodbyes and left the bar. Cooper looked at me, “Ready to ride off into the sunset to that happily ever after place?”

“I’ve always wanted to do that. Especially if that place has a bed big enough for two.”

He held my hand as we walked out of the bar. We climbed on his bike and he looked back at me.

“Too bad it’s midnight,” he said.

“Midnight will do.”


Romantic Monday – Ode To Erik Estrada

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As a kid growing up I had lots of crushes on boys and sometimes men, most of them actors on television. One of the earliest crushes I had was on a certain Latin actor named Erik Estrada, better known as Officer Francis “Ponch” Poncherello on a little show called CHiPs.

Anyway, what I remember most about that time were my prepubescent fantasies of a chance romantic encounter with Senor Estrada. Seeing that he is Puerto Rican, I had always imagined learning to speak Spanish in order to impress him when we finally met. I envisioned a mall scenario where my bilingual ability would impress him enough to set me apart from all the other adoring fans. Enough for him to invite me into his van (Note to all you youngsters out there- all sexy guys in the 80′s had vans. And mustaches, but that’s another blog post). So for my weekly offering to Romantic Monday I bring you:

AN ODE TO ERIK ESTRADA

I stand in a line that stretches the length of the mall, sipping my Orange Julius, waiting patiently for the Latin object of my preteen desire to sign my copy of Dynamite Magazine. I size up the competition standing between me and my love while I wait. I count ten blonde heads in all.

They must have known someone to get in line in front of me, I tell myself in consolation. I’ve been here since five a.m. goddamn it. No one loves Erik Estrada more than I do.

I do little to hide my glee as I watch girl after eager girl dismissed with an autograph but without a second glance. Little by little I inch closer to the man who I am convinced will someday make me his bride. Anticipating a kiss, I pop a stick of Zebra Stripe gum into my mouth as I wait patiently for him to notice me.

Finally I reach him- sitting behind a table, his glorious dark hair feathered just so. My heart races as I pass him my magazine, intentionally brushing my hand against his as I do. He doesn’t look up as I ask for his autograph, and I can tell he thinks I am just another groupie only interested in the celebrity that surrounds him.

Oh Erik, my love, I am determined to prove you wrong!

He heaves a heavy sigh as he scribbles his name and without looking up says, “Is this it?”

I catch a glimpse of my braces reflected in the lenses of the RayBans a top his head as I smile and say, “Si.”

He slowly raises his eyes to mine. We stare at each other for what seems like forever…the two of us locked in a gaze of pure intimacy.

“You speak Spanish?” he finally asks, clearly impressed with my dedication to learning all that I can about him.

I answer clearly. “Si.”

In an instant he’s up and around the table. He grabs my hand and pulls me quickly through the crowd of jealous teenage rejects to the exit doors that empty into the alley behind the mall. There awaits a van, his van, the site of my soon-to-be epic deflowering.

He slides the door open and hops in, reaching a hand out to pull me inside. Once I’m in he slides the door closed and tells me to make myself comfortable. I lay down on a purple silk bed built into the rear of the van while he twists the cap off a wine cooler and then pushes play on a cassette tape. David Bowie’s China Girl pours out of the speakers as he hands me my Bartles & James and says, “I want you to be my only Chica…”

My voice trembles as I say, “Si.”

He takes the drink from my hand and sets it down before he pulls me in close to him. The intoxicating scent of Aqua Velva mingled with Latin machismo emanates from his skin leaving me dizzy and breathless. He breathes in deep my own scent of Jean Nate and teenage lust as his hands move slowly to my back, working their way under my shirt. My skin is soft to him and smells “delicious.” He asks if he can taste me.

My breasts heave as I say, “Si.”

Sliding his hands up my body, he brings them to my face and then leans in to place sweet, gentle kisses at the corners of my lips, his tongue working its way into my mouth, tasting me as promised. His kiss is passionate and deep and makes me feel like the woman I am desperate to be. He asks if I want more.

Our breath mingles as I pant, “Si.”

I feel the beat of his heart racing with mine and the intensity of his desire through the denim of his Jordache for Men. My hand finds its way to his manhood straining against his jeans. I let my hand linger, teasing him. He begs me to set him free.

I whisper, “Si.”

I let loose the top button just as strong hands stop me, holding me in place. My beautiful Latin lover stares down at me with dark brown eyes and whispers, “You’re eighteen, right?”

I smile as I lie.

“Si.”

FOR EVEN MORE ROMANTIC MONDAYS VISIT:

Edward Hotspur – Bittersweet Perfection

Frederique – Romance

Suzy – Romantic

Hastywords and Hotspur – Your Love Is Like…

Mimsy – Come Drink My Coffee

Sheila – Yes

Suzy – Teaching

Gin and Tulips – Uncurl Me

Running Naked With Scissors – The Drawing

The Cheeky Diva – Woooo Hoooo!!!

Hastywords – A Weekend Romance

Kayjai’s Blog – Sheila And Gilbert

PMAO – A Romantic Song

Benzeknees – Romantic Monday III


CITIZENS OF BLOGWORLD – I BESEECH YOU

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My fellow Blogglanders,

I’d like to take a moment to step outside of the humor box and use my blog post today as an opportunity to spread awareness for a cause I truly believe in.

There comes a time in the lives of all bloggers when we find a need to step back and reflect on our journey through the virtual utopia that is Blogworld. Some of us have come here to broaden our horizons and to find inspiration within the photo or travel blogs that pepper the Freshly Pressed page. Many of us find comfort and community amongst the animal lover or mommy blogs of WordPress. Still others use their blog to extract humor from the banality of the workday life and to share their plight with the blog world around them.

But once in a great while there comes a blogger who stands out among the rest- a blogger who effortlessly straddles the line between tragedy and comedy. A blogger who bucks convention with his often times controversial opinions on the validity of religion or the sanctity of marriage or the awesomeness of Star Trek. A blogger who challenges the status quo, strives to enlighten both men and women alike, and who boldly laughs in the face of clowns.

It is this singular blogger who I believe can deliver us all into an era of change and lead us down a path of righteousness and light. That is why I, Hellis of Bloggerland, am asking its citizens for their support and their vote for EDWARD HOTSPUR as champion of the BLOGGER IDOL contest.

“Amongst the weeds of the world, a flower grows…”

CAST YOUR VOTE FOR EDWARD HOTSPUR HERE:


***DATELINE – SANTA***

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// — NEWSLINE: NORTH POLE — //

Reuters

North Pole – The North Pole District Attorney announced today that his office would continue to pursue the prosecution of Santa Claus in spite of a new setback to Claus as his attorney, Jose Baez, removed himself from the growing Claus case after a successful appeal in the Pole Court.

Santa Claus, arraigned on a host of charges ranging from workplace safety violations and fraud, to prostitution and drug possession, now faces an uncertain future with a court-appointed advocate.

“I know this appears to be an abandonment of a major and beloved public figure, but I cannot in good conscience continue to represent Mr. Claus,” Baez said in a prepared press release yesterday.

When asked for a response, the DA merely said to reporters, “Mr. Baez’ statement says it all.”

Recent developments, however, have also added to the workload of the NPDA and his staff. In a heated court exchange last week, the DA was arguing for an injunction against Gloria Allred, the surprise attorney for Mrs. Claus in the concurrent and bitter divorce proceedings associated with this case. The DA requested the injunction due to the administrative burden Ms. Allred is apparently creating for the entire staff.

An unnamed source close to the DA, on the condition of anonymity, provided voice recordings, allegedly of the DA, stating, “If that bitch cries on the courthouse steps one more time, I’m going to personally rip out her uterus with salad tongs.”

In response, a representative for Ms. Allred stated that she would not stoop to the levels implied by that leak, but was very hurt by the implication that she even had reproductive organs.

Sources in the local legal community speculated that the DA is in fact overwhelmed with media requests and related issues.

“We just don’t get this kind of circus up here,” said one lawyer when asked about the issue, who went on to point out that the prior week was the break point for the DA’s Staff, which featured daily press conferences by Allred, as well as an appearance by Reverend Al Sharpton, who stood with Santa Claus after a prayer for justice.

“This is yet another example of the Establishment using its power in racist ways,” Sharpton said. “Santa Claus is a victim of racism, and we stand with him in his time of need. He is a brother, no matter white he is.”

The Sharpton rally soon turned violent, elevating this sleepy town to global attention, and the North Pole is now the growing focus of an Occupy rally, adding to the confusion here.

In light of all this publicity, one judge on the North Pole Circuit did say for the record, “The sooner this mess is over with, the better.”

FOLLOW THE DEBACLE:

SANTA SPAM PART ONE

SANTA SPAM PART TWO

SANTA SPAM PART THREE

SANTA SPAM UPDATE

UPDATE SANTA CLAUS

TRENDING NOW – SANTA CLAUS


Happy Blogiversary To Me!

COVER

TODAY IS THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF MY BLOG! TO COMMEMORATE THIS AUSPICIOUS OCCASION I HAVE DECIDED TO RERUN MY VERY FIRST BLOG POST.

PLEASE TO ENJOY…

So yeah, I wrote a book.

I must have been high when I wrote it because there’s no other explanation I can give for my 120,000 word upper YA novel where the only noun I used more than “boner” was “blood.” It goes without saying that I’m self-published. I didn’t even try to submit it traditionally. Can you just imagine the poor agent who gets my query letter?

“My novel, THE GODS OF ASPHALT is complete at 120,000 words and is the first in a series of five books that for some reason I’ve decided to write out-of-order. Each one is told from the point of view of a teenage male protagonist who has exactly zero supernatural powers (unless you consider perpetual erections a superpower). Oh, and it also has Spanish subtitles.”

Yeah.

On the good side, if you’re like me and are just a little too into music, motorcycles and all around badassery this is the book for you. If you’re not, I’m sure Jodi Picoult’s got a blog somewhere. You can find the opening to chapter one at the top of the page under the tab GOA REVIEWS and you can find my book on line at:

SMASHWORDS

AMAZON


Gosh A Damn…

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Against my better judgement, I had a conversation with my mother about my bright idea to help her start her own blog. That may sound like a good idea, until you discover that this all happened long distance over the phone. Since misery loves company, I had the presence of mind to put her on speaker phone and record it all for you to hear.

Sadly, WordPress does not allow me to upload wave files, so you all will be deprived of nearly ninety minutes of my aural torture. Below is a video that recreates the experience as closely as I’ve been able to find.


My Secret Admirer – Twenty-Two

CLICK ME

It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did not have a winner, so click the trophy to the right for another timely post.

Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

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Dearest Ruth,

I loved seeing you again last Thursday. It was hard waiting to see you, but you are a busy lady. And then, when we were together, it was really hard to talk to you. I know you asked me questions, but I found it difficult to get the words out. I’m not like that all the time. Anyway, I couldn’t help but stare at you the entire time, and I was wondering if you’d like to get together sometime outside of work.

I loved staring at your face. I love that you let me. I love everything about it, from the lower lashes, to the slight jowling, to the 47 nose hairs – I feel like I had time to know you, thanks to your patience. You are amazing!

I hope you will accept, because I have this great idea to get some caramel fondue and Oreo cookies at this dessert shop I found. And you already know I’ll have clean teeth and a good smile!

Love ya,

Dean

************

Dear Dean,

Or should I say, Dr. Smith? Because that’s how you need to address your employees. I didn’t put myself through Dental Hygienist school just to be hit on by my boss. Oh, and by the way, it’s really kind of twisted to make me put hard candies out for the patients to eat. I know it’s a tough economy, but there’s got to be a better way to drum up business. And no, I am not talking about your idea to approach Hooters as an investor. Topless dentistry is an idea that will never take off, mark my words.

So before I file a complaint with the A.D.A., please refrain from further referring to me as your “Little Mouth Wrangler.”

Regards,

H.E. Ellis

CLICK THE HEART BELOW FOR THIS WEEK’S SECRET ADMIRER:

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Love Letters Gone Wrong – Twenty-Two

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It’s time for another round of LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG! Every Friday I feature a LOVE LETTER GONE WRONG submitted by an anonymous blogger. Sunday morning I reveal the secret admirer’s identity with a link to the blogger’s home page. If you’d like to submit some truly heinous love letters please send them to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

This week’s love letter one wrong was written by a blogger who commented on the THINGS YOU CAN’T UNSEE post. Check out this post and then return to the comments here to guess who the secret admirer is. The first correct guess wins a free copy of my ebook.

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Dearest Ruth,

I loved seeing you again last Thursday. It was hard waiting to see you, but you are a busy lady. And then, when we were together, it was really hard to talk to you. I know you asked me questions, but I found it difficult to get the words out. I’m not like that all the time. Anyway, I couldn’t help but stare at you the entire time, and I was wondering if you’d like to get together sometime outside of work.

I loved staring at your face. I love that you let me. I love everything about it, from the lower lashes, to the slight jowling, to the 47 nose hairs – I feel like I had time to know you, thanks to your patience. You are amazing!

I hope you will accept, because I have this great idea to get some caramel fondue and Oreo cookies at this dessert shop I found. And you already know I’ll have clean teeth and a good smile!

Love ya,

Dean


My Secret Admirer – Twenty-One

CLICK ME

It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did have a winner, so click the trophy to the right for this week’s winning blogger.

Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

*****************

Maybe it was your name, and how Heellis reminded me of the high heels I fantasized you wearing, or maybe it was the way you smelled as you walked past me, not seeing me hiding behind the flower pot. Whatever it was, I am in love and I want you, even for a minute. I have this ring that it stole from my dead grandmother and I want you to have it, I want you to wear it, forever.

I know you love another, but that can change, anything can change if we want it to. Forget him, I am better, stronger, faster. I am the Bionic man, I am Superman, I am Spider man, I can be your hero if you let me.

As I sit in front of my computer, looking at porn, I think of you and I think of us, and how wonderful it would be if you said yes to a date. Just a date you say, but for me it would be the world. So what if I am 53 and never had a date. I watch movies, I know how to act, even if they don’t believe me. They who work here, and watch me and give me the medications it takes to help me deal with my insanity.

For you I would do anything. For you I would trade this straight jacket for a tuxedo and sweep you off your heels and …I love heels…I am getting sidetracked again, it is like that when the voices in your head talk constantly now where was I? Sweep you off your feet and into my arms.

So what do you say? Do you want to date? Let me know, or better still, let the guards in my cell know that you want to date.

Yours truly,

Sam

***************

Sam,

How touching it is that you care so much. I can tell you are devoted and loyal, and believe me, you will be rewarded. I think it is quite appropriate and fitting that you watch movies, especially porn, which by now should have exposed you to what you will be in for.

By way of a taste of our time together, let me say that while I find the offer of your grandmother’s ring touching, the only ring I will accept from you is the one I want binding your collar closed. Until we are together, please imagine what I have planned, beginning with me oh-so-gently slipping the ball gag into your devoted mouth, cinching it tight, and then whispering in your ear:

“NOW LICK MY FUCKING STILETTOS CLEAN, YOU NASTY LITTLE MAGGOT BITCH!”

I assume you have no aversions to whips given your situation.

Always,

H.e. ELLis

CLICK THE HEART BELOW FOR THIS WEEK’S SECRET ADMIRER:

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Love Letters Gone Wrong – Twenty-One

i-love-high-heels-sex-and-the-city-t-shirts

It’s time for another round of LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG! Every Friday I feature a LOVE LETTER GONE WRONG submitted by an anonymous blogger. Sunday morning I reveal the secret admirer’s identity with a link to the blogger’s home page. If you’d like to submit some truly heinous love letters please send them to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

This week’s love letter one wrong was written by a blogger who commented on the TOP TEN SPaM post. Check out this post and then return to the comments here to guess who the secret admirer is. The first correct guess wins a free copy of my ebook.

**********************

Maybe it was your name, and how Heellis reminded me of the high heels I fantasized you wearing, or maybe it was the way you smelled as you walked past me, not seeing me hiding behind the flower pot. Whatever it was, I am in love and I want you, even for a minute. I have this ring that it stole from my dead grandmother and I want you to have it, I want you to wear it, forever.

I know you love another, but that can change, anything can change if we want it to. Forget him, I am better, stronger, faster. I am the Bionic man, I am Superman, I am Spider man, I can be your hero if you let me.

As I sit in front of my computer, looking at porn, I think of you and I think of us, and how wonderful it would be if you said yes to a date. Just a date you say, but for me it would be the world. So what if I am 53 and never had a date. I watch movies, I know how to act, even if they don’t believe me. They who work here, and watch me and give me the medications it takes to help me deal with my insanity.

For you I would do anything. For you I would trade this straight jacket for a tuxedo and sweep you off your heels and …I love heels…I am getting sidetracked again, it is like that when the voices in your head talk constantly now where was I? Sweep you off your feet and into my arms.

So what do you say? Do you want to date? Let me know, or better still, let the guards in my cell know that you want to date.

Yours truly,

Sam


My Secret Admirer – Twenty

CLICK ME

It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did not have a winner, so click the trophy to the right for a timely post from Edward Hotspur.

Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

***************

Dear Heloise Ecclesiastes Ellis,

 

I remember the first time I laid eyes on you.  I was in kindergarten.  You wore a blue dress and smelled of huckleberry (I distinctly remember it as huckleberry because even back then I was looking stuff up on Wikipedia).  I moved in closer to admire you as you finger-painted fiery orange and red and black with a yellow stripe running down the middle of the artpaper.  I touched the gauzy film of your petticoat and you punched me in the face, shattering my nose in thirty-two places. It was only later that I realized what a gift that was, as my new proboscis bears an uncanny resemblance to Edward Hotspur’s penis.

 

As we grew older in the small town of Valentine (I’ve always wanted to give you one—a small town, not a Valentine), I realized that even though I could sing and dance, I wasn’t gay enough to keep from wanting you, even after I figured out that you are a woman—a small woman with big breasts and all the energy of a Red Bull factory wired by Nikola Tesla while Benjamin Franklin flies a kite on top of the building with a key attached to the string with a 12 gauge copper wire attached to the key so that when the whole thing electrifies from lightening, it is conducted back to the factory, which is you I think, though I got kind of lost when I started talking about wiring, as I’m not an electrician.

 

As the years flew by and you became more stacked and stacked tire after tire after tire in that random field by the pond (I worked at the Goodyear Plant and would dump them there just to give you something to do), I began to realize that you would never love me, not like you love Prince Charming and Junior.  And I knew that the shit I say would never be as meaningful as the shit your kids say, but I would yell “Shit, shit, shit?” as I hauled tires back and forth, and you would post pictures of snowy trees on your blog and I knew you saw me in every frozen leaf, especially the ones where I actually glued my picture to the leaf,  with Edward’s Penis above my lips, those lips screaming out from every gluey leaf, screaming, “Love me, Love me, Love me!”

 

I know you think needy men are pussies, but it isn’t so much need as the desire of several teenage boys wrapped together like a duct-taped suitcase filled with the masculine love of an older, unneedy salt and pepper gentleman with a moustache (moustache rides are free by the way).

 

And then, one day, I was up on the roof with a couple of tires I’d hauled up there (I thought that would be a new challenge since you’re getting tired of the Thunderdome) and you said in that husky voice of yours:

 

“Hey, Asshole.  I’ve got a gun and I’m going to blow you a new one!”

 

And when that bullet went through me I knew in my heart (the bullet was actually in my heart with all the other feelings) that you really did care.  You really did.  No one shoots someone unless they really care about them, or they just wish they had a penis like Edward Hotspur’s and they’re frustrated.

 

You’re the former, not the latter.  So I climbed down the ladder, my former self wondering why I was bleeding so profusely, and you met me at the window, the same one you like to lick so much, and before I passed out, I swear we had something real between us.

 

It was a tire.

 

Love   XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

****************

Dear XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX,

I cannot begin to tell you how surprised I was to receive your letter! In fact, I came as soon as I heard the postman ring my doorbell. Sorry this took so long to respond, but the postman came to my backdoor instead.

At first I thought it was my weekly delivery of tube steak or my monthly bottle of trouser snake repellent or the latest issue of Beaver Buster catalog. You can imagine my surprise to find my postman, John Thomas, standing at attention on my doorstep holding your letter in one hand and my package in the other (my dog Bukkaki got a bone or two in the mail that day).

I want you to know that I read your letter over and over while I watched West Point’s Black Knights play the Midshipmen- after I adjusted my antenna, of course. There’s nothing better in the world to me than the feeling of beating Navy. Well, maybe Magic  Johnson with ball in his hand. Not to blow my own horn, but I was a bit of ball-handler myself back in the day.

I’d love to stay and chat, but I promised Rosy Palm and her five sisters that I’d help them polish the family jewels.

Signed,

Edward Hotspur’s Penis

 

 

CLICK THE HEART BELOW FOR THIS WEEK’S SECRET ADMIRER:

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Love Letters Gone Wrong – Twenty

eh

It’s time for another round of LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG! Every Friday I feature a LOVE LETTER GONE WRONG submitted by an anonymous blogger. Sunday morning I reveal the secret admirer’s identity with a link to the blogger’s home page. If you’d like to submit some truly heinous love letters please send them to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

This week’s love letter one wrong was written by a one of my Blogs With Books authors. Check out this page and then return to the comments here to guess who the secret admirer is. The first correct guess wins a free copy of my ebook.

 

**************

 

Dear Heloise Ecclesiastes Ellis,

 

I remember the first time I laid eyes on you.  I was in kindergarten.  You wore a blue dress and smelled of huckleberry (I distinctly remember it as huckleberry because even back then I was looking stuff up on Wikipedia).  I moved in closer to admire you as you finger-painted fiery orange and red and black with a yellow stripe running down the middle of the artpaper.  I touched the gauzy film of your petticoat and you punched me in the face, shattering my nose in thirty-two places. It was only later that I realized what a gift that was, as my new proboscis bears an uncanny resemblance to Edward Hotspur’s penis.

 

As we grew older in the small town of Valentine (I’ve always wanted to give you one—a small town, not a Valentine), I realized that even though I could sing and dance, I wasn’t gay enough to keep from wanting you, even after I figured out that you are a woman—a small woman with big breasts and all the energy of a Red Bull factory wired by Nikola Tesla while Benjamin Franklin flies a kite on top of the building with a key attached to the string with a 12 gauge copper wire attached to the key so that when the whole thing electrifies from lightening, it is conducted back to the factory, which is you I think, though I got kind of lost when I started talking about wiring, as I’m not an electrician.

 

As the years flew by and you became more stacked and stacked tire after tire after tire in that random field by the pond (I worked at the Goodyear Plant and would dump them there just to give you something to do), I began to realize that you would never love me, not like you love Prince Charming and Junior.  And I knew that the shit I say would never be as meaningful as the shit your kids say, but I would yell “Shit, shit, shit?” as I hauled tires back and forth, and you would post pictures of snowy trees on your blog and I knew you saw me in every frozen leaf, especially the ones where I actually glued my picture to the leaf,  with Edward’s Penis above my lips, those lips screaming out from every gluey leaf, screaming, “Love me, Love me, Love me!”

 

I know you think needy men are pussies, but it isn’t so much need as the desire of several teenage boys wrapped together like a duct-taped suitcase filled with the masculine love of an older, unneedy salt and pepper gentleman with a moustache (moustache rides are free by the way).

 

And then, one day, I was up on the roof with a couple of tires I’d hauled up there (I thought that would be a new challenge since you’re getting tired of the Thunderdome) and you said in that husky voice of yours:

 

“Hey, Asshole.  I’ve got a gun and I’m going to blow you a new one!”

 

And when that bullet went through me I knew in my heart (the bullet was actually in my heart with all the other feelings) that you really did care.  You really did.  No one shoots someone unless they really care about them, or they just wish they had a penis like Edward Hotspur’s and they’re frustrated.

 

You’re the former, not the latter.  So I climbed down the ladder, my former self wondering why I was bleeding so profusely, and you met me at the window, the same one you like to lick so much, and before I passed out, I swear we had something real between us.

 

It was a tire.

 

Love   XXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Sidecar SPaM

*** I AM STILL BEING HELD CAPTIVE BY NINJAS- SO THIS WEEK’S SPAM IS A REBLOG OF OUR GOOD FRIEND AND PLAYER RONNIE FROM THE LIBRA CHRONICLES ***

Take one part modern-day bachelor, two parts savvy player, add a splash of Cointreau and you get THE LIBRA CHRONICLES; an unapologetic blog that asks the question, “Can a blog really make it when the writer does not try to make a blog that targets special key words, certain audiences, weight loss or fitness or celebrities or some certain NICHE?”

I didn’t know the answer to that question when I first stumbled onto Ronnie Libra’s blog, but all it took was one look at his tag cloud filled with words like SEDUCTION, KEY WEST and POLYSOMNOGRAPHY to know that I wouldn’t be bored finding out.

*** So Ronnie, you describe your blog in your WHAT IS ALL THIS INSOLENCE page as an “experiment” in finding your target audience without the use of buzz words. Has your experiment revealed the results of who your target audience is?

I bet, like my mind, my target will be “Kid in a Candy Shop.”  Or more appropriately, “Ronnie in a Bar.”  So many flavors, why just settle for the same one all the time?  

*** In your page THE SEDUCTION CHRONICLES you include stories that you describe as including the “rawness and reality” of seduction. What motivated you to include these stories?

Hundreds of posts on private seduction forums.  People who’ve read them always tell me they are very inspirational, so I figured, what the fuck…. I may as well share them with more people.  If I can reach out to that one person who get’s inspired then kick ass!  I have done my duty. 

*** In addition to dating advice you have posts that focus on philosophy and inspiration. What has inspired you recently that you’d like readers to take away from your blog?

Momentum…  Keep doing what you love… Make it happen.  Fuck failure and fuck the outcome.  Go for it anyway.  Even if you are failing, keep going because the more steps you take towards your goals the better your momentum will be to take those steps. Be cool with failing, dammit. ;)  Penicillin was a mistake. OOOOHhhhh and some kick ass music, Music is my life.  I recharge off of it.  I have a giant history in my mind of music I love and I feel that, most of my life, every day can have a theme song.   

*** Many of your posts include sometimes graphic descriptions of many of your sexual escapades. Do you find it difficult to share these experiences with your readers? And what do you hope you can pass on in the way of knowledge?

Not difficult at all.  If you read the book, “My Secret Garden” by Nancy Friday, which is a book on REAL women’s fantasies, my reports become rated PG.  ;)  I’m trying to convey the process of Seduction with my writing.  Later, I may delve more into the actual sexuality and passion as well, I’m sure I will.

Here’s what I want.  I want people to be cool with seduction.  It’s not some taboo shit.  It’s everyday reality.  It’s happening all around us.  The girl that I just looked at, while thinking, that made eye contact and looked away.  It’s natural.

I want that guy or that girl who sees that sexy motherfucker they want to meet to go do it.  Go meet that person!

*** What would you like men to take away from your blog?

I haven’t really thought about this.  Maybe inspiration.  Maybe to get a little mad or inspired inside and say, “If this asshole can do this so can I!” ;)

*** What would you like women to take away from your blog?

Women readers seem to be the main readers so far in my blog.  I would almost want to ask them, “What do you hope to find here?  or Why are you coming back? or even, “Let’s say my blog was your dirty little secret that no one would ever find out about.  What would you want it to be like?”

*** What can we expect from THE LIBRA CHRONICLES in the future?

Utter Sexy Randomness.  Chocolate, Vanilla, Strawberry and sometimes Chicken Fried Rice.  Ya, it doesn’t have to make sense.  And music.  Lots and lots of music.

Follow Ronnie at THE LIBRA CHRONICLES

Have a blog, book or music to promote? Contact me for your own feature on SPaM at heellisgoa@gmail.com


My Secret Admirer – Nineteen

CLICK ME

It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did have a winner, so click the trophy to the right for this week’s winning blogger.

Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

 

****************

Oh, Heidi, Heidi. Christ almighty,
how I do love thee?
Thy witty prose, thy way with words,
pure amazes me.

I would write for you a poem
if I only could.
But when I think about you
I part turn into wood.

It gets so hard and painful
I can scarce endure.
And in case you’re doubtful,
that’s not bull manure.

It’s not the type of wood with which
I heat my home at night.
It is instead so warm and smooth,
and could give you great delight.

But the miles that lie between us,
so many in their count,
make it so unlikely
that you I’ll ever mount.

My wife would be heartbroken
if she knew to you I write.
But I’ll be thinking of you
when I’m doing her tonight.

************************

Thank you, kind sir
for your letter to me
that I read many times
while I sat in the tree

outside of the window
that looks onto your bed
and watched you make love
to a woman in red

who called out a name
that I didn’t quite hear
and then something about
something else in her rear

that I assumed meant you’d used
a bit too much force
which makes total sense since
you’re hung like a horse

but when she complained
how it started to burn
all I could think of was,
“When’s it MY turn?”

CLICK THE HEART BELOW FOR THIS WEEK’S SECRET ADMIRER:

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Love Letter Gone Wrong – Nineteen

1085093_wooden_heart

It’s time for another round of LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG! Every Friday I feature a LOVE LETTER GONE WRONG submitted by an anonymous blogger. Sunday morning I reveal the secret admirer’s identity with a link to the blogger’s home page. If you’d like to submit some truly heinous love letters please send them to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

This week’s love letter was written by a blogger who took the time to comment on my OPEN LETTER post. Check out this post and then return to the comments here to guess who the secret admirer is. The first correct guess wins a free copy of my ebook.

Oh, Heidi, Heidi. Christ almighty,
how I do love thee?
Thy witty prose, thy way with words,
pure amazes me.

I would write for you a poem
if I only could.
But when I think about you
I part turn into wood.

It gets so hard and painful
I can scarce endure.
And in case you’re doubtful,
that’s not bull manure.

It’s not the type of wood with which
I heat my home at night.
It is instead so warm and smooth,
and could give you great delight.

But the miles that lie between us,
so many in their count,
make it so unlikely
that you I’ll ever mount.

My wife would be heartbroken
if she knew to you I write.
But I’ll be thinking of you
when I’m doing her tonight.


My Secret Admirer – Eighteen

CLICK ME

It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did have a winner, so click the trophy to the right for this week’s secret blogger.

Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

***************

Dear H,

I’ve come to realize I am the only one for you, just because I may have let’s say “taken care” of the competition. But as I am writing this note on my clip board as a wander aimlessly around your house, don’t worry as to how I managed to get in but I can say I will pay for the hole in the roof.

 

That aside I must say, your choice of furniture is peculiar but the way it is (after I’ve made alterations) set out is pure amazing… I hope you like it. The only flaw for my love for you, is that your home does not have easy access to someone of my height but that said armed with my trusty foot stool I was able to reach those hard to get spots even managing to climb into your bed, my plan was to wait for you to come home to find me waiting for you but instead I decided to unpack all my clothing into what I presume is your wardrobe, and after going through just about all your clothing and admiringly wearing some items I might just have to take you shopping so that I can buy us matching vest tops that express our love for Snow White. As part of my work being a dwarf mob boss I am pleased to say anything or anyone you want can be dealt with making it easier for us to be together, money or resources are not an issue as you can see by the new jungle gym now found in your yard.

 

I have also assigned security to your kids and they are now on route to keep them safe you might want to drop them a call and tell them that the small green bushes that follow them with guns are there for their own protection. On that note I’m off for some shopping and I have some things to take care of, ill be back in a day or two.

Lots of love from but one of the 7 dwarves who now lives with you

xOxOx

P.s I think I left a gun in one of the draws please take case as it is loaded.

***************

Dear #7 (assuming?),

I surely do appreciate the added security on the kids, and yes, I had wondered where that draft and the jungle gym equipment came from, although around here, things appear in the yard randomly anyway.

I was intrigued by the stepstool refrences through your note. I have to admit that I’ve always fantasized about being in a situation where I’m the tall one, so that is something we’ll have to explore. However – and I hope this doesn’t deflate your Vienna sausage – I do want you to bring the other six friends you mention. I can’t tell you how long I’ve yearned for being taken care of that completely. Hope you and the six of your crew are “up” to me.

Waiting in anticipation,

H.E.

CLICK THE HEART BELOW FOR THIS WEEK’S SECRET ADMIRER:

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Love Letters Gone Wrong – Eighteen

bruenor____by_direnayhan_by_Dwarves

It’s time for another round of LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG! Every Friday I feature a LOVE LETTER GONE WRONG submitted by an anonymous blogger. Sunday morning I reveal the secret admirer’s identity with a link to the blogger’s home page. If you’d like to submit some truly heinous love letters please send them to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

This week’s love letter was written by a blogger who’s new to my blogroll:

A PLACE FOR NERDS

DELIGHTFULNESS

BUDDAKAT

HOBBLING AROUND

The first correct guess wins a free copy of my ebook.

***********

Dear H,

I’ve come to realize I am the only one for you, just because I may have let’s say “taken care” of the competition. But as I am writing this note on my clip board as a wander aimlessly around your house, don’t worry as to how I managed to get in but I can say I will pay for the hole in the roof.

 

That aside I must say, your choice of furniture is peculiar but the way it is (after I’ve made alterations) set out is pure amazing… I hope you like it. The only flaw for my love for you, is that your home does not have easy access to someone of my height but that said armed with my trusty foot stool I was able to reach those hard to get spots even managing to climb into your bed, my plan was to wait for you to come home to find me waiting for you but instead I decided to unpack all my clothing into what I presume is your wardrobe, and after going through just about all your clothing and admiringly wearing some items I might just have to take you shopping so that I can buy us matching vest tops that express our love for Snow White. As part of my work being a dwarf mob boss I am pleased to say anything or anyone you want can be dealt with making it easier for us to be together, money or resources are not an issue as you can see by the new jungle gym now found in your yard.

 

I have also assigned security to your kids and they are now on route to keep them safe you might want to drop them a call and tell them that the small green bushes that follow them with guns are there for their own protection. On that note I’m off for some shopping and I have some things to take care of, ill be back in a day or two.

Lots of love from but one of the 7 dwarves who now lives with you

xOxOx

P.s I think I left a gun in one of the draws please take case as it is loaded.


My Secret Admirer – Seventeen

CLICK ME

*** TODAY IS OUR SECRET ADMIRER REVEAL AS TOMORROW IS OUR EXCLUSIVE EARTH DAY INTERVIEW WITH THE EARTH GODDESS HERSELF, GAIA ***

It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did not have a winner, so click the trophy for another whacked out post.

Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

*************

My dearest H. E.:

I am so glad I found you through the magic of the internet, because when I first laid eyes on your blog, I knew you were destined to be in a box under my bed.  Just like the girl who was kept captive in a box under someone’s bed in California in the late ’70s and early ’80s, you will of course be allowed to be outside of the box once I’m off work.  Unlike that case, though, there will be no torture involved (who do you take me for, after all?).  In fact, I won’t be abducting you while you are hitchhiking, like happened in that case, because I can’t afford the gas after all.  I just know that YOU know that you belong in a box under my bed, and you will drive here.  It would help if you’d bring the box too, because I don’t really like to do all that much when I’m not at work.  But, I will make an exception for you, because of the fact that we are destined to be together.

So, if that’s the case (that you are too lazy to build your own box) please send me all your measurements and how much extra room you think you need in the box, and I’ll commence to building the damn thing.  Let’s not overdo the size of it though; I don’t have a whole lot of headroom in the place, and I don’t really need to climb up in my bed with a stepladder.  Of course, there’ll be a lot of “headroom” in the whole place for you.  There will be “headroom” for us everywhere you and I go.  If you play your cards right, I may spend some time in your box with you.  I think the two of us might have some fun there, in your velvet-lined box.

The box will need to have ventilation, lighting, and some sort of bathroom facility built into it, so it would help if you could design all that in too.  I can tell that you are one of those modern women who can do such things, and figure all kinds of things out for yourself, and that the only time you will need to be submissive to any man is when I snap my fingers and tell you that it’s time for you to serve me in some way.

Your box will have to have an internet connection in it and you will be allowed to have a laptop, because I really enjoy your blog and you will want to keep communicating with the rest of the world with it, when you are not communicating with me by giving me lip service.  Plus you will want to work on your next novel, as we will need the extra income now that I will have an extra mouth to feed.  Maybe you could start a second blog; you could call it “Thoughts from my box” or “The world according to my box” or “I’ve got more going on in my plush little box than you do in your whole house” dot wordpress dot com, or some such thing.

Obviously you won’t need much for clothes at first; I will keep the heat up higher than I usually would while I’m at work, so that you can always be wearing nothing but lingerie.  Once I’m sure that you’ve “got your mind right” and aren’t going to think that you need more from life than a box under my bed and to serve me, daily, (hourly on weekends), then you will be allowed to spend more time outside the box.  I don’t expect you to be “thinking outside the box”, though, unless it’s to be thinking of ways to make me even happier.  I could go on and on about how much enjoyment your box will bring to both of us, but I think I’ve spent enough time fixating on your box for one night, don’t you?

Ever awaiting my chance to first lay eyes on your box,

I remain,

Your faithful servant

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Dear Faithful Servant,

How kind of you to think of giving me a box! I’ve always wanted one, you know. When I was in kindergarten I told my teacher I wanted a box and she gave me a small, narrow pink one that I didn’t think would hold anything bigger than a crayon, but somehow it accommodated even the largest pencils!

As I got a little older I told my mother I wanted a box but she said I was “confused.” Then I told the Pastor at my church about my want of a box, and he told me to pray so I wouldn’t get one. That made me really confused.

Finally I saw a doctor and told him about my box dreams. He told me to move to Colorado Springs and wear a dress for a year. Not sure what that has to do with a box, but I’ve grown to like how the silk feels against my skin.

I like the idea of you spending time with me in my box. I’m only 4’11″ so there may not be much room for you to fit. You may have to cram yourself in there. I’m sure we can make it work.

Waiting patiently for you to come fill my box,

MR. H.E. Ellis

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Love Letters Gone Wrong – Seventeen

MShippo823101

It’s time time for another round of LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG! Every Friday I feature a LOVE LETTER GONE WRONG submitted by an anonymous blogger. Sunday morning I reveal the secret admirer’s identity with a link to the blogger’s home page. If you’d like to submit some truly heinous love letters please send them to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

This week’s love letter was written by a blogger who wished my Verynormal friend Megan a HAPPY BIRTHDAY. Check out this post and then return to the comments here to guess who the secret admirer is. The first correct guess wins a free copy of my ebook.

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My dearest H. E.:

I am so glad I found you through the magic of the internet, because when I first laid eyes on your blog, I knew you were destined to be in a box under my bed.  Just like the girl who was kept captive in a box under someone’s bed in California in the late ’70s and early ’80s, you will of course be allowed to be outside of the box once I’m off work.  Unlike that case, though, there will be no torture involved (who do you take me for, after all?).  In fact, I won’t be abducting you while you are hitchhiking, like happened in that case, because I can’t afford the gas after all.  I just know that YOU know that you belong in a box under my bed, and you will drive here.  It would help if you’d bring the box too, because I don’t really like to do all that much when I’m not at work.  But, I will make an exception for you, because of the fact that we are destined to be together.

So, if that’s the case (that you are too lazy to build your own box) please send me all your measurements and how much extra room you think you need in the box, and I’ll commence to building the damn thing.  Let’s not overdo the size of it though; I don’t have a whole lot of headroom in the place, and I don’t really need to climb up in my bed with a stepladder.  Of course, there’ll be a lot of “headroom” in the whole place for you.  There will be “headroom” for us everywhere you and I go.  If you play your cards right, I may spend some time in your box with you.  I think the two of us might have some fun there, in your velvet-lined box.

The box will need to have ventilation, lighting, and some sort of bathroom facility built into it, so it would help if you could design all that in too.  I can tell that you are one of those modern women who can do such things, and figure all kinds of things out for yourself, and that the only time you will need to be submissive to any man is when I snap my fingers and tell you that it’s time for you to serve me in some way.

Your box will have to have an internet connection in it and you will be allowed to have a laptop, because I really enjoy your blog and you will want to keep communicating with the rest of the world with it, when you are not communicating with me by giving me lip service.  Plus you will want to work on your next novel, as we will need the extra income now that I will have an extra mouth to feed.  Maybe you could start a second blog; you could call it “Thoughts from my box” or “The world according to my box” or “I’ve got more going on in my plush little box than you do in your whole house” dot wordpress dot com, or some such thing.

Obviously you won’t need much for clothes at first; I will keep the heat up higher than I usually would while I’m at work, so that you can always be wearing nothing but lingerie.  Once I’m sure that you’ve “got your mind right” and aren’t going to think that you need more from life than a box under my bed and to serve me, daily, (hourly on weekends), then you will be allowed to spend more time outside the box.  I don’t expect you to be “thinking outside the box”, though, unless it’s to be thinking of ways to make me even happier.  I could go on and on about how much enjoyment your box will bring to both of us, but I think I’ve spent enough time fixating on your box for one night, don’t you?

Ever awaiting my chance to first lay eyes on your box,

I remain,

Your faithful servant


My Secret Admirer – Sixteen

CLICK ME

It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did not have a winner, so click the trophy for a timely post.

Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

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Dear Gombe:

I can’t believe we’re finally going to be together! I’m so glad I could help you out for just a few dollars. It’s amazing how much war and strife there is, and how much money is just sitting there in bank accounts! But it’s not about the money, it’s about love. And I think we have it. I want to get to know you better, of course, but I think we could spend the rest of our lives together!

Let me know when you’re coming out, or if anything goes wrong and you need some more money.

Peace and Smiles,

Chad

 

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Dear Chad,

Thank you, my beloved, for your generous donation of American dollars to my giraffe rehabilitation fund. As you know, the giraffes of my homeland suffer great indignities such as having to strain their necks to eat directly from trees and enduring scorching sunburns. For only a few thousand extra dollars you, Chad, can help fund a program that trains monkeys to remove leaves for the giraffes and therefore cut down on neck rehabilitation. The monies saved on giraffe physical therapy will be put to good use in our new Giraffe Sunblock factory; a factory that for a few extra thousand American dollars will display your name proudly.

Thank you Chad, for your generosity. I shall be in touch!

- Gombe

 

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Love Letters Gone Wrong – Sixteen

nigeria

It’s time time for another round of LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG! Every Friday I feature a LOVE LETTER GONE WRONG submitted by an anonymous blogger. Sunday morning I reveal the secret admirer’s identity with a link to the blogger’s home page. If you’d like to submit some truly heinous love letters please send them to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

This week’s love letter was written by a blogger who clicked “Liked” on the GO HERE NOW post. Check out this post and then return to the comments here to guess who the secret admirer is. The first correct guess wins a free copy of my ebook.

***************

Dear Gombe:

I can’t believe we’re finally going to be together! I’m so glad I could help you out for just a few dollars. It’s amazing how much war and strife there is, and how much money is just sitting there in bank accounts! But it’s not about the money, it’s about love. And I think we have it. I want to get to know you better, of course, but I think we could spend the rest of our lives together!

Let me know when you’re coming out, or if anything goes wrong and you need some more money.

Peace and Smiles,

Chad


My Secret Admirer – Fifteen

CLICK ME

It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did not have a winner, so click the trophy for a really out there post. I have no idea what I was thinking.

Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

Dear Hellis,
 
My significant other and I have been looking to expand our sexual horizons. Expanding our twosome to a threesome is new territory for us. We weren’t sure where to start to look for our victim playmate. We found this website, perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s called lickalottapussy.com. While the women on that site all seem willing, they  look like the skankiest skanks. Then I thought of you. Not that you’re one of the skankiest skanks or even a skank. But you’ve mentioned that it’s been awhile since you’ve been in a relationship with a man and so I’ll look great to you and your comments are filled with sexual tension and innuendo of a girl on girl nature so I know my significant other will be pleased. We’ve been following your blog for weeks now or maybe a few days. The days all run together so it’s hard to remember. I blame the alcohol or the drugs. So what do you say? The three of us together could party like rock stars and have wild monkey sex. I’m not exaggerating about the monkey sex. My back is very hairy so it will be like having sex with a monkey. My significant other is from France so she’s kinda hairy, too.
Sid & Nancy
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Dear Sid and Nancy,
While I am flattered by your very hairy offer; I am going to decline as I have been burned in my past by getting involved in threesomes. First, my husband’s best friend fell in love with me and confessed his passions through song. Soon after my divorce this “friend” and I met up at a concert. Eventually we married and in time divorced, although I did get him to write another song for me. Since that marriage didn’t work out either I’ve decided to swear off all rockstar sex and instead I’ve devoted myself to picking up man-virgins at Comic Con. It’s worked out beautifully so far. They are always so grateful!
Signed,
“Layla”

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Love Letters Gone Wrong – Fifteen

sn

It’s time time for another round of LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG! Every Friday I feature a LOVE LETTER GONE WRONG submitted by an anonymous blogger. Sunday morning I reveal the secret admirer’s identity with a link to the blogger’s home page. If you’d like to submit some truly heinous love letters please send them to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

This week’s love letter was written by a blogger who “Liked” the Shwarama SPaM post. Check out this post and then return to the comments here to guess who the secret admirer is. The first correct guess wins a free copy of my ebook.

**************

Dear Hellis,
 
My signifcant other and I have been looking to expand our sexual horizons. Expanding our twosome to a threesome is new territory for us. We weren’t sure where to start to look for our victim playmate. We found this website, perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s called lickalottapussy.com. While the women on that site all seem willing, they  look like the skankiest skanks. Then I thought of you. Not that you’re one of the skankiest skanks or even a skank. But you’ve mentioned that it’s been awhile since you’ve been in a relationship with a man and so I’ll look great to you and your comments are filled with sexual tension and innuendo of a girl on girl nature so I know my significant other will be pleased. We’ve been following your blog for weeks now or maybe a few days. The days all run together so it’s hard to remember. I blame the alcohol or the drugs. So what do you say? The three of us together could party like rock stars and have wild monkey sex. I’m not exaggerating about the monkey sex. My back is very hairy so it will be like having sex with a monkey. My significant other is from France so she’s kinda hairy, too.
 
Sid & Nancy

My Secret Admirer – Fourteen

CLICK ME

It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did have a winner, and that blogger along with the secret admirer wins a free copy of my ebook. Find out who that winner is by clicking on the trophy to your right.

Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to heellisgoa@gmail.com.

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My Dearest Helena Elizabeth,

It is I, Patricia, and I have finally gathered up enough courage to write you and ask you this very important question:
Would you give me the honor of being my Special Lady Friend without the Sex?

(Wow, it feels really awesome to, at last, get that off of my chest!)

The bond I feel with you is unlike any I have ever felt before. I was just telling my husband the other day, “Husband, she is the one for me! She, Helena Elizabeth, is the Special Lady Friend without the Sex I have been dreaming of!”

You and I have bonded over our un-managed ADHD and I know you ‘GET ME’. You had me at hello Helena, you.had.me.at.hello.

I was thinking of coming out to your house and, when I move in, it will be sooo fun to hear all of our nosy neighbors saying things like, ” Look Gladys, Helena finally got herself a Special Lady Friend without the Sex, I hear that sorta thing is all the rage in Europe”. You always were a forward thinker Helena, your town needs this kind of thing! The world is ready for us honey bunny, I just know it.

For our first Special Lady Friend without the Sex nite in, I thought we could give in to our ADHD impulses and lure that attractive UPS guy you’ve spoken about into our home, to see if he can do something about our ‘without the Sex’ arrangement. We will have to start thinking outside of the box Helena, since we won’t be touching each others’ Boxes. ( although my husband has offered his services to you if you should ever need them)

I hope you will be as GIDDY as I am with the Marriage Contracts I had drawn up for our children! My oldest girl will marry your oldest boy, your middle boy will marry my youngest girl (even though she is only 5, she is very mature for her age), and your daughter may pick one of my 2 boys as her bethrothed beloved! It’s a match made in Special Lady Friend without the Sex heaven!

I look forward to being your muse for your next book and tears are already welling up as I reflect upon the Dedication you will write to me in those 1st few precious pages:

‘For Patricia,

I never knew what inexplicable joy I was missing in my life until I met you, my Special Lady Friend without the Sex’.

Oh Helena! Isn’t it WONDERFUL? My husband is so overjoyed with the treasure I have found in you, that he is sending me off tomorrow! He keeps muttering something about ‘that frigid woman’, but I am certain the poor dear is only concerned with it being so cold in the East this time of year!

So, my little Apple Blossom, are you ready for a ‘new chapter in your book’( get it? “New chapter in your book’? Ha-ha, you are a writer and we are starting a new chapter in OUR book) to begin?

A chapter filled with adopting stray cats, long walks and tire stacking, reading Jodi Picoult novels out loud to one another, painting each others toenails, Justin Bieber concerts with our Brady Bunch, no sex-unless it’s the battery operated kind,sharing ‘how to avoid bikini razor burn’ tips, guiding one another to finding the right kind of Spanx-not to be confused with Spanks, and an eternal kind of Special Lady Friend without the Sex  love?  I know I am ready Helena, ready like an eager beaver who doesn’t want to touch your beaver.

Fondly and Forever Yours in Special Lady Friend without the Sex love,

Patricia

XOXOXOXO

(X from the side and O only on your cheek or hand)

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Dearest Patricia,

While the idea of having a “Special Lady Friend Without the Sex” sounds appealing, I am afraid that I am going to have to decline. Sadly, I’ve been down that road before, as I once had a “Special Man Friend Without the Sex.”

I called him my husband.

- Helena

CLICK THE TROPHY ABOVE FOR THE WINNER AND THE HEART BELOW FOR THIS WEEK’S SECRET ADMIRER:

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