tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28996693210841541482024-03-19T00:06:38.607-04:00It's complicatedAuthor Cindy Jacks--Mom, EX-wife, writer and all around hot messFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.comBlogger384125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-80889752555374860342019-01-01T11:58:00.001-05:002019-01-01T11:58:15.706-05:00Road Trippin'<div dir="ltr">
Good fucking riddance 2018. And that's all I've got to say about that.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fancy, fancy ceiling of the fancy, fancy hotel</td></tr>
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2019 started with a bang this morning. Quite literally...hee hee. I feel as though I should let loose my barbaric yalp (nod to good ol' Walt Whitman). New job, new man, new car (well, new to me). And new experiences! Spent New Year's Eve in Charleston, SC. Color me unimpressed with the city, but the sex was fantastic. (Sorry for the girl talk, Panda). I can highly recommend the Town and Country Inn and Suites. Lovely boutique hotel. I can also recommend jungle fucking your 33 year old boyfriend after welcoming midnight with four shots of Grey Goose, half a bottle of Apothic Brew, a large glass of champagne, and a dip in the Jacuzzi tub. Best. New. Year's. Eve. Evah!!!</div>
Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-84302077214205792042018-10-14T01:17:00.001-04:002018-10-14T01:17:32.099-04:00Some Enchanted Evening<p dir="ltr">To many, the story I'm about to lay out may not seem like anything extraordinary, but to me, it's such a change from the heaviness and pain that marred much of the past two years that only one word can describe it: enchanted.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The night began by meeting one of the few gentlemen participating in online dating. He supplied a lovely Cabernet, funny conversation, amazing kisses and then gave me a great deal of pleasure without asking for anything in return except my company. And then he sent me off to work with a homemade meal. That in and off itself was pretty damn magical. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But wait, there's more.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I drive to work and decide to stop for a Coke and a smile. The convenience store clerk serenaded me whilst ringing me up. He thanked me for being a good sport and actually he wasn't a bad singer.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I walk out to my car and it wouldn't turn over. A couple older guys, smoking in the parking lot cheerfully gave me a jump and sent me on my way.</p>
<p dir="ltr">As I sit here in my car, eating my meal and drinking a Coke, car humming and relaxed as a mofo, I wonder what planets aligned and made tonight so enchanted? I don't have an answer, but why question good fortune? I'm choosing to live in this moment, a grin on my face and a song in my heart.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Namaste,<br>
Cindy</p>
Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-33809129931215209332018-10-12T01:13:00.001-04:002018-10-12T01:42:55.582-04:00Brutality<p dir="ltr">Today, I bore witness to so much brutality, I don't even want to be part of the human race anymore. Perhaps I will self-identify as a wolverine or a honey badger or a starving polar bear or something like the aforementioned beasts, something far less vicious than a human.</p>
<p dir="ltr">No, I'm not joining the Furry movement (not that there's anything wrong with that). What the world around me today affirmed was something I already knew having spent a lot of my adult life working retail jobs: so very many people are cruel just for the sake of being cruel. Thing is cruelty has consequences and not usually for the perpetrators of said cruelty. Though really it does, it just doesn't always manifest itself immediately. Cruelty damages the soul.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I won't go into the long list of egregious behavior swirling like a perfect storm around what had been my newfound peace and prosperity. It ranged from verbal abuse to physical violation and oddly enough almost none of it was directed at me, but it affected me. I had to make some hard decisions but in the end I know they were good decisions.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Stand by a friend who made an honest but potentially disastrous mistake. Withdraw my son from an unhealthy environment and kudos to my son for seeing it for what it was long before anyone else did. Stop participating in an argument that's lasted over a decade. Any one of those decisions would have made today exhausting. All combined together and stemming from vastly different pieces of my personal jigsaw puzzle, I am leveled. When I need sleep the most it eludes me yet again.</p>
<p dir="ltr">As I lie here, smirking at the sheep I should be counting, I take comfort in the words of Morrissey: "It's so easy to laugh, it's so easy to hate, it takes strength to be gentle and kind." To all those affected by the ugliness of the day's revelations, I pray you will be strong. That's all one can do, pray and do the hard thing. Don't pay the brutality forward because then you become no better than the assholes trying to drag you into their <u>world</u> of misery.</p>
<p dir="ltr">To kinder, gentler days, my friends.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Namaste,<br>
Cindy</p>
Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-31369510518130704232018-10-10T00:00:00.000-04:002018-10-10T00:00:05.837-04:00TMI: How Much Info Is Too Much?In a new space with the ex. We're chatting about our dates from this weekend and Mr. Just Be Honest with Me tapped out. That's right. He said, and I quote, "I don't need to know all that." Okay, before you shake your head and me and agree with him, all I said was that NG (New Guy) thought it was cute that I am kinda clumsy. What kind of overshare were you thinking? For shame.<br />
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I trip. I trip a lot. And no, I'm not talking about shrooms. Hi, my name is Cindy, and I am hopelessly clumsy. I blame it on feet that are far too small for my body. Yes, I know the five foot three girl with the size nine feet reading this is telling me to cry her a river. But let's flip that script. I'm five eight with size six and a half feet. I'm buxom with hips that make grown men cry. All good things, right? Yet, I disagree. It's like putting an orange tree in a tiny terra cotta pot. That thing is gonna topple over. Yep, that's me.<br />
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But what was so offensive about the statement, as far as the ex is concerned? Slipping, falling, tripping my own feet, it's all things I've done much to my and HIS chagrin when we've been out. Oh sure, it caused us minutes of laughter, at my expense might I add. But it's not "one of our things". I was a fall hazard long before he met me and that didn't stop once we split. So what about that statement gave him pause. Well, you know me. I had to ask.<br />
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This was his reply: "The next time you stumble, I won't be the one to catch you."<br />
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Awwwww....damn. No fair, man. No fair.<br />
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So being that clumsy damsel in distress was something he found charming about me? Then why was this never expressed when I was his? All I ever heard was, "Heels are a bad choice". Why is it, the things you hate about your partner are the things you find the cutest when you've split?<br />
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Now keep in mind this topic was brought up after I expressed that NG is no fan of receiving oral sex. Whaaaaa?! IKR? I was as shocked as you are. We talked about the fact that NG is, let's say financially independent. We even discussed when NG and I would see each other again. So clumsiness didn't seem out of bounds.<br />
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Perhaps that speaks to the intimacy of detail. Someone else taking notice of something he thought was his detail. Something he and he alone ever knew about me. Who knew?<br />
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Namaste,<br />
CindyFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-73728317697534571592018-10-09T00:00:00.000-04:002018-10-09T00:00:02.294-04:00The Sound of SilenceIt's deafening. We've all been on the receiving end of it. After the ringing in your ears from the loud music subsides, when friends and lovers are away from their phones doing whatever they do when you aren't there, when the only thing you have is the sound of your own thoughts, that's when it settles in: the sound of absolute silence. It can be unnerving. It can also be the best time reflect on where you are and where you'd like to be.<br />
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Today, I'm taking time for just such quiet reflection. I know I've been self-medicating in a lot of magnificent ways. And the highs are oh so high (check out my post on the Love Drug), but the lows....do they have to be low? Or can it be time for me to put on my old faded jeans, turn off my phone, play songs only I like, and rub my dog's belly while I reflect on what a fabulous person I am, just little ole me?<br />
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There's a difference between being alone and being lonely. Today, I am alone. But I like my own company just fine. How do I know this? I know because in the past, when I wasn't enough all by myself, I needed noise. Lots and lots of noise. Binging on Netflix, texting or chatting with someone, ANYONE who was available, playing Candy Crush until I fell asleep, phone sticking to my cheek because I'd once again had one too many glasses of wine. IKR?! Very sad.<br />
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Today for the first time in ages, I have nowhere to go. No one to talk to. No one demanding my attention and no one from whom I am demanding attention. And instead of voices in my head, I have one voice. Singular and clear. It's been whispering for a while now. I've been ignoring it to a certain extent. I mean every time I listen to it I get my spirit crushed to be sure. But that was when I was obeying it for the wrong reasons. Now it speaks to me plainly. Just one word, one word that gets my heart racing and my blood pumping more than any man ever could and ever will.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtWEJl-E_4tYA1Z6VoE4IRLHhd8nioF_kDYP5z9U-mTCAKOByPGvoUx71XwPFasBqoGMSuFtRBSPxwSUDO5r1IMaDPUB162EhN3p7NYpiq-VtXdSh7rBokFH0l9bJwrMZ5onHrXb1qJpp/s1600/Write.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; clear: left; color: #0066cc; float: left; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 16px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 16px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtWEJl-E_4tYA1Z6VoE4IRLHhd8nioF_kDYP5z9U-mTCAKOByPGvoUx71XwPFasBqoGMSuFtRBSPxwSUDO5r1IMaDPUB162EhN3p7NYpiq-VtXdSh7rBokFH0l9bJwrMZ5onHrXb1qJpp/s1600/Write.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; clear: left; color: #0066cc; float: left; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></a><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtWEJl-E_4tYA1Z6VoE4IRLHhd8nioF_kDYP5z9U-mTCAKOByPGvoUx71XwPFasBqoGMSuFtRBSPxwSUDO5r1IMaDPUB162EhN3p7NYpiq-VtXdSh7rBokFH0l9bJwrMZ5onHrXb1qJpp/s320/Write.jpg" width="320" /><br />
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Yes, inner Cindy. I hear you. I know what you want and I know what you need. It's time to start writing again. And more than just this blog. And not for other people. Not what will publish or sell, but what my heart tells me to write. And this time, I'm not afraid of the silence and peace that comes after all the words are on the page. This time, I will embrace it.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtWEJl-E_4tYA1Z6VoE4IRLHhd8nioF_kDYP5z9U-mTCAKOByPGvoUx71XwPFasBqoGMSuFtRBSPxwSUDO5r1IMaDPUB162EhN3p7NYpiq-VtXdSh7rBokFH0l9bJwrMZ5onHrXb1qJpp/s1600/Write.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 16px; margin-left: 16px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></a><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></b><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></i><u style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></u><sub style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11.06px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></sub><sup style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11.06px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></sup><strike style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: line-through; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></strike><br />
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Namaste,<br />
CindyFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-37867392567527767482018-10-08T00:00:00.001-04:002018-10-08T06:20:01.031-04:00Netflix and Chill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The exhausting thing about dating at my age is all the prep and excessive attention to body hair and squeezing my lady lumps into medieval-torture-device undergarments. One does want to be ready to shock and awe NG (that's New Guy for those y'all who haven't read my previous posts). But something magical happened this weekend that didn't require the iron maiden undies: Netflix and chill. Ohhhhh yeah, baby.<br />
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No, no, no. I don't mean the slang definition of the phrase. We literally put on some comfy clothes, watched Netflix and chilled. He'd had a looooong week at work (my poor boo gots a bigtime, stressful adult job) and I was still a little under the weather, more from the damn antibiotics at this point than the actual disease. So when he showed up at our rendezvous looking like he'd been ridden hard and put away wet (stop it!), I suggested we take things down a notch. Cancel the wild night of dinner and dancing and get real.<br />
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Took a little persuasion to get him believe I was serious. Clearly, his previous ladies would say one thing and mean something else. Nope. Not me, babe. Not me. If I say I'm down to trade in the skirt, tank top, and Victoria's Secret for a pair of your boxers and a plain white tee, I mean it. In fact, my lady parts were grateful. Whoever invented the thong was the most hateful, misogynistic asshole to ever walk the face of the Earth. Once convinced, NG and I embarked on a new adventure.<br />
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The Netflix part came easily. We had previously discussed a shared love of Adam Sandler. We coulda gone with Billy Madison or Grown Ups or Happy Gilmore and I woulda been happy with any of those, but to keep the vibe romantic, he picked 50 First Dates. Awwww, Drew and Adam at their best. Comfy clothes adorned, wine bottle uncorked, we settled into the media room off the first floor kitchen. And after about half an hour, something very intimate happened...we both fell asleep. What did you think I was going to say, naughty reader?<br />
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We woke around midnight tangled in a mess of body parts, a chenille throw, and of course my hair. Wiping drool from our lips, we laughed. Well, this evening had not gone as planned. I, for one, couldn't have been happier. He suggested we go to an all night diner for a little gnosh. Yaaassssss!<br />
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Sitting in a pair of his jeans and his t-shirt, across from him dressed in nearly identical fashion, I felt at ease. We ordered a couple beers, ate breakfast burritos at one in the morning and laughed. We talked about everything and nothing. We'd inadvertently gotten a big milestone out of the way: sleeping together. No, not sex (though that did happen later, hee hee), but actually snuggling and drifting off to sleep. Was it the evening either of us imagined? Nope. But as far as I am concerned, the night couldn't have been more perfect. It's the accidental, unplanned moments that make up the best parts of getting to know someone. And thank God, he doesn't snore.<br />
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Namaste,<br />
CindyFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-47941672023684071542018-10-07T00:00:00.001-04:002018-10-07T07:33:54.917-04:00John, I'm Only Dancing<div>
Strep. It's no fun. Work. I love my job, but there are times it's not fun. By definition work is, well, work. As it should be. So, on a Friday night after illness and navigating the choppy waters that are workplace politics, I want to feel like myself again. What makes up the quintessential Cindy? I'd lost her for a while so in a strange way, I'm getting to know her again. But one thing I know for a fucking fact--she LOVES to dance. And she's not too bad at it either.</div>
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Here was the challenge: I had no one to go dancing with. NG (New Guy) has made it clear that Fridays are his me-time and I'm fine with that. Everyone needs space to be themselves, something I denied myself for over a decade. So if Friday is NG's him-time, it's damn well going to be my me-time, too. Not #MeToo time. That would be terrible and tragic and for all those ignorant enough to victim-shame get the fuck off my blog. You got no business utilizing valuable organs much less reading my most personal thoughts. But I digress.</div>
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Or do I? Yes, the Me Too movement is about horrible violations of women's bodies and inner selves. But it's also about empowerment. Break the silence. Speak up. Take back your power because you are formidable and beautiful and amazing. And what is more empowering than moving my body to a driving beat and perhaps doing it against a stranger's pulsing body, then dropping the mike and walking away, Ubering home, safe and sound. I should be able to do that, right?</div>
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And last night. That's what I fucking did.</div>
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Oh the judgement. The slings and arrows from all sides. It was as though I'd decided to participate in a<i> Girls Gone Wild </i>video (not judging, but it is a choice I wouldn't make). To quote the late, great David Bowie, "John, I'm only dancing." But oh no. That's not possible. Is it? What is this? The little town from <i>Footloose</i>? Can it be that a rock-n-roll beat leads only one way? Inexorably to some stranger's bed because my hips don't lie and I'm on tonight? Sorry, that was a lot of pop culture references all mashed-up. But I'm making a point. Bouncing around the dance floor is not ALWAYS a prelude to sex. And if it turns out to be, that's all good, too. As long as it's consensual.</div>
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For all my ladies and gentlemen who went out this weekend, had a few drinks, danced like it's the end of the world, and then made whatever choices they WANTED to make, more power to ya. And if you went home alone, it's not abnormal, it's perfectly fucking okay. To paraphrase Shakira once again, my hips don't lie, but they don't make promises either.</div>
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Namaste,</div>
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Cindy</div>
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Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-84920148073294571872018-10-06T00:00:00.000-04:002018-10-06T07:35:16.673-04:00Original sin<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Those of you who know me are aware of the fact that I'm a fan of vice and sin in many forms. Sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll. Fuck yeah. And as yesterday's post indicates, I don't really care about lying, at least not in a benign way. Everybody lies. But can the sin of omission really be counted as a lie? I'm not so sure.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">As I venture farther into my Stella-Getting-Her-Groove-Back phase, I'm learning an awful lot about how dating now is a vastly different landscape than it was in my 20s. Some of it is much, much easier (thank you, Tinder) and some of it is much, much more difficult. Especially in my shoes. If ya google my name, LOTS and LOTS of information comes up. Here's just the first few images:</span><br />
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<ul class="dgControl_list " data-infullrow="1" data-row="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px 0px; border: 0px rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: "arial","helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 10px; position: relative; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: nowrap; width: 1510px; word-spacing: 0px;">
<li data-idx="1" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(102, 102, 102); border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; border-image-outset: 0; border-image-repeat: stretch; border-image-slice: 100%; border-image-source: none; border-image-width: 1; border-left-color: rgb(102, 102, 102); border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: rgb(102, 102, 102); border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-spacing: 0px 0px; border-top-color: rgb(102, 102, 102); border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; display: inline-block; height: 195px; list-style-image: none; list-style-position: outside; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: top; white-space: normal; width: 153px;"><div class="iuscp varh" data-evt="1" data-hovstyle="" gfhk="ngf" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-image: none; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto; border: 0px rgb(102, 102, 102); height: 195px; left: 0px; position: relative; top: 0px; transition-delay: 0s; transition-duration: 0s; transition-timing-function: cubic-bezier(0.25, 0.1, 0.25, 1); width: 153px; z-index: auto;">
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<a class="iusc" data-focevt="1" h="ID=images,5175.1" href="https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=%2fBfW5Uhd&id=6B30331E06C038CF57D6C9B05C2E7ADB0EAD674F&thid=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&mediaurl=http%3a%2f%2fimages.gr-assets.com%2fauthors%2f1229922154p5%2f2730266.jpg&exph=190&expw=200&q=cindy+jacks&simid=608005850885589340&selectedIndex=0" m="{"cid":"/BfW5Uhd","purl":"http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2730266.Cindy_Jacks","murl":"http://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1229922154p5/2730266.jpg","turl":"https://tse1.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&pid=15.1","md5":"fc17d6e5485dc4e8785f45d706d424c0","shkey":""}" mad="{"turl":"/th?id=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&w=153&h=146&pid=1.1","maw":"153","mah":"146","mid":"6B30331E06C038CF57D6C9B05C2E7ADB0EAD674F"}" style="display: block; height: 195px; position: relative; text-decoration: none; transition-delay: 0s; transition-duration: 0s; transition-timing-function: cubic-bezier(0.25, 0.1, 0.25, 1); width: 153px;"></a><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<div class="img_cont hoff" style="display: block; height: 195px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; touch-action: manipulation; width: 153px;">
<a class="iusc" data-focevt="1" h="ID=images,5175.1" href="https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=%2fBfW5Uhd&id=6B30331E06C038CF57D6C9B05C2E7ADB0EAD674F&thid=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&mediaurl=http%3a%2f%2fimages.gr-assets.com%2fauthors%2f1229922154p5%2f2730266.jpg&exph=190&expw=200&q=cindy+jacks&simid=608005850885589340&selectedIndex=0" m="{"cid":"/BfW5Uhd","purl":"http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2730266.Cindy_Jacks","murl":"http://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1229922154p5/2730266.jpg","turl":"https://tse1.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&pid=15.1","md5":"fc17d6e5485dc4e8785f45d706d424c0","shkey":""}" mad="{"turl":"/th?id=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&w=153&h=146&pid=1.1","maw":"153","mah":"146","mid":"6B30331E06C038CF57D6C9B05C2E7ADB0EAD674F"}" style="display: block; height: 195px; position: relative; text-decoration: none; transition-delay: 0s; transition-duration: 0s; transition-timing-function: cubic-bezier(0.25, 0.1, 0.25, 1); width: 153px;"><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></a>
<a class="iusc" data-focevt="1" h="ID=images,5175.1" href="https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=%2fBfW5Uhd&id=6B30331E06C038CF57D6C9B05C2E7ADB0EAD674F&thid=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&mediaurl=http%3a%2f%2fimages.gr-assets.com%2fauthors%2f1229922154p5%2f2730266.jpg&exph=190&expw=200&q=cindy+jacks&simid=608005850885589340&selectedIndex=0" m="{"cid":"/BfW5Uhd","purl":"http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2730266.Cindy_Jacks","murl":"http://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1229922154p5/2730266.jpg","turl":"https://tse1.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&pid=15.1","md5":"fc17d6e5485dc4e8785f45d706d424c0","shkey":""}" mad="{"turl":"/th?id=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&w=153&h=146&pid=1.1","maw":"153","mah":"146","mid":"6B30331E06C038CF57D6C9B05C2E7ADB0EAD674F"}" style="display: block; height: 195px; position: relative; text-decoration: none; transition-delay: 0s; transition-duration: 0s; transition-timing-function: cubic-bezier(0.25, 0.1, 0.25, 1); width: 153px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img alt="Image result for cindy jacks" class="mimg" data-bm="28" height="146" src="https://www.bing.com/th?id=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&w=153&h=146&c=7&o=5&dpr=1.25&pid=1.7" style="border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px 0px; border: 0px rgb(68, 68, 95); left: 76.5px; list-style: none; margin: 0px -76.5px 0px 0px; max-height: 195px; max-width: 153px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; text-indent: -9999px; top: 97.5px; transform: matrix(1, 0, 0, 1, -76.5, -73);" width="153" /></span></a></div>
<a class="iusc" data-focevt="1" h="ID=images,5175.1" href="https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=%2fBfW5Uhd&id=6B30331E06C038CF57D6C9B05C2E7ADB0EAD674F&thid=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&mediaurl=http%3a%2f%2fimages.gr-assets.com%2fauthors%2f1229922154p5%2f2730266.jpg&exph=190&expw=200&q=cindy+jacks&simid=608005850885589340&selectedIndex=0" m="{"cid":"/BfW5Uhd","purl":"http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2730266.Cindy_Jacks","murl":"http://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1229922154p5/2730266.jpg","turl":"https://tse1.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&pid=15.1","md5":"fc17d6e5485dc4e8785f45d706d424c0","shkey":""}" mad="{"turl":"/th?id=OIP._BfW5UhdxOh4X0XXBtQkwAAAAA&w=153&h=146&pid=1.1","maw":"153","mah":"146","mid":"6B30331E06C038CF57D6C9B05C2E7ADB0EAD674F"}" style="display: block; height: 195px; position: relative; text-decoration: none; transition-delay: 0s; transition-duration: 0s; transition-timing-function: cubic-bezier(0.25, 0.1, 0.25, 1); width: 153px;">
</a>
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<a class="iusc" data-focevt="1" h="ID=images,5181.1" href="https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=%2baR1AqhA&id=32F5A522B716EF11B61A3CF9E0C044E7BFE23041&thid=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&mediaurl=http%3a%2f%2fimages.classmates.com%2fimgsvc%2fd%3fp%3d169415741&exph=243&expw=180&q=cindy+jacks&simid=608021166776519487&selectedIndex=1" m="{"cid":"+aR1AqhA","purl":"http://www.classmates.com/people/Cindy-Jacks/8723397192","murl":"http://images.classmates.com/imgsvc/d?p=169415741","turl":"https://tse4.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&pid=15.1","md5":"f9a47502a840d1f9d7140b3e9b7cb9d8","shkey":""}" mad="{"turl":"/th?id=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&w=129&h=174&pid=1.1","maw":"129","mah":"174","mid":"32F5A522B716EF11B61A3CF9E0C044E7BFE23041"}" style="display: block; height: 195px; position: relative; text-decoration: none; transition-delay: 0s; transition-duration: 0s; transition-timing-function: cubic-bezier(0.25, 0.1, 0.25, 1); width: 135px;"><br /></a><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span>
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<div class="img_cont hoff" style="display: block; height: 195px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; touch-action: manipulation; width: 135px;">
<a class="iusc" data-focevt="1" h="ID=images,5181.1" href="https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=%2baR1AqhA&id=32F5A522B716EF11B61A3CF9E0C044E7BFE23041&thid=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&mediaurl=http%3a%2f%2fimages.classmates.com%2fimgsvc%2fd%3fp%3d169415741&exph=243&expw=180&q=cindy+jacks&simid=608021166776519487&selectedIndex=1" m="{"cid":"+aR1AqhA","purl":"http://www.classmates.com/people/Cindy-Jacks/8723397192","murl":"http://images.classmates.com/imgsvc/d?p=169415741","turl":"https://tse4.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&pid=15.1","md5":"f9a47502a840d1f9d7140b3e9b7cb9d8","shkey":""}" mad="{"turl":"/th?id=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&w=129&h=174&pid=1.1","maw":"129","mah":"174","mid":"32F5A522B716EF11B61A3CF9E0C044E7BFE23041"}" style="display: block; height: 195px; position: relative; text-decoration: none; transition-delay: 0s; transition-duration: 0s; transition-timing-function: cubic-bezier(0.25, 0.1, 0.25, 1); width: 135px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img alt="Image result for cindy jacks" class="mimg" data-bm="29" height="174" src="https://www.bing.com/th?id=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&w=129&h=174&c=7&o=5&dpr=1.25&pid=1.7" style="border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px 0px; border: 0px rgb(41, 32, 28); left: 67.5px; list-style: none; margin: 0px -67.5px 0px 0px; max-height: 195px; max-width: 135px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; text-indent: -9999px; top: 97.5px; transform: matrix(1, 0, 0, 1, -64.5, -87);" width="129" /></span></a></div>
<a class="iusc" data-focevt="1" h="ID=images,5181.1" href="https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=%2baR1AqhA&id=32F5A522B716EF11B61A3CF9E0C044E7BFE23041&thid=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&mediaurl=http%3a%2f%2fimages.classmates.com%2fimgsvc%2fd%3fp%3d169415741&exph=243&expw=180&q=cindy+jacks&simid=608021166776519487&selectedIndex=1" m="{"cid":"+aR1AqhA","purl":"http://www.classmates.com/people/Cindy-Jacks/8723397192","murl":"http://images.classmates.com/imgsvc/d?p=169415741","turl":"https://tse4.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&pid=15.1","md5":"f9a47502a840d1f9d7140b3e9b7cb9d8","shkey":""}" mad="{"turl":"/th?id=OIP.-aR1AqhA0fnXFAs-m3y52AAAAA&w=129&h=174&pid=1.1","maw":"129","mah":"174","mid":"32F5A522B716EF11B61A3CF9E0C044E7BFE23041"}" style="display: block; height: 195px; position: relative; text-decoration: none; transition-delay: 0s; transition-duration: 0s; transition-timing-function: cubic-bezier(0.25, 0.1, 0.25, 1); width: 135px;">
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Now, wait, wait wait. I take full responsibility for the private stuff I've made public. I made the choice to write under my legal name about topics considered taboo and I would make the same decision if I had it to do over again. I believe that a woman's sexuality is empowering, not something to be ashamed of. That being said, am I under any obligation to share that information on a first date? I think not.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I believe that what we choose to share and what we choose to keep private is just that: <i><b>a choice</b></i>. And a personal one. But is Google-stalking an invasion of privacy especially when so much information is very, very public? Perhaps invasion of privacy is too strong a phrase, but as far as I'm concerned, it's definitely a party foul.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">If the oral contract you've forged with someone states that whatever transpires is to be fun, light, and uncomplicated (yes, I know I keep using that word. An uncomplicated life is all I have EVER dreamed about), then doesn't it stand to reason that on a first date, I'm not going to greet a guy with a demure smile, bat my eyelashes and say, "Hi, I'm Cindy. I live with my son, two dogs, two cats, one ex-husband who is just a friend and who will probably live in my basement forever and one ex-husband who really is on his way out the door, but finances and our credits records being what they are, ya know, gonna take some time. Oh and I used to write erotica. Sometimes still do, I just don't publish it anymore. Oh and be careful on this date because what you do might end up on my blog. Nice to meet ya, big fella." What man in his right mind wouldn't run screaming? And if he stays, what the fuck does that say about him?</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Oversharing has become a staple, nay, an expectation of the Information Age. Yes, if I ever find a lover that I want to become more than just a lover, yes, then we have to get into the millions of moving parts that make up the chaos of my existence. But if I'm not asking you to carry my baggage, why the hell is it any of your business what my baggage is? Just sayin'.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And yes, there's a story behind this rant, too. Before I met the gentleman I am currently bumping uglies with, I chatted with a young man whom I could tell had been kicked around a bit by life. Why am I always attracted to the broken ones? Well, that's a post for another time. Didn't hurt that he is ridiculously hot so yeah, I was struck hunk-blind for a minute. This being the case, when vetting him for our first date and he interviewed me (yes, that's how it felt) I wanted to put my best foot forward. I did not lie so much as edit the truth. As any good lawyer would advise, I answered only the questions I was asked, did not elaborate, and crafted my answers so as to present myself in a flattering light. Isn't that what first date prep is all about?</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But then I slipped up. I let my last name fall from my lips and as soon as I did, I wished I could have plucked it from mid-air and stuffed it back into my mouth. I knew it was only a matter of time. Cat-killing curiosity and all that.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">As a writer, I open a vein every time I sit down at the keyboard and that unabashed honesty is what makes me good at my craft. It does, however, provide a wealth of search results. Googling me does not level the playing field, it stacks the chips in favor of the Goolger since he now possess waaaaaaay more information about me than I do about him and we all know, information is power.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But, I submit for the record, my defense:</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">1. My living situation shouldn't be of concern if I'm trying to give you the milk for free and have no intentions of asking you to buy this cow.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">2. What a person chooses to share with you over the course of ten days (yes, TEN days) is always going to be limited. And if it isn't, you might want to reconsider knowing that person. They may be sitting in their closet sniff a box of your hair.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">3. I do not tell strange men that I used to publish erotica because that can lead to unrealistic expectations. It's happened before. Just because I wrote about being tied up and paddled doesn't mean I want to do it. Or maybe I just don't want to do it with you. My body, my choice, dickhead.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">After said beautiful-fucked-up man found out all this about me, he stopped talking to me. Stung a bit, I won't lie, but in the end, I feel as though I dodged a bullet.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">So what have we learned here today, my friends? NEVER tell a guy who's just a prospective piece of ass your last name! What? You were expecting something more profound than that?</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Namaste,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Cindy</span>Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-54484654151202380812018-10-05T00:00:00.000-04:002018-10-06T07:09:36.605-04:00Lie to Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/zn3oTICeZUE/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zn3oTICeZUE?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Trolling ye ole interweb, one meets a variety of people. The conversations I've had recently have been...well, let's just say they've ranged from "Wanna hug me" except substitute the phrase Robin Thicke thinks rhymes with "hug me" even though what rhymes with "pluck me" does not really rhyme with "hug me". But I digress. Yes, I've gotten LOTS of premature requests for "hugging". Then there are the long, lovely, well-crafted conversations. The kind you can only have with a stranger because you don't know the person on the other end of this virtual connection. That fact alone is freeing. You can say or express or BE anything you want and so can that other person. Disingenuousness is a hazard of such impersonal communication. And yes, I just used the word disingenuousness.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I've heard many an account from social media friends about catfishers, scammers, and just out-and-out liars lurking behind benign smiling profile pics. We've all fallen for a cunning-linguist who supposedly looks like the construction worker from the old Diet Coke commercial. Of course he's real, <i>dahling</i>, because guys who look like that and are self-made millionaires really are lonely lost souls at 2:00AM, scrounging for just my personal brand of beauty and wit to save them from their pointless existences. Riiiiiiight.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But, in the end, if all you are looking for is someone who gives good conversation, does it matter if it's all a fantasy? I'm not talking about the guy who posted pics from twenty years and a hundred pounds ago and then asks you out for a drink and is surprised when you "must rush home to handle an emergency". And no, I'm going all Shallow Hal on y'all. I'm just sayin', if you really do intend to meet a person IRL, doesn't it make sense to market the current version of yourself?</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">However, if the point is to flirt, blow off a little steam, and discuss the meaning of life via text or whatever messaging app tickles your fancy, does it really matter if the carpet does NOT match the drapes? I'm not so sure it does. Case in point: there's a gentleman that I have epic conversations with who I know cannot be who he purports to be. I have a nearly eidetic memory and the facts he's shared with me and perhaps forgotten he's shared with ([read] fabricated for) me just don't add up. Some of it must be based in fact because the best lies always are. And that he's created this character doesn't change the fact that he makes me laugh, he fluffs up my ego and well, he's smarter than your average bear which I find refreshing. That being said, there's no way in hell I would ever give him too much detail about where I live or any such personal details. I mean there's fun crazy and then there's It-Puts-The-Lotion-On-Its-Skin crazy and I'm not really sure on which side of the fence he resides.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Perhaps in this time of filtered selfies, graphic imposed teddy bear faces, and truly anonymous communication, suspension of disbelief isn't to be feared. It's to be expected.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Namaste,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Cindy</span></div>
Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-84265312551700236352018-10-04T08:38:00.001-04:002018-10-04T09:39:25.078-04:00Hey Honey, Can You Set up My Tinder Profile?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4C4bCN3C5s87kxh2ZrP6Ml-FNc_4sLnwJy1Yik5m0Jcz3YNO62dgth7-0aTDur0-pxxveTvM2KrywGTHyU0L8nfoD5SxQHqqnG58Ve8wxxT3i4mIYzS_jubePsYV-FX8Y5gAiE55-NQ2/s1600/tinder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1252" data-original-width="1252" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4C4bCN3C5s87kxh2ZrP6Ml-FNc_4sLnwJy1Yik5m0Jcz3YNO62dgth7-0aTDur0-pxxveTvM2KrywGTHyU0L8nfoD5SxQHqqnG58Ve8wxxT3i4mIYzS_jubePsYV-FX8Y5gAiE55-NQ2/s320/tinder.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Yesterday's theme was simplicity; today's not so much. But this is the place to air my complicated laundry so here we go.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">This was the conversation with the ex last night:</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Ex: Hey, you busy?</span></i></div>
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<i></i><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Me. No, just sick and bored. What's up?</span></i></div>
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<i></i><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Ex: You know how you are better at tech stuff than I am?</span></i></div>
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<i></i><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Me: Yeah.</span></i></div>
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<i></i><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Ex: I need a favor. Can you help me set up my Tinder profile?</span></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i></i><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">WTF? Did he just ask me what I think he just asked me? He did, right? He's asking me to help him get laid. What. The. Literal. Fuck?</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Okay, Cindy, hold on a minute. You've moved on to or at least under someone fresh and exciting. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, right? Fuck it. Why the hell not?</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Me: Sure. Come on over.</span></i></div>
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<i></i><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Yes, you read this correctly. I set up my ex's Tinder profile last night and in a weird way it was liberating. It allowed us to talk about the subject of us both carrying on with life without the pressure of discussing anything serious.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I took some pics for him, talked him up in his bio and gave him a couple hints to get noticed. We laughed, we cried, it became a part of us. The new us.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Describing him as a desirable commodity had the added benefit of helping <u>us</u> remember that we were friends long before we became a couple. I know this exercise isn't for everyone, but for me it was oddly healing.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">It's a brave new world, to be sure.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Namaste,<br />
Cindy</span></div>
Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-32734528739971533622018-10-03T06:25:00.000-04:002018-10-03T06:49:02.565-04:00The Love Drug<div dir="auto" style="font: 400 13.33px/19.99px "arial","helvetica",sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; overflow: visible; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">No. I</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4Ib6Fw8IQ_MrlPUfSifa3CQBm8S2Y3ey8U1g64j3T3T-z-gkOiStFrafznKaYGLKiaBCTapGQ0yJMUNspIq95M32qfU0xIIcAscD0AtI9c1YlajvD8h8DYDANcImP68wQZwL2vdR7NV8/s1600/giphy.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "arial","helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 13.33px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 13.33px; margin-right: 13.33px; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4Ib6Fw8IQ_MrlPUfSifa3CQBm8S2Y3ey8U1g64j3T3T-z-gkOiStFrafznKaYGLKiaBCTapGQ0yJMUNspIq95M32qfU0xIIcAscD0AtI9c1YlajvD8h8DYDANcImP68wQZwL2vdR7NV8/s1600/giphy.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">'m not talking about X or Molly or Adam or whatever cocktail of feel-good amphetamines has hit the street. I'm talking about oxytocin. Don't think hormones are a drug? You've got another think coming. Go ask your local pharmacist. They'll set you straight. Random fact: testosterone is a schedule III controlled substance. But even the all-powerful, man-making hormone can't compare to oxytocin. It's hands down the most powerful substance on the planet.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">It's responsible for sweet and innocent things like bonding a mother to her child or spouses to one another. But where there is the power to do the most good lies also the power to do the most harm. The love drug can bond a person to an abusive partner, it can lead to murderous rage and jealousy, and is definitely a factor in sex addiction. Oxytocin makes raving addicts of us all.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Why am I waxing philosophical about the hormone soup that explodes when one takes a new lover? Well, it's because I've done just that. Mama's got a brand new bag.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"></span><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 13.33px; font-stretch: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; line-height: 19.99px; overflow: visible;" /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">My brain (and other body parts) are lit up like a Christmas tree. No, like the Griswold house during Christmas vacation. It's a feeling I never thought I would experience again. However, now that I'm wrapped in cotton candy, feeling as though I shit glitter, I find myself hating the whole idea of love. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Whaaaa?! Hate the idea of love, Cindy? Do you also kick puppies and trample on wildflowers? Of course not and never intentionally. Love, on the other hand, can suck my c....well, you know. My apologies to Ms. Turner, but she's right: love is just a secondhand emotion. And I ain't looking for no sloppy seconds. An I-come-you-go kind of situation sounds like heaven. Neat, sorted, uncomplicated. I know, I know. That's not the title of my blog. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">So, when looking for only a good lay, what does love got to do...got to do with it? Why are sex and that intoxicating feeling of being all booed-up so difficult to separate? What turns us all into Unikitty after we come? Motherfucking oxytocin.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I just got out of a long relationship predicated almost solely on our addiction to the love drug. But what's a gal to do when biological imperatives rear their ugly heads? Sure, vibrators serve a purpose, but they do not feed that baser need for warmth, connection, and hot sweaty animal sex.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Can one get a little somethin'-somethin' without turning into a junkie? Is it possible to get your rocks off without despairing every time he says he's too busy to chat? Is there a way to have my sex-cake without drinking the oxytocin-Kool Aid? (How about that mixed metaphor?) I really don't know, but I'm going to find out.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Stay tuned my friends. More on my quest later in the week. Same boss time. Same boss channel.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"></span><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Namaste,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Cindy</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="background-color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: white;"></span><span style="color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span><br />Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-45408642075107430252018-02-18T08:53:00.000-05:002018-02-18T08:53:25.422-05:00A Loaded God Complex Taking tequila shots too fast.<br />
Slow down, I knew you would vomit, but you said you could drink.<br />
A lie you told<br />
The first of many<br />
Rubbing your back as you got sick<br />
Holding your hand as you cried for all you you'd gone through, all you'd lost,<br />
all you'd given away<br />
You spun your web, sticky sweet<br />
I flew in blind, stained glass wings glued fast, you bound me tight<br />
My Stockholm Syndrome complete<br />
Your pretty lies and gutting insults<br />
Is this what passion is made of?<br />
A great fuck wrapped in rage.<br />
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<br />Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-27642559106727633162018-02-15T00:00:00.000-05:002018-02-15T00:00:16.173-05:00Three-Star Thursday: Killing Gunther (2017)Welcome to three-star Thursday where I find the underrated gems amongst the most average of ratings. I never pick a movie by the viewer rating. I look at the cast and the director and choose names I trust. That's not to say I never watch anything by knowns, but I still go off instinct and the movie trailer rather than reviews. Why you ask? If you actually read most of reviews....well, some actually review the movie but others go off on all sorts of weird tangents. Pointing out plot holes and character inconsistencies, wonderful, that's useful info! Reviewing the quality of the font used for the credits or stating that the lead actors chin dimple is distracting, what?<br />
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My first buried treasure is Killing Gunther (2017), written and directed by Taran Killam. It is a smart, hilarious, and fast paced dark comedy. Think every Bond villan stereotype uniting to take out Keyser Soze, all filmed documentary style.<br />
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The writing is sharp, the chacterization and acting is on point, the plot is well thought out, replete with hook, crises, climax, and denoument. Not to mention it is laugh-out-loud hilarious. I would give it 4.5 stars.<br />
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Why only 4.5? One little thing was missing, but it's a bit of a spoiler so if you don't want to find out too much about the movie, stop reading here.<br />
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Okay, so Arnold Schwarzenegger is on the cover, he's all over the trailer, hell, he has first billing, but this I suspect has more to do with the skill of his agent and the fact that he has agreed to do an indie movie with actors who, shall we say, do not run in the same circles the former governor does. Fact of the matter is, he doesn't come into the movie until the last twenty minutes. Still, he's definitely worth the wait. He shows that his comedic talents are still alive and kicking. He holds his own with a cast chock-a-block with the up and coming, hipster comedic actors of this generation.<br />
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The point is, if you are looking for a dark comedy to provide solid humor throughout the entire film, Killing Gunther is for you.Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-73352227366323041472018-02-11T00:00:00.000-05:002018-02-11T00:00:01.285-05:00Making a Difference Just by Trying to Be GoodBeing firmly rooted in <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Generation_X" target="_blank">Gen X</a>, I can't tell you how surreal it is to read Tweets from the<br />
<span style="color: #0000ee; text-decoration-line: underline;">Dalai Lama</span>. Though given what I understand of <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buddhism" target="_blank">Buddhism</a>, his Twitter presence makes perfect sense. Wisdom isn't something to hoard or make accessible to an elite few. Wisdom is to be shared and built upon through democratization. And as good wisdom usually is, one of his latest Tweets is perfect in its simplicity:<br />
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"The basic foundation of humanity is compassion and love. This is why, if even a few individuals simply try to create mental peace and happiness within themselves and act responsibly and kind-heartedly towards others, they will have a positive influence in their community." -- The Dalai Lama<br />
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It's the last two words that, to me, resonate the most, "their community." I've admitted often enough to feeling as though I'm screaming into a void, but one reason I stay part-time at the EDJ is not only the supplemental income, but also the feeling I get being there. No, not the soul-crushing pain of our current fast-food healthcare system....<br />
<i>Pshhht, that'll be one sinus infection special with a side of sciatica pain meds, do I have your order correct?</i><br />
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No, definitely not that feeling, but the feeling when someone comes to me with a real pain, desperation, or fear I can solve. Then my inner Buddhist kicks in and reminds me to treat this person with compassion: Think right, speak right, act right. And if I made this person's life just a little easier for even the few minutes I get to spend with them, then I know I have done good by being good. Hopefully they pass it along and when/if they do, that's how we all have the power to change the whole world, one small, community-based impact at a time.<br />
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But Cindy, you say, I don't have a job like that. I am not faced with people I can help in that way. I work in ___________ (fill in "an office", "customer service", "IT", "janitorial services", "actual fast food", etc.) But there's where you are wrong, my friend. You have the choice every day to treat others with kindness, respect, and compassion. A Roy Rogers clerk name Khazim, who cheerfully helped me at the drive-thru, comes to mind. I fully appreciate the man has a shitty, shitty, shitty, shitty job, but he did it with good cheer and genuine concern for my customer experience. I wasn't having a great day, but Khazim cheered me up and I know I went forth about my day in a better place just because the drive-thru clerk was nice to me. You can make someone's day with just a smile, a please/thank you, or a sincere "How can I help you?". It's easier than you think.<br />
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And the beauty of what the Dalai Lama is saying is that you don't even have to be successful with every attempt to be the best version of yourself. I can tell you I failed spectacularly a couple weeks ago, perhaps when it mattered most to someone in real pain (though in fairness, I deserve to make this guy's list when he gets to step 8....just sayin').<br />
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Hey, we are all human and prone to stumbling, but thinking right, speaking right, and acting right becomes a habit. The more you try to be good, the more you will do good, here in your own home. Local action, global results. Don't make me go all <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0038650/" target="_blank">It's a Wonderful Life</a> on y'all. Go forth and commit random acts of kindness. Do what you feel in your heart is right. You won't regret it, even if it's just for the selfish reason that it feels really fucking awesome.<br />
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Getting over the desire for that feeling....well, that's another lesson, and if you learn how, please let me know how ;)<br />
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Namaste,<br />
CindyFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-35215898079260101872018-02-07T00:00:00.000-05:002018-02-07T00:00:30.342-05:00Long Lost Nathaniel, Red Sky at Night--Book Four in the Pirates at Heart Series<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of my better selling series, <i>Pirates at Heart</i>, has a fourth tale untold until now. As I load my works onto Amazon, the <i>Pirates at Heart</i> reboot will contain a fourth book, <i>Red Sky at Night</i>, the story of Nathaniel and Ruby. There's a lot of surprises in this one, the death of one of my main characters which broke my heart to write AND this juicy tidbit below. Enjoy!<br />
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Pricking her finger, Ruby watched the droplet of red swell on the surface of her skin. She pressed it to the health scan display. Something was really wrong, she just knew it. With all the nausea, dizziness and fatigue, she feared the worst. Except for the lack of high fever, her symptoms had all the earmarks of Storm Flu. Her temp flirted at the edge of being elevated, 37.6 C, but never quite went over the line.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">What would she do if she couldn’t work? She didn’t have enough in savings to take off more than a month or so. Not after her bastard ex had stolen everything she owned a few years back. What if she got really sick? She had no one to take care of her. She hadn’t spoken to her father and brothers in decades. She didn’t know where they were, </span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">if</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> they still were. The same went for her mother. She had no one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">Except for Nate</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">, a voice in the back of her mind piped up. The thought alarmed her. Sure, the young man was a fun plaything, a masterful lover and one of the finest captains she had ever worked with. And that’s how she felt. She worked </span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">with</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> him, not </span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">for</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> him which was one of the only reasons she had agreed to stay on as his first mate after she had helped him get his feet wet. But did she have him to rely on should the worst happen? Did she want to? Still, part of her felt that if his was the last face she saw before she sank into oblivion, that would be all right.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The little analyzer beeped, jarring her from her thoughts and displaying her results.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Holy fuck.” She exhaled.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Her condition proved worse than she had imagined.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline;">* * * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“So then we’ll need to procure a pink orangutan, right First Mate Delaney?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Aye, Captain.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">She had heard Nate’s words but they hadn’t quite registered. Then she realized what she had just agreed to.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The shift supervisors snickered, but Nate silenced them with a glare.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Crew dismissed.” He waved a hand, the sailors scrambling to vacate the pilothouse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Sorry, I’m a little distracted.” She shook her head.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, a bit. What’s going on?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she crossed her arms over her torso.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Hey.” Nate brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “It’s me. If you’re struggling with something, you can talk to me.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t know. Maybe not about this.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“About anything.” He kissed the back of one hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">A surge of nausea hit her. Closing her eyes, she took slow, deep breaths.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ruby, you’re worrying me.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Maybe you should be worried.” Tears sprang into her eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">He furrowed his brow. “Now, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“You have to promise me not to overreact.” She sidestepped him and began pacing back and forth.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I promise I </span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">will</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> overreact if you don’t talk.” He caught her by the shoulders. “Ruby, please.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Nate―” Her voice broke. “I’m―I’m pregnant.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh.” His eyes grew wide. “</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">Oh</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">. What? How?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">She rolled her eyes. “Well, when a man and woman get these special feelings―”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">He waved away her sarcasm. “You know what I mean. I thought you had the implant.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“And I thought you were on the pill.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“With everything that happened with Momma, I forgot to refill my prescription and I figured you were still on birth control.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“At my last physical, my doctor advised removal so I had it removed.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“And you didn’t think to tell me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I thought you were on the pill. You should’ve told me you went off it.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Fair enough. But you’ve been without the implant for over six months now. Why wouldn’t you give me a head’s up?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Loath to admit the truth, she shook her head and shrugged. Nate’s questioning stare didn’t waver. Apparently, he wanted a real explanation. She sighed, her cheeks burning.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Because.” She crossed her arms over her chest, studying the floor. “Do you think I wanted to tell my twenty-four year old lover that at my age the implant carries significantly more risk?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t know why you’re always so hung up on our ages.” He shook his head. “This mess could’ve been avoided.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">His words cut her. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, sugar. You don’t have to deal with ‘this mess’ if you don’t want to.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ruby.” He tried to catch her hand, but she pulled away. “That’s not what I meant.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Sounded pretty clear to me.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“No. No, I’m just surprised.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Don’t think that I’m thrilled about this either. You aren’t the only one who’s upset.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m not upset.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Could’ve fooled me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">He combed his fingers through his hair, a signature move when frustrated or at a loss for words. Rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin, he held her gaze for a while. A heavy exhalation broke the silence.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m sorry. It’s just―wow. A baby.” He took her hands and wouldn’t allow her to pull away. “A baby.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Stop saying that word. I don’t even know that I want this.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“What do you mean?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“You know what I mean. Please, don’t make me say it.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t even want you to think it.” He furrowed his brow.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“But it’s the truth, Nate. I just need some time to figure out what I want.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“We can figure this out together.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Chewing her thumb nail, Ruby shook her head. She wasn’t so sure they could.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline;">* * * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">A baby.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">A baby.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Sitting in his captain’s chair in his cabin, Nate stared out into space as the thought echoed in his mind. </span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">A baby</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">. Definitely not the tack he thought his relationship with Ruby would take, but then again, since when did anything in life go as he thought it would?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Poppa’s career-ending injury, Marcus taking over </span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">The Yellow Rose</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">, Momma’s untimely passing. And now a child. But Ruby’s pregnancy didn’t fit in with those other events, did it? He had struggled to deal with all those other things, but a baby, well, the thought gave him a warm, excited feeling. Granted that feeling was also cloaked in more than a little panic, but ultimately it was a good thing. A blessing. Yes, that was the word.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t even know that I want this.”</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> Ruby’s words from earlier replayed in his head. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Clearly, she didn’t see it as a blessing. Not yet. Maybe she never would.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">He knew it was her choice, one she had a right to make, but he couldn’t bear the thought of losing the baby. Somehow he would have to show her his commitment, show her that he could be the man she needed him to be. They could make this work. </span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">He</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> would make this work. He had to.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Pushing the comm link, Nate issued an order to his quartermaster, Miguel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline;">* * * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">After a nap and a shower, Ruby’s mind had cleared a little. She would take this change of plans one day at a time. Maybe Nate was right, they could figure something out.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Reporting for her shift in the pilothouse, she didn’t understand why Quartermaster Miguel was setting the course.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s my shift, QM.” She stepped up to the wheel.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Captain says you’re off the schedule until further notice, First Mate Delaney.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“He said what?” She set her jaw.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Swallowing hard, Miguel dropped her gaze. “He said―”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I heard you the first time,” she snapped.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Spinning on her heel, she stormed belowdecks.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">How dare he? How. Dare. He? What did he think, that she was some kind of invalid now? By the time she reached Nate’s quarters, she had worked up a full head of steam. Punching in her pass code, she didn’t even bother to knock.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Shirtless and clearly in the midst of a work out, he grinned and toweled off as soon as she burst in. “Hey, darlin’, I was just thinking―”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Then, you should stop doing things you are ill equipped to do.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Furrowing his brow, he took a step back. “Are you pissed about something?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Whatever gave you that idea? Why the hell did you take me off the shift schedule?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“You said you needed time to think. And I thought…in your condition―”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“That I can’t plot a course or program the autodrive to steer the fucking boat?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“If you have to put it on manual during a squall or if we get boarded―and you need your rest.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I can still do my job, asshole. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I was trying to help.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well, don’t. I’m not asking you for help…or anything else.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ruby, we’re in this together.” Again, he reached out to her and again she pulled away.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Don’t equate your role in this with mine.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I admit that in terms of the pregnancy, I’ll have it a lot easier, but once the baby’s born, I’m sure being a father will put me through my paces.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Stop acting as though this is a done deal. Right now, all you are is a sperm donor, okay?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Eyes narrowing and posture stiffening, he whipped the towel onto the floor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Is that how you feel about me? Why even tell me, then?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I didn’t want to tell you. You pried it out of me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“So the plan was to just―to end things without me ever knowing?” he shouted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The outburst startled her. Hands on his hips and chest heaving, he glared down at her. For the first time, she realized how very big and imposing he could be. Apparently, she had crossed the line. She had never seen him angry. Not like this and especially not with her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t have a plan.” She backed away, shaking her head. “Nate, there’s a reason that I’m almost forty years old and I don’t have any children. I’m a criminal, for crissakes. The first mate on a bootlegger’s ship. The way I earn my living isn’t exactly conducive to breastfeeding.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">His expression softened. “We can make arrangements―”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“If I can’t work, I can’t provide for a child.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“That’s not what I mean―”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">She shook her head, tears leaking down her face. Fucking hormones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I can’t be seven months along, running from brown coats.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“No one is asking you to.” He grasped her hand. “Ruby, I’m here for you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“As much as anyone is there for anybody.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“What does that even mean?” He jostled her gently, exasperation drawing his features tight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know where we are, what we are.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Neither do I, but I know that I care about you and I know that―that I want this baby.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">His words drained all the fight from her body. Shoulders slumped, she shook her head. “How can you know what you want? You’re so young. You have your whole life ahead of you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“What’s that got to do with anything?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Wrapping her arms around herself, she trained her gaze on the ceiling. “I have nothing, Nate. No one. You have family, money, you have everything.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“And everything I have is yours.” He touched her belly. “Is </span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">ours</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">. We can do this. Together.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">She hiccupped a sob.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ruby, I should have told you this sooner. It’s a thought that’s been swimming around my brain. Maybe it will make all this easier. I think I love—”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“No, don’t say it.” She put a finger to his lips. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">She couldn’t bear to hear the words if he didn’t mean them. And what if he did mean them? This thought frightened her even more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">His mouth opened again, but he closed it as if it was all he could do to contain himself. She leaned forward kissing him lightly. One arm snaked around her waist, a hand tangled in her hair, he deepened the kiss. Hot breath passed over her cheek, his musky scent heavy in the air. He teased open her lips, his tongue caressing hers. She melted in his embrace, unable to resist the warmth and urgency of his touch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Lowering her onto the bed, he eased her back, fingertips skimming over her chest, grazing her nipples and then meandering down to her waist. On his knees before her, he bent down pausing for just a second, smiling, before he planted a kiss on her belly. Heat and need raced through her veins and settled between her thighs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Gently, he lifted her shirt over her head and unhooked her bra, casting both garments aside. The cool ocean breeze coming in from the porthole drew her nipples into tight buds. He licked at the dots of puckered flesh, nuzzling each breast and kissing them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">She sighed, threading her fingers in his hair. Once he had slipped off her trousers, he took off his shorts. Settling between her legs, he pressed his hard cock to her opening, but hesitated.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t want to hurt you.” He smoothed her hair across the pillow. “Either of you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">One finger tracing his high cheekbones, she realized how very much she needed him inside her right this very second. Joining their bodies together would make all of this strange dream real in her heart and soul. She might be able to believe in a future she’d never dared to think about, but in Nate’s arms all seemed possible.</span></div>
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Want to participate in WIP Wednesday and show the world what you are working on? Send submissions to cindyjacksbooks@gmail.com. Romance, erotic romance and erotica prefered.<br />
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Cheers!<br />
CindyFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-47061054360449009812018-02-06T10:38:00.000-05:002018-02-06T10:38:13.892-05:00The Few, the Proud, the Forgotten....and the Really Forgotten<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Let me preface this article by saying I am in no way, shape, or form trying to discount the battle of ANY cancer sufferer or survivor anywhere ever. It is my intent to discount MY experience and mine alone. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!<br />
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It's #TellItTuesday here on It's Complicated and <a href="http://cleanradioedit.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Clean!</a>, the day I open a vein....no, not a vein, an <i>artery</i> and let the blood of my meandering existence spurt all over my laptop. There's something about me a lot of folks don't know and it's something I don't often talk about: I am a cancer survivor.<br />
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Why would I keep this fact to myself? Doesn't make sense, especially in this day and age when we're all trying as best we can to throw money and attention at an insidious disease that not only robs people of their futures, but of their dignity, their hope, and more often than not, their livelihoods and nesteggs. Thanks, broken US healthcare system!<br />
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First of all, I never want to appear to capitalize on my experience. Seems unsavory to me. Also, It's not that my story is too horrible to relive. Not at all and that is the MAIN reason I don't wear my survivorhood on my chest. Compared to most of the cancer battles I've witnessed-- either watching loved ones cling to life after torturous treatment after torturous treatment or at the EDJ as a healthcare professional-- I consider my story insignificant....other than its origin. I have a special kind of survivors guilt. I did not endure enough to claim the title of "survivor".<br />
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At the age of seventeen (a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away) I was diagnosed with <a href="https://www.cancer.org/cancer/thyroid-cancer.html" target="_blank">thyroid cancer</a>. Thyroid cancer? Does thyroid cancer even have a ribbon? I'm sure it does, I just don't know what color it is. It's the three-toed sloth of cancers. At least papillary thyroid carcinoma is. Medullary and anaplastic are full on badass cancer bitches, but papillary... C'mon. It reminds me of the word <i>papillon</i> which means butterfly in French. Hmmm....which is also the shape of the thyroid. (note to self, look up etymology of word "papillary"). Anyway, it's very slow growing, usually stays put in the neck, and, due to the unique element one's thyroid needs to function, it's pretty easy to obliterate. I'll get to what I went through to obliterate it in a minute. First, let me jump to the juicy part.<br />
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How does an otherwise healthy seventeen year old have a thyroid so sick it doesn't have just cancer, but also a <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goitre" target="_blank">goiter</a> and <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hashimoto%27s_thyroiditis" target="_blank">Hashimoto's Thyroiditis</a>? Well, that story, THAT STORY, I do want to shout from the rooftops because it makes me so angry I can hardly see straight every time I think of it. And it is this flood of emotion that's kept me from writing about it for twenty-four years. This is my attempt to make peace with it.<br />
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Way back yonder in the mid to late 20th century (yes, the 20th century), two of the eight wells on <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camp_Lejeune_water_contamination" target="_blank">Camp LeJeune, North Carolina US Marine Corps base contained dangerous levels of PERC and about seventy other hazardous chemicals</a>. What's PERC you ask? It's chemical name: <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tetrachloroethylene" target="_blank">perchloroethylene or tetrachloroethylene</a>, better known as dry cleaning solvent. Yes, you read that right, DRY CLEANING SOLVENT. Also turns out that <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strontium-90" target="_blank">strontium-90</a> made the list of "seventy other chemicals". What's that? RADIOACTIVE WASTE. Now as to who knew what when, the sense is that the base's upper echelon knew of the pollution early on and still decided to keep the wells in use. Thanks, guys!<br />
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Smack dab in the middle of the polluted water timeframe (1953-1985), my mother became swollen with child--yep, you guessed it, little baby Cindy. Thank my lucky fucking stars my Mom craved soda when pregnant with me. We lived on base for another nine months after I was born, but again, Momma Wiggins breastfed me which I'm sure filtered out quite a bit of the poison. I was never directly dosed with PERC or strontium-90 and for that I am grateful. I honestly believe it's why things weren't worse than they were. It's also why the US government states there is no direct causality between perchloroethylene and thyroid cancer. See, even the US government doesn't think my cancer was cancer-y enough. Hey, but given my choices: mouth/throat cancer, breast cancer, leukemia, endometrial cancer, colon cancer, lymphoma, kidney cancer, or liver cancer, I'll take my three-toed sloth any day.<br />
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Don't get me wrong, battling thyroid cancer was no picnic. I went through some shit. I endured a needle aspiration (that's a giant fucking needle in the throat for those of you outside the know), two surgeries, six weeks without replacement hormones and then an iodine 131 oblation which made me as nauseous as motherfucker for a week. A year later I had to go off my meds for another six weeks to prep for a scan to be sure I was in remission. Those of you who take thyroid meds to stay alive know being without it for six weeks is no walk in the park. Symptoms include extreme fatigue, constipation, weight gain and minor hair loss.<br />
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I have to take replacement thyroid horomones for the rest of my life to the tune of $30 - $40 per month because that's what works for me costs, no inexpensive levothyroxine for me! I also have a gnarly scar at the base of my neck that looks like Mike Meyers slashed my throat but I somehow didn't die. Add to the mix that I was seventeen/eighteen and had to drop out of my first semester of college when all this was going on, it felt as though the world was ending. But that feeling was adolescent hyperbole. I didn't lose all my hair, I didn't vomit for weeks or months on end, I was never hospitalized because I was close to death--not from the cancer, but from the treatment. Nothing ended and life went on.<br />
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The same cannot be said for Janey Ensminger, the daughter of USMC master sergeant Jerry Ensminger. She died of cancer at the age of nine. I cannot imagine the pain and outrage her parents went through, but her father turned his profound loss into something positive: It's thanks to Jerry Ensminger, and his advocacy group <a href="http://www.tftptf.com/" target="_blank">The Few, The Proud, The Forgotten</a>, the state of the water at Camp LeJeune was finally exposed circa 1999.<br />
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I give my eternal thanks to those who would not be silenced so that those of us affected by this travesty could receive the most basic of healthcare, at least those of with cancers and conditions that can be linked to PERC and strontium-90. Those of us with health issues who cannot prove causality, well, we are really forgotten about. Forty bucks doesn't sound like a huge nut to come up with every month, but spread over the course of my lifetime, should I live to see an average US female lifespan, it equals roughly $30,000. Ouch! And that number doesn't even include the infertility issues I've gone through. Six pregnancies with one live birth. *SMH* Infertility and miscarriages can be linked to PERC, but they can also be linked to exposure to myriad other chemicals, too. Fact of the matter is we ingest nasty stuff every day. It is the state of the union no one likes to talk about.<br />
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Anyhoo, I shall descend from my soapbox. I choose to be grateful for the things I have and make peace with all I've lost. Turns out I am a survivor after all and that's what matters most....oh, and while writing this article I looked up the ribbon for thyroid cancer: It's purple, pink, and teal. Very butterfly-like. I approve 😄<br />
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Cheers,</div>
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Cindy</div>
<br />Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-44516150398754030992018-02-05T00:00:00.000-05:002018-02-05T00:00:21.257-05:00Every Breath You Take by Cindy Henson WigginsHere's a bit of flash fiction I'm featuring on my new blog, <a href="https://cleanradioedit.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Clean!</a> today. It's not erotic, but definitely romantic in its own way. Hope you enjoy!<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Gravel-laced whir of a coffee grinder and footsteps overhead. She is awake. I imagine her messy-haired and half asleep, stretching good morning in her robe. The robe is lavander with small plum blossoms dotted over it’s silken surface. This I know because I’ve seen it when she’s trotted down to retrieve her mail as her coffee brews.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I appreciate that she grinds her own beans. I do the same. Any self-respecting coffee lover does. At least, I assume she loves coffee because I know she has it special delivered and yes, she grinds her own beans every morning. So, she must love good coffee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Her light footsteps overhead are comforting as I eat my breakfast. I wonder what she eats, if she eats breakfast. Perhaps she settles in with fresh fruit and yogurt. Maybe it’s eggs and toast, just like me. I can hear the scraping of her chair and the soft creak of aged wood, perhaps rattan. I can’t be sure, but we’ve spent our mornings together so often in just this manner. I would cook her whatever her heart fancies if she asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Her soft footfalls lead to the bedroom. She is barefoot, or at least wearing only slippers. She moves like a cat on sneaky feet. The shower above mine spring to life and the music starts, Pharrell - </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">Happy</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> pours through the vents. She’s in a good mood. This makes me smile.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I start my shower, her bathwater draining into my pipes. We are, in essence, in the shower together. I allow my mind to wander, picturing her silhouette through the steam, her hand outreached for mine. I would take that hand and never let go.</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">She ends her shower before I do, but she takes longer to dress than I do. The music is softer now. I can’t quite make out the tune, but the driving bass furthers my theory that she’s happy.</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I hear her voice over the din, she’s chatting with someone on the phone. Her giggles form silver bells over the din and ring in my heart. What could I say to make her laugh like that?</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The clothes I laid out the night before wait for me, folded neatly over my chair. Today is special. Today, I dress for success. Today, I will charm her off her feet.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">Hello, darlin’, I’m the handsome downstairs neighbor you’ve been wondering about.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Confidence is the key. I wear my favorite tailored shirt. Well, it’s the only tailored shirt I own. My father taught me all a man needs is one good dress shirt and a good barber.</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Ruffling gel through my hair, I inspect my reflection. Rafael outdid himself the last time I went for a cut. Lined up and perfectly in place, my hair resembles a GQ ad if I do say so myself. After slipping into well-worn jeans and dabbing on a bit of cologne, I am ready. As ready as I’ll ever be.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">My palms sweat so I dust them with a bit of talc. Another tip from Dad. You only get one shot at a good first impression and a man never has sweaty palms.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Standing by my door, I am ready. Today will be the day.</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">What will I say? Well, I’ve known that from the day she moved in that I’d fallen for her. I am thunderstruck by her beauty and grace. I know the depth of her mind because I hear all the documentaries she watches at night when she can’t sleep. I know she isn’t the run of the mill kittens and puppies kind of girl because her Facebook posts are funny and pithy. Never corny or smarmy. She has too much taste for that.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">She loves her family because they all come over for Sunday dinner every third Sunday of the month and she knows how to cook because the scents from that dinner are always inticing.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">She laughs with abandon and cries with equal measure. She is complicated and simple and passionate and kind and honest---all rolled into one beautiful soul.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“You dropped this,” she said, handing me my credit card. It’d slipped out of my pocket. She’d been behind me going up the stairs, a fact I was doing my best to ignore.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh, uh, thanks. Wouldn’t want to lose that.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“No.” She grinned, shaking her head, chocolate brown locks licking her cheeks. “That would be bad.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Of course my dumb ass was struck mute.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">But not today. Not today.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The door above me slams, not with malice, but with the certainty that it is closed. Keys jangle as she locks it. My heart pounds into my throat as I prepare to open my door. All I have to do is open my door. Open the door. I can hear her heels clicking on the stairs.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">Open the door!</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">A moment’s hesitation too long, I open the door to see the red wool of her coat disappear out the building’s front door. Her car rumbles to life and I’ve missed my chance yet again. Closing my eyes, I take in the scent of her perfume. It is floral without being acrid and it warms my chest even though it is the smell of regret and could-have-beens.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Head hung low, I shuffle into my flat and take a cleansing breath. The door clicks closed behind me. I have my day’s work to get to. Putting her from my mind is a must. I set my jaw, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. There is always tonight. Tonight will be my time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 18pt; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline;">*****</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Powering down my laptop, I prepare for Bold Introduction 2.0. I pour two fingers of Scotch in a tumbler and roll it between my hands before downing it. Liquid courage was definitely what I was missing this morning.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The front door of the building wooshes open and closed. The cacophony of children stampeding upstairs after a long day of school distracts me. It’s way too early to be her, but my stomach lurches at the sound. This is a dress-rehearsal for showtime.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">About an hour later, after I’ve double checked my hair and downed another Scotch and soda, the building door scrapes open. Again too early and the fact that it doesn’t immediately hiss shut tells me it’s not her. The clank of the mailboxes one floor down confirms my suspicions. It’s the mailcarrier. He climbs to my landing and knocks on my door.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I greet him with a smile. “What’s up, Fred?”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s a heavy one today. Proofs?”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“An ARC. Yeah. Thanks.” I sign for the hefty package.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Fred sizes me up. “All dressed up and no place to go?”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Today’s the day, Fred. Today is the day.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">He shakes his head. “Youth is waste on the young.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I laugh as I close my door, but he isn’t wrong. Fred could’ve been a looker in his youth. He wouldn’t have had any trouble talking to the goddess on the third floor, of that I was sure.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Settling on the sofa, I open the new book I’m supposed to review, but it’s hard to concentrate. Somehow, I force myself to hear the author’s voice and not hers.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Then comes the woosh I’ve awaited all day. I spring from the sofa, ready to make my move. But then I hear her voice. She’s on her mobile phone, heels no longer clicking, she stomps up the stairs. Her door slams, this time with real violence.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The conversation is muffled now, but loud nonetheless. Snatches of her indignance float down:</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t understand--”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“Explain why--”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“That doesn’t make any sense.”</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“--Can’t do that--”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“I won’t put up with this shit--”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Then, she goes silent.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Holding my breath, I wait for more, but nothing else comes. The floor resounding above tells me she’s pacing. What’s gotten her so agitated?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The gentle squeak of springs. She’s on her sofa now, probably with her feet tucked under her bottom. A protective position. I hear her cry and I wonder who’s made her cry, though I’m pretty sure it’s that punk-ass boy I’ve seen climb the stairs far too often. He has no idea what to do with a woman like her. If she were mine, I’d never make her cry. Not sobbing as she is now.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I could scale the stairs and be her white knight. A hero with a box of tissues and a shoulder built for comfort. Loneliness is state we both share and neither of us need ever be alone again. I’d tilt her chin up, eyes shining with tears. I’d kiss her and promise never to do anything to hurt her. I love her. She must know that.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">But how could she. I’ve never told her. But somehow, some way, she must know. She is my morning, noon, and night. Shaking my head, I exhale. How am I supposed to tell her all of that? Now, I start to pace. The timing isn’t right. It’s just not right.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I give her some privacy. She’ll quiet in an bit and then turn on the TV. We’ll watch something about the migration of blue whales or the strange disappearance of honeybees.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Lighting a cigarette, I take a long drag. The air is a little crisp and I regret coming out with no coat. I could go back in, but then she’d hear my intrusion. She needs a little time alone.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Then, I hear them---her balcony doors. They click open and closed. She has French doors, not the sliding glass piece of shit I have. The light comes on and her gentle foot steps lead to her bistro set. She’s talking to her mother and once again feel as if I am intruding.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Looking up as I crush out a cigarette, I pause. I want to stay and find out what has her so upset, but it’s none of my business. As quietly as I can, I slip into my apartment.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The night drags on. I work through the ARC, making notes, but she is never far from my thoughts. I wait for her to come inside. Finally, I see the light extinguish from her balcony and hear her. A few ballerina steps and I know she has gone to bed. All is still.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Heading to bed myself, I imagine slipping into clean, soft, cottony sheets next to her. I roll over, the warmth of her arm draped over me and her feathery breath on my neck. This image knotting me in Gordian fashion, I undress and toss aside the useless dress shirt. Then, I retrieve it and fold it neatly over my desk chair. I’ll hang it up tomorrow. I do the same with my jeans and go to bed in my boxers and undershirt. Tucking an arm behind my head on the pillow, I sigh.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Tomorrow, I will work up the courage to talk to her. Tomorrow will be my day.</span></div>
Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-48564078651527930752018-02-04T00:00:00.000-05:002018-02-04T00:00:20.871-05:00Everything Is Your Fault....Or Why Tom Bilyeu Is Brilliant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/2ehvyAMFL30/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2ehvyAMFL30?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
Writing is lonely business. Whether you write from home or surrounded by like-minded individuals, when it comes down to it, putting word to page is just you and your thoughts trying to make sense of a mad, mad, mad, mad world. To produce articles and novels on the reg requires Herculean amounts of self-discipline and self-motivation.<br />
<br />
The self-discipline I've got. I've written more in the past couple weeks than most people do their entire lives. Even self-professed "writers". The motivation, well, that's the sticky wicket.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I am more than motivated to write. For me, it is a need, not a want. I always love finding out what I've got to say. More often than not, I surprise myself with my turns of phrase. I read my work and think, <i>Did I write that? Wow!</i> I'm my biggest fan. You have to be otherwise you have no business writing.<br />
<br />
The problem comes in when it seems no one else gives a shit about what I have to say. It's nothing short of heartbreaking to have a novel flop or to see a scant number in the "Views" column of blog post. I start to feel as though I am screaming into the void. If one writes from a place of honesty, heart, and soul, it's a blow to ye ole ego to be told by end results, "What you gave wasn't enough." All bullshit aside, that's how it feels: Cindy you are not enough.<br />
<br />
But thanks to billionaire genius, <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Bilyeu" target="_blank">Tom Bilyeu</a>, learned how to flip that script. I read an article on <a href="https://www.inc.com/gerard-adams/the-simple-way-to-find-your-passion-according-to-a-founder-who-built-a-billion-dollar-brand.html" target="_blank">Inc.com, The Simple Way to Find Your Passion According to a Founder Who Built a Billion-dollar Brand</a>. Understand, I am not a flavor of the month kinda gal. And no, I am NOT calling Bilyeu a flavor of the month, far from it. I subscribe to tried and true advice such as:<br />
<br />
You have to do it the old-fashioned way...you have to eeeeeearn it (And yes, <a href="https://youtu.be/yAMRXqQXemU" target="_blank">John Houseman</a> does always narrate that line in my head, who else would, silly?).<br />
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If you don't know what you are doing, pretend that you do and no one else will the difference - Hugh N. Wiggins aka my dad.<br />
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Nothing is ever as good or as bad as it seems - again gotta attribute that to Dad.<br />
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Stop screwing around and get your homework done. - Ruby Wiggins aka Mom<br />
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Hard work beats talent when talent fails to work hard - <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kevin_Durant" target="_blank">Kevin Durant</a><br />
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First rule of leadership: EVERYTHING IS YOUR FAULT - <i>A Bug's Life</i>.<br />
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Or more recently the way Tom Bilyeu put it in the aforementioned article: "How did I create this situation?"<br />
<br />
KA-BLOOEY, mind blown. I'd never thought of my flailing writing career in quite that way.<br />
<br />
Well, we all know my sitch right now. Working an EDJ that is killing me, the faucet of words shut off, a situation I thought would be a permanent one. But as all real writers know, that pipe will burst one day and it did burst, leaving me covered in the sewage of my own shame, regret, and bitterness.<br />
<br />
I had two choices: wallow like a pig in my own shit, or grab of tub of wet naps (preferably antimicrobial), clean myself up and figure out "How did I create this situation?"<br />
<br />
Here is my confession:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I doubted my talent.</li>
<li>I allowed the needs of others to supercede my own, trying to be some kind of martyr, somehow more loved for my sacrifice.</li>
<li>I made expensive choices both financially and emotionally.</li>
<li>I wrote what I thought other people wanted to read instead of writing what makes me happy.</li>
<li>I put all my eggs in one basket.</li>
<li>I bought into the myth of "overnight success". I hoped one book would rocket me to the bestsellers list. **see the aforementioned John Houseman line.</li>
<li>I thought small.</li>
<li>I stopped making it personal.</li>
<li>I got caught up in what Bilyeu would call "petty emotions" which is exactly what they are.</li>
<li>I stopped READING....a writer's cardinal sin.</li>
<li>I isolated myself.</li>
<li>I did what I thought was expected of me.</li>
<li>I let other tell me who I am or who I should be.</li>
<li>I hid my true self from the world because I thought my true self was unacceptable.</li>
<li>I allowed my vices to control me.</li>
<li>I blamed others for my failure.</li>
<li>Worst of all, I stopped trying.</li>
</ul>
<br />
I admit right here and right now that I, Cindy Anne Jacks, made every single one of those decisions.<br />
<br />
So....how do I re-create my situation so that I elevate myself from the cacophony of self-doubt to the place of literary greatness I know I can achieve?<br />
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Well, I don't have all the answers yet, but I do know I don't know everything. I embrace my mistakes and I vow to myself, and no one else, that I will never give up ever again. When faced with obstacles, I will find a way around, over, under, or through. I will reinvent myself a thousand times because I owe it to myself to do so.<br />
<br />
From here on out, I accept everything is my fault. Sincerely, thank you, Tom, for what you do.<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
CindyFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-24952034477731056132018-02-02T00:00:00.001-05:002018-02-02T00:00:05.833-05:00How Freddie Met Cindy -- Excerpt from WIP Shelter Me<h1 dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-right: -0.75pt; margin-top: 42pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 42pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 400; vertical-align: baseline;">Shelter Me</span></h1>
<h2 dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 24pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 16pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Chapter One</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">For much of this tale you will know as Freddie, a name given to me by those who neither knew nor understood me. I have no idea what it means in the language from which it originates; in truth it sounds like nonsense to me, but I came to love it because of Her. She calls my nonsense name it in this sing-songy voice, chanting variations of it such as “Freddie-Fred” or “Fredward” and when I wag my tail and trot to her She smiles and laughs and rubs my ears and neck. Her caress reminds of my mother’s tongue, warm and sweet. She is warm and sweet, unlike any human I’d ever known. I came to find out her name-- Cindy, which means “moon” in her language. This name is perfect for Her. She is bright and clear, illuminating as moonlight, but a complete mystery when first we met.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">My true name is Barhahroo, which in my language means “Bringer of Great Sound”. It is a strong and noble name given to me by my mother a few hours after I was born. Mother later told me she could tell by my strident mewls for milk I would be one of the greatest sound bringers of all time. And great I was-- and still am-- if I do say so myself. Mother said this was a special gift because combined with speed, endurance and the way the Hounds of the Great Land saw more with our noses than almost all other canines, my voice made me useful to humans to hunt the Great Game. She said it time and again: there was no greater calling for a hound than serving our people and running down the weakest of the herd to keep the Great Game great.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">I’ll admit once I met the first people I served, I did not see the honor or higher calling in it. They were loud, slow, and truth be told, not very intelligent… at least not in so far as I could tell. They often smelled of something acrid, like a forest fire, but far more pungent and insidious. And when they smelled of fermented grains, the louder and stupider and crueler they became. Often when they smelled this way, they would corale us in some kind of moving pen and travel deeper into the forest. I remember the wind rushing past, every intricate smell flooding my nostrils: velvety soft earth, moldering leaves, pine trumpeting over the base of acorns and oak. Glorious. Truly glorious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">And then they would set us free.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">I would run and sniff and choose a different path than my my mother, father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins. There were so many in our pack, there was no way the Great Game could escape us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Sooner or later a member of my pack would sound the alarm, they’d found one or maybe even a whole herd. I would take off in the direction of call, baying as I went. The great sound is different than a bark or growl. It was a siren song, drawing the slow, awkward humans in my directions. Their awkward two-legged gait would get them to us eventually, but not with any quickness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Not for for me and my pack. We would flank our quarry, snapping at its spindly legs. If we could break one of those gracile limbs, the Great Game was doomed. Taking out a leg meant a sure kill, but it also left us susceptible to a hoof to the mouth or chest. It was best to give it room and let the humans end it with one of their thunder-sticks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">If we kept a safe distance and allowed the Great Game an escape route, the quarry would lift its stubby, tan tail lined with white fur and flee which thrilled me to no end. I loved to chase, I loved running it down until it could run no more, mud and bits of bark and leaves splattering my fur, the scent of its fear effervescent in my nostrils. That scent only excited me more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">My haunches, always strong, propelled me forward with enormous bounds. My claws made sure purchase along the soft ground. If my quarry cut left or right, trying to out maneuver me, I could adjust my trajectory in a split second, my pack at my side . The Great Game was agile and fleet of foot, but so were we. We, however, could run forever. My body never ached, my lungs took in air and turned it into pure flight and fight. The Great Game would always tire before we did. Once it could flee no more, we would surround it, some of the pack growling and snarling. I would plant my feet, arch my neck, lifting my mouth skyward and cry out with the Great Sound.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Once the humans ambled up to the trapped creature, it took mere seconds to end its life. Oh how my mouth would water, the metallic scent of its blood, the grass fermenting in its stomach. If we were and patient, one of the humans would string up the carcass. They would slice open our quarry to empty the blood and throw us bits of entrails. The organ meat was always rich and tasted bit like the fence of our pen smelled. If I got lucky I would get a section of intestines. The intestines almost always contained a stray sweet berry or two.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Oh the hunt--it was my second, but greatest love. My first love was my mother, who died needlessly not long before I met Cindy. My Moon proved to be my third great love, though she seems to hold no interest in hunting whatsoever. I forgive her this shortcoming because she forgives mine which are many, at least in her world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Her world… that was another challenge and adventure altogether. More dangerous and prickly than a male Great Game with a full rack and the rank scent of rage wafting from him in waves. It was completely foreign and unpleasant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Or so I thought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">At first.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">***</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“That’s the closest he’s ever gotten to anyone.” The lady from the shelter raised her eyebrows and nodded.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Freddie brushed past me again. He wouldn’t a stop or even take the dog biscuit from my hand. I reached out to pet him, but he wasn’t having that either.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“Why is he so skittish?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“He was a working dog. A hunting dog.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">The lady crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “He was either turned out because he wasn’t up to snuff or they just abandoned him after the hunt if he didn’t make it back to the truck before they left.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">A knot formed in my gut. “That’s terrible.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“It is. We get hounds like Freddie all the time. No collar, no chip, no way to locate an owner and no owner ever come to claim them.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">The knot twisted harder, a knife piercing my heart. I couldn’t imagine. Who was I kidding, yes I could. I knew first hand there were so many ignorant, useless, shitty people in the world just using up perfectly good organs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">God, I was in a bad mood. But it was my day off and all I wanted to was binge watch something on Hulu and Netflix in my lovely living room with hardwood floors and walls the color of buttercream. We just got the house. I loved our new home. Granted it as a townhouse, but was an end unit. I had so many windows there was no need to turn the lights on for most of the day. The new house was light and peace and quiet and beauty. After suffering seven years in that disgusting, tiny apartment that hadn’t been renovated since nineteen seventy something, we’d finally put 2007 behind us. Eight grueling years later. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">I didn’t want a dog. Dogs are messy and smelly a lot of work, and this one would be more than most.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">My new home was beautiful and clean and I wanted it to stay that way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“What do you think?” I turned to my husband, Mica, who leaned against the wall. “You are the one who wants a dog.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t know.” He reached for Freddie who shied away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">The knife in my heart twisted, the poor thing’s ribcage showed beneath his thin, dull coat. I could see every vertebrae, a ridge of rolling hills from his neck to his tail which didn’t wag. He would sneak glances at us, wild-eyed and panting, completing circuit after circuit around the shelter’s meet and greet room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">But. I. Don’t. Want. A. Dog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">I tried to tamp down my knee-jerk need to take in broken things and make them whole.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Mica had been broken once. He seemed pretty whole now: a good job, a nice house, me and our son. What more could he need?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“You said I could get a dog when we got a house.” This had become his mantra over the past two weeks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“We just got settled in. Let’s wait a bit.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“So we’re never getting a dog then?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“Fine if we get a dog we have to get one from a rescue or a shelter.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“Nah, nah, nah. I want a pit from a breeder.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh no we aren’t. It’s a rescued dog or no dog.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“Fine, but I want a puppy.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“Sure.” I grinned. “We can go to the animal shelter this weekend.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">I knew the Loudoun County Animal Shelter worked tirelessly to place puppies with local rescue groups who were better equipped to adopt out cute, little fuzzy bundles of joy--and round the clock care. Plus the rescue groups charged a premium for the puppies which only made sense. Fully vaccinated and neutered or spayed. That cost money and the adoption fee reflected the group’s investment. Then there was the application, the home visit to ensure our house and yard were adequate for their precious cargo. Mica would have no patience for all that mess. And at the local shelter there would only be adult dogs to look at. I’d already checked the selection of adoptable dogs on the shelter website.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">We’d go looking at dogs this weekend, he wouldn’t find what he wanted and this conversation would be moot. At least for a little while.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">The plan was perfect. Everything went so smoothly. We took a look at a supposedly very sweet pitbull whose mouth and bite radius scared the bejesus out of me. Her named was Ruby and she was sweet. She could also jump a seven-foot fence which was why she was surrendered. Ruby wasn’t a good fit. Mica patted Ruby on the head as the shelter worker returned Ruby to her pen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">We were leaving.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Case closed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">The swell of victory blossomed in my chest as I happened to glance right. And apparently Mica had too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">From the opening that lead to an outside run, in stepped Freddie. Skin and bones, but the quintessential hound dog. Tan head and long, velvety, floppy ears, droopy sad eyes, a white body with a black “saddle”. A white patch with lemon ticking kissed his big black nose and his neck and lead up to his panting mouth, salt-water taffy tongue nearly extended to ground. Blue ticking freckled his rangy legs and haunches.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">He eyed us up for a moment, then indicated his disinterest by taking a quick slurp of water and heading back outside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Mica jerked his head in the direction of Freddie’s pen. “That’s a beautiful dog.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“He would be with a little more weight on him.” I read his description in the frame attached to his pen. “He’s about two years old. I thought you wanted a puppy.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“I do, but he really is a nice looking dog. He looks like a purebred.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“What does that matter?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“C’mon, it’d be funny. We could say we got a purebred at the shelter--” he paused to read the description too. “A purebred American Foxhound.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">And so I that’s how I wound up in the meet and greet room with one of the most pitiable creatures I’d ever seen. For some reason his aloof nature drew me to him. I would get him to allow me pet him come hell or high water.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“Is he housebroken?” Mica asked the shelter lady-- I had to stop calling her “the shelter lady”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">I got a look at her nametag, Janine. Shelter Lady’s name was Janine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“No,” Janine said, “to be honest, he’s going to be project.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">I didn’t want a dog much less a project. It was though the damn dog would smell my weakness. He swiped past me a couple more times and made another figure eight around the room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Then, he walked up to me and stopped.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Espresso brown eyes, almost black with their hound droop. I reached for him ever so slowly. Just an inch every few seconds. As my hand neared his black licorice nose, he did the unimaginable. He pressed it to my fingers. Wet and cool, my fingertips grazing his velvet drape ears. Then, he took off again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">“Whoa.” Janine’s eyes grew wide. “That’s never happened.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Shut up, Janine. I cut my gaze at the pathetic dog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Fucking Freddie, I shook my head. We were getting a dog.</span></div>
Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-41190298842542715522018-02-02T00:00:00.000-05:002018-02-02T00:00:04.182-05:00Off the "Balta<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Part of my New Year's Resolution was to tell the unvarnished truth, not only to those of you out there who might want to hear what I have to say, but also to myself. Please let me preface this article by stating that I, in no way, shape, or form harbor judgement about anti-depressants. I'm not Tom Cruise dissin' on Brooke Shields for doing what she needed to do to manage her post-partum depression. That shit is real, em kay? I also realize anti-depressants assist millions of people with managing everything from depression to anxiety to addiction to their weight problems. For many people, they are a Godsend. I just wasn't one of those people<br />
<br />
If you've been reading my blog lately, you know I've had a shitty couple of years. I'd entered a stage of my life I thought would be triumphant. I landed contracts with not one but two major publishers. I'd settled down with the love of my life. We'd climbed out of the hole the 2008 market crash had left us in. We'd even been able to buy a house. No McMansion, but it was our blue heaven. I had friends, family, success, and happiness. I had it all.<br />
<br />
But as Fate is wont to do, as soon as one gets too comfortable, she jerked the fucking rug right out from under me. Bitch.<br />
<br />
The downward spiral began with a hiccup (read: totally fucking devestating development) in my happily ever after. Let's just say neither MBH nor I had been on our best behavior and we made it through, but for me, it was the beginning of the end of my salad days.<br />
<br />
The next setback came in a very lukewarm reception to a novel with a major publisher I had dreamed would be my breakout hit. A gal can dream can't she? This combined with ever smaller and less frequent royalty checks from the publisher that had been by bread and butter. There was only one way out: return to an evil day job. The move was supposed to be temporary and only part time.<br />
<br />
From there, the hits just kept coming. Our blue heaven turned into a bit of money pit. The things we'd overlooked or thought we'd have time and money to repair all blew up at once leaving our savings sicklier than ever. So part time EDJ turned into full time leaving me with precious little time to ply my calling.<br />
<br />
And then by bread and butter publisher folded taking all their author's unpaid royalties with them. I had neither the time nor the money to fight for what I was owed. Honestly, at that point I was done with being a writer anyway. That dreaming shit was for the birds. I was a real woman with a real family and a very real mortgage. Time to stop that Gen X slacker shit and grow the fuck up.<br />
<br />
I'd accept my new role as "Adult" with a capital A. But all was not lost, I worked with an amazing group of people I respected and loved in a work family way. Things could be worse. And worse came in the form of a huge coorporation that gobbled up my cute little employer and similar employers in the area like a titan eating his own children. No more fun at work.<br />
<br />
In retrospect, all those "problems" were small bumps in the road compared to what Fate had in store for me.<br />
<br />
I've said it before and I will say it again. I am not one of those from my generation who blames their parents for screwing them up. I did that all on my own, thank you very much. My parents are smart, funny, capable, and kind (in their own way). I've always counted my mother as one of my best friends.<br />
<br />
The trouble with Mom started in little ways. Forgotten details about some rambling tales I told her. That was normal with age, wasn't it? She wanted to sleep all the time. Again, she's no spring chicken and with her myriad health problems and the myriad drugs she was on to treat them, somnolence, even if it seemed a bit extreme wasn't all that hard to wave away.<br />
<br />
Dad was the first to sound the alarm (Bravo, Dad!). He told me over and over something wasn't right. I'll admit, I was in a little denial. Plus, my parents and I don't live near each other so I wasn't there to see everything he saw. I mean the confounding emotional outbursts from from Mom were one of the things that Mom was known for. I never had one of those "let me coddle you through life and kiss your boo-boos" kind of mothers, but she made me tough and strong and outspoken so that was Mom being Mom, right?<br />
<br />
A few months later the decline was marked. There was no more denial. There was no more explaining away this person who looked like Mom but that none of us recognized anymore. She slept all the time and when she wasn't asleep, she couldn't hold a normal conversation because she couldn't remember what had just been said. Not even when she was the one saying it.<br />
<br />
The dementia grew worse and worse and I lost my mother and best friend in one fail swoop. Instead of looking forward to our talks two or three times a week, I dreaded having to call and visits to my parents were even worse. I was confronted with Stranger-Mom during every excruciating minute.<br />
<br />
This, coupled with the very physical demands of my EDJ gave way to pain I'd never seen the likes of. Not just emotional, but physical. Very real physical pain. Limping down the stairs of townhouse kind of pain. Barely able to walk on my days off kind of pain. I'd taken this to mean middle age was catching up with all the injuries I'd sustained in my youth.<br />
<br />
Desperate for relief, I consulted a pain specialist. We tried multiple therapies with limited success. About six months into our journey, my pain doc noted I was on more and more different types of meds. Well you prescribed them to me doc. What are you trying to say. He assured me it was only an observation, not a judgment. Was there something going on I hadn't told him? I broke down into tears in his office and spilled the whole story about my mom.<br />
<br />
Ahh, the clouds parted for him. Not to worry. See emotional stress and depression can cause or exacerbate physical pain. But good news, there was a med that could treat certain types of physical pain and was also good for mild to moderate depression. Cymbalta. Skeptical, I took the RX and left.<br />
<br />
The prescription sat on my nightstand for six weeks. I really didn't want to try it. Again, I'm not an anti-depressant snob. I just wasn't convinced that I was depressed.<br />
<br />
And then my dad called. Mom had had some unusual symptoms for a woman her age. Her GYN investigated (Bravo, GYN!) and discovered my mother had uterine cancer. I could not process one more blow. Not one more. I put the Cymbalta RX and put it in my purse. I filled it the next day.<br />
<br />
The first night I took it, I slept like a dream something that hadn't happened in a long time. Slowly, I started to feel better. Stronger than I had in ages. I was ready for the world again, and for that, I will always be grateful. Cymbalta seemed the savior I'd prayed for. I didn't cry all the time, I didn't lash out at loved ones when they didn't deserve it, I didn't want to scream at the blue sky above every moment of every day. It also calmed the storm of thoughts and misgivings and fear that raged in my mind.<br />
<br />
Now, this storm was nothing new. My brain has always worked like an over-active Border Collie that, when left unchecked, would chew on my mental furniture. If I didn't get all those emotions and random bits of consciousness out in words, I would explode. It is why I write.<br />
<br />
The change took place gradually. Cymbalta takes a good four to six weeks to reach therapeutic levels on one's bloodstream. I didn't notice anything was amiss and once I did, it took a little while to put two and two together. Honestly, had it not been for one particular side effect, I'm not sure I ever would have.<br />
<br />
I spent a good nine months on Cymbalta. I was the rock everyone needed me to be. I was crushing my cancer support team role. I was a machine. I even handled my mother's double pulmonary embolism, an event for which I was the sole attendee, watching her gasping for air like a fish out of water and responding like a boss to get her to the hospital just in time, without shedding a tear. That should have been my first clue. But it wasn't. I was proud of how composed I'd been.<br />
<br />
Even after the fact, I did not cry.<br />
<br />
I'd decided I'd reached some level of maturity and acceptance where I could handle all this with the grace I'd always envied in others. Ha! My ass I had.<br />
<br />
The first clue I wasn't myself came from MBH. It'd been a while since we'd been, ahem, intimate. Well, that couldn't be a surpise for him, could it? As much as I love rediscovering every inch of his delicious form every time we get down to it, ain't nobody had time for that shit lately.<br />
<br />
But once he'd brought up the topic, I also noticed I hadn't taken care of such needs on my own in a long time either. Again, I rationalized that I just wasn't in the mood and with good reason. Plus, I wasn't thirty anymore. It all seemed very reasonable, but the seed of doubt had been planted.<br />
<br />
I should be embarrassed to admit that it took a hit to my libido for me to question my newfound calm, but I'm not. I love my libido and so does MBH. It's part of who I am as is a way with words. But I'd found those had left me too.<br />
<br />
On several occasions, I'd attempted to put fingers to keyboard resulting in disjointed, awkward, juvenile attempts at prose. This was alarming in its way. Was my mother's battle with death robbing me of everything? No, it turns out, it wasn't.<br />
<br />
But what has changed. For the first time in almost a year, I pulled my head out of my ass and looked at what else was different. The only other thing that had changed was my pharmaceutical regimen. I remember looking at the bottle of capsules with suspicion. Could it be possible that I was not a superhero, but merely chemically enhanced (or damaged, depending on your point of view).<br />
<br />
More as an experiment than an outright rejection of the therapy, I took a couple months to wean myself. A few weeks into the weaning, my answer became clear: I got choked up at a touching moment in a movie. Okay, okay, I bawled like a baby. Now, that's the Cindy we all know and love. I realized I hadn't done that in ages. Moreover, I hadn't felt ANYTHING in ages. And that simply, Cymbalta and I broke up for good.<br />
<br />
Now I know this is a double-edged sword. Will I be able to accept life's punches to the gut like a Southern Belle demurely fanning herself? Nope. But I've never been much good at that shit anyway. I'll take my messy, dramatic, sobbing, wine and Ben and Jerry's stained hissy fits any day. Because it also means I feel everything else in a big way, too: joy, wonderment, silliness, arousal. Oh, yes, welcome back arousal. I missed you most of all.<br />
<br />
I also got my words back. They spill forth faster than I can type them. The voices in my head are my friends and I wouldn't trade them for all the stoic grace in the world.<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
CindyFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-51404781626772200382018-02-01T00:00:00.000-05:002018-02-01T00:00:01.161-05:00Diamonds and Pink RibbonsAfter the past two days of irreverence, I thought I'd serious things up a bit. I came across this entry to my journal from a couple years ago, when a dear friend battled breast cancer. It reminds me that October isn't the only time we should think of our sisters fighting the good fight. Enjoy!<br />
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Diamonds and Pink Ribbons<br />
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When I was a kid, Madonna's <i>Material Girl</i> video blew me away. How I longed to be that shapely, jeweled-studded, pink satin clad goddess. I later found out the video was a tribute the late, great Marilyn Monroe. Another icon of hourglass curves and feminine power. I worshiped them both and decided I would strive to accomplish what these incredible women had (except for Marilyn's untimely demise, of course). Ahhh, the best laid schemes of mice and pre-pubescent girls. To quote John Lennon, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."<br />
<br />
These days, the only diamonds I come in contact with are comprised of red dirt and green grass. And as for pink ribbons, well, I could never pull one off perched atop my head, but I do wear one proudly on my chest as I help one of my closest friends deal with the indignities of breast cancer. Far from the clean, neat, sparkly world I dreamed of, my life consists of grass stains, mud ground into the carpet of my Jeep, some crying jags and lots of laughter at inappropriate times. I would not have it any other way. Hi, my name is Cindy. I'm a baseball mom, foot soldier in the fight against cancer, and writer of chick porn. You heard me. I write erotic romance, kinda like that awful shades of grey crap except way better--a senior in college who's a virgin? Do I look fucking stupid? But I digress.<br />
<br />
My weekend started with a hangover. It usually does these days, but I have a system to whip myself into fighting shape before my son gets out of bed, which is invariably at the butt crack of dawn...unless it's a school day. At five Saturday morning, I tossed down a Sudafed (to help with sinus swelling from last night's overindulgence), three Advil (for the headache), a Super B Complex vitamin (to get rid of the sluggish, dizzy feeling), and a Vitex capsule (that's for my malfunctioning lady-parts, but that's a whole other story). After a couple bottles of cold water from the fridge, I'm right as rain.<br />
<br />
L, my son, staggers into the living room, longish hair a cloud of snarled espresso-colored waves. I can hardly see his eyes, which are lovely velvety brown if you're lucky enough to catch a glimpse. He reminds me of Harry Potter if Harry Potter were a five foot tall nine year old, half Caucasian, half Puerto Rican with the booty to prove it. It's okay. My son has a bodacious ba-donk-a-donk. I am strong enough to accept this fact.<br />
<br />
After four pieces of toast and two eggs, he is raring to go. I manage to put off the inevitable by nursing a cup of coffee and puttering around the kitchen for another hour.<br />
<br />
"Can you take me to the baseball field to practice pitching?" he asks, SpongeBob apparently at an end.<br />
"I can, but the question is will I."<br />
"Will you take me?" He rolls his eyes.<br />
"Please?"<br />
"<em>Please</em>."<br />
<br />
I sigh. This is not my job. I cook, I clean, I scrub red clay out of white baseball pants, I write about engorged naughty-bits. I do not squat behind home plate while my giant fourth grader hurls hard projectiles at me. But I know neither his father nor his stepfather are able to function in this capacity. They are both at work. Damn them for being productive members of society and good providers.<br />
<br />
"I guess so. I can wear your catcher's gear."<br />
A large-toothed grin lights up his face.<br />
I'm doomed and I know it, but at least L is happy.<br />
<br />
We get to the field so early that dew still clings to the grass and the sun hasn't even fully broken the horizon. We shlep his massive bag of gear to the baseball diamond, do some warm ups, and then I put on his catcher's mask and chest protector.<br />
<br />
"You should put on the shin guards, too, Mom." He picks up a ball and slaps it into his glove.<br />
<br />
"I'll be fine." I sit on an overturned paint bucket behind home plate because there's no way my middle-aged knees will put up with squatting for more than about five seconds. But then I remember he has a strong arm and really could chip a bone with a misplaced fastball so I spread my legs very wide. Yes, I'm a genius. This way there is less of a chance that he'll hit my legs instead of the mitt.<br />
<br />
He shrugs and takes the mound. The first pitch goes wild. I don't bother to lunge for it. He has a pile of balls to work through. The second pitch it a little off, too, so I tell him to move over on the rubber. He complains that he's over far enough but then acquiesces.<br />
<br />
There's the wind up.<br />
And pitch.<br />
<br />
BLAP!<br />
<br />
The ball smacks me square between the legs. My hoo-ha feels as if it has been branded. I jump up, howling, tears in my eyes. My genitals are throbbing and not in that good way I love to write about.<br />
<br />
Breathe, just breathe, I tell myself.<br />
<br />
Holy fucking shit. If guys do indeed have it worse with the same type of injury, I will never again laugh at groin shot on those home video shows.<br />
<br />
"Mom, are you okay? I'm so sorry. Is your leg all right?" He runs to me, genuine concern tugging at his features.<br />
<br />
"My leg is fine, you didn't hit my leg."<br />
<br />
"What did I hit?"<br />
<br />
Before I can stop it, the admission has escaped my lips: "You hit me in the va-jay-jay!"<br />
<br />
His look of shock dissolves into a fit of giggles. He is still nine after all. Crotch humor is the height of hilarity at nine. I even manage a chuckle.<br />
<br />
When we have both regained our composure, I resume my catcher's duties, albeit crouching behind the bucket. Fuck my knees, I am not taking another shot to the clit. I'm sure it's going to be bruised tomorrow. I do not need a trip to the ER, me clutching my crotch, baseball stitching permanently stamped into my vulva. No, thank you.<br />
<br />
We make it through pitching practice without another hitch. We go home and I down more Advil. Screw my kidneys, my snatch feels like an over-ripe orange ready to split at moment's notice. I then deliver him to travel ball practice at nine a.m. and sit through an excruciating Little League game from two to four.<br />
<br />
Wounded and exhausted, we go by K's house to see if she needs some company for the evening and she does. Having cancer is a lonely kind of worry and pain. She worries about her prognosis through death isn't on the table. Not yet. Just the specters of the same old, same old horrors: chemo, radiation, surgery, possible double mastectomy, stress to her son, her husband, her body which has already been through so much. It's all overwhelming, but I have brought provisions: two bottles of white zinfandel.<br />
<br />
"What's up with the pink wine?" she teases. "Does everything have to be pink these days?"<br />
"It was on sale at the grocery store."<br />
She nods, a deep understanding passing between us.<br />
"May I have an ice pack, please?" I ask, easing into a kitchen chair, grateful it is padded.<br />
"Of course, what's wrong?"<br />
"L hit me in the pussy while we were practicing his pitching."<br />
"On purpose?" She furrows her brow, cracking the first bottle and pouring both of us extra large glasses.<br />
"I doubt it. His aim still isn't that accurate."<br />
<br />
We laugh and listen to the boys digging through a box of Legos. <em>Swunch, swunch, swunch</em>.<br />
<br />
She takes a sip of wine and then runs a finger around the edge of the glass. "The lymph node from the last surgery was positive."<br />
My throat constricts and I wish I could take away the fear crinkling the edges of her eyes. I can't. I know I can't. My world narrows to a pinpoint. I need to scream, but I can't. I need to put my fist through a wall, but I won't. Instead, I focus on the pink liquid in my glass and wish it was something stronger.<br />
<br />
"What does that mean?" I ask, knowing the answer full well, but I also know she needs to say it.<br />
Months of chemo, three different drugs, all of which will ravage her body, killing everything, not just the cancer. Neither of us can even cry. Not in any meaningful way. It's just too big. Too shocking. This was supposed to be a tiny thing. A nothing thing. But nothing ever works out for K the way it is supposed to. We often joke that perhaps she ran over Jesus's puppy in a former life and failed to apologize.<br />
<br />
She finishes her list of tests to come and treatments to follow, a hitch in her voice.<br />
"So what do you think?" she asks.<br />
"I think it would be easier if you had been hit in the cunt by a baseball."<br />
She huff a chuckle, tears snaking down her cheeks. "Me, too."<br />
<br />
I want to tell her how sorry I am. I want to shout. I want to burst into tears, but none of that will help. I lift my glass of wine to my lips. I may not be able to take away the pain, but I can sit with her and listen to our children play.<br />
<br />
It's not enough, but for now, it'll do.Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-29068791222651443902018-01-31T00:00:00.000-05:002018-01-31T09:22:50.823-05:00How to Get Laid, the Intro<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As promised, I'm sharing an excerpt today of my WIP <i>How to Get Laid Like A Billionaire-Superhero-Pirate-Cowboy-Rockstar-Fireman</i>, copyright 2013 Cindy Jacks, Rave Studios all rights reserved.<br />
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Enjoy!<br />
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<span style="font-family: "lucida bright"; font-size: 16pt; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline;">Introduction</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "gisha"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline;">The powerful tool you’re </span><span style="font-family: "gisha"; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">not</span><span style="font-family: "gisha"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> using</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Sex.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Whether you’ve been married for fifty years, are just starting a relationship, or are still looking for Ms. Right/Ms. Right-Now, sex is important. More and more studies these days confirm what some of us already knew: Sex―that is good and frequent sex―is the key to our health and happiness and bonds us to our partners. Easier said than done, isn’t it? Especially when you don’t have a partner to begin with or your current partner has lost interest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I’ll be the first to admit women say one thing and crave another. What’s up with that? It’s simple. We’re bombarded with messages that good girls don’t (yes, even in this day and age) and we want you guys to think we are </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">good</span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">, especially if you are someone we’re interested in for more than one night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Good girls don’t jump into bed on the first date. Good girls don’t give blowjobs and they especially don’t swallow. Good girls don’t ask for anal and if they give in to a man’s request, they certainly don’t enjoy it. But there is hope. There is a bad girl in every woman and it’s your job to unlock her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">“How the hell do I that?” you ask. Well, gentleman, I’m about to give you the keys to the castle:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Romance novels or more specifically, </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">erotic</span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> romance novels. Never heard of erotic romance? It’s chick porn. But more than that it’s a roadmap to what women really want in bed. It’s the most powerful tool most of you aren’t using.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Don’t believe me? Just check out the genre on Amazon….Go ahead, I’ll wait. There’s a reason smutty ebooks targeting women’s sexual desires comprise a billion dollar industry. The fact of the matter is we read these books because we want </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">you</span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">, real flesh and blood men, to seduce us and fuck us as if you just got out of prison. Unfortunately, most of you don’t. Sorry. The truth hurts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Perhaps it’s because you’ve bought into the myth that women don’t like sex or maybe you don’t know how. And I’m also guessing you ain’t interested in reading one of those books. I don’t blame you, some are real pieces of crap. So I’ve done your homework for you, gentlemen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Keep reading and you’ll discover there are really ten easy steps to seducing **any woman, including that hot girl at the office who won’t give you the time of day or, for you married guys, your wife who more often than not claims she’s got a headache. Take a look at her Kindle or iPad. She’s going to bed with someone every night, it’s just not you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">But it could be…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">**Disclaimer: By “any” woman, I mean any sexually active, heterosexual woman. If you’re hunting lesbians, virgins, or nuns, I’m not sure I can help.</span></div>
Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-56616190873203957552018-01-30T00:00:00.000-05:002018-01-30T00:00:00.266-05:00How to get laid like a billionaire, superhero, pirate, cowboy, rockstar, or fireman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ar_MWsaiizt0YaYFGqQUjlRD_I07xoWs6v0v_FNTuDDE3Ko-pQE4LbAtilgrZYZFD_u7YTmt_W6faM8dbyXqA6BbkmW4DMGvDvjg_u-Fzw6emnkJW5uXG-G00Lw705JB4XvLIl7vkJiz/s1600/BSPCRF.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ar_MWsaiizt0YaYFGqQUjlRD_I07xoWs6v0v_FNTuDDE3Ko-pQE4LbAtilgrZYZFD_u7YTmt_W6faM8dbyXqA6BbkmW4DMGvDvjg_u-Fzw6emnkJW5uXG-G00Lw705JB4XvLIl7vkJiz/s640/BSPCRF.png" width="640" /></a></div>
Bet that title got your attention, didn't it? It's meant to be provocative, but I'm sure you guessed that already.<br />
During my triumphant return to the laptop, I ran across a piece I haven't touched in five years. A little golden nugget languishing on my cloud.<br />
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The idea started five years ago whilst chatting with an old friend. He frequents the ComiCon circuit, dreams of graphic novel stardom never far from his mind. Aside from trying to recruit me as a booth babe (ha! as if they make Spanx powerful enough for that to happen...well, they probably do, but that's not the point), he told me to pack up my erotic romance books and join he and his crew when they were working a Con near me. They would sell like hotcakes.<br />
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Okay, here's part of the problem: most of my books at the time were virtual. It's hard to sell a download, I know it can be done, but I was also bound by a pretty persnickity publisher at the time so, well, not to sound like a broken record, but it was complicated.<br />
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But what if I came up with something of my own creation to flog at the Con? We brainstormed and came up with the idea for a tongue-in cheek "how to" manual.<br />
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MBH has always marveled at the female fascination with romance, even erotica novels (which he understands a little more). Okay, but he's a real life superhero so women are constantly throwing pussy at him. But what about the regular dudes out there? The ones frequenting ComiCon? Couldn't they benefit from the wisdom that every woman knows: If you only emulated about 31% of the stuff we read about in our spank bank, then you would be golden.<br />
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That's how <i>How to Get Laid Like a Billionaire-Superhero-Pirate-Cowboy-Rockstar-Fireman</i> was born. Is it a serious how-to manual? No, c'mon, y'all know me. I do envision an entire marketing franchise with buttons and t-shirts and coffee mugs that read "I know how to get laid like a BSPCRF!" for the gentleman and "My man went to ComicCon and all he learned was how to f@%k like a BSPCRF!" for the ladies. It's all copyrighted so don't get any ideas. Problem is, I never finished the damn book. Ha!<br />
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But if I had a nickel for every time a male of the species lamented to me that they'll never understand what women want, I wouldn't be working the EDJ, I'll tell you that much. Gentlemen, pick up a romance novel, preferably erotic romance because that will really give you the keys to the kingdom. Hint: you don't have to be Christian Grey but try smacking your wife's ass and pulling her hair at strategic times during coitus. It'll open up a whole new world. Make sure she's cool with that first, don't want anyone going to work with a black eye tomorrow being all like, "Thanks, Cindy!"<br />
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<i>VURRRP....</i><br />
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My apologies, I threw up a little in my mouth for having made a <i>50 Shades</i> reference. God I hate that franchise. So many better books. SO MANY BETTER WRITERS OUT THERE....okay, breathe, Cindy, just breathe.<br />
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I see <i>How to Get Laid </i>as Cliff's Notes for those not willing to wade through a genre they have no interest in. I get it. I never actually read <i>Pride and Prejudice</i> in high school. I know some folks swear by Jane Austen and I respect her as a trailblazer, but I'm sorry, the woman was wordy.<br />
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I flipped through the tome and read the parts I could stand and got a B minus on my exam. It's kinda the same thing with ER novels. You can't just flip through and read the juicy bits. There's a whole lot of backstory and swagger that gets the heroine into bed in between the juicy bits and in this case you do not want to get a B minus on your final exam, gentlemen. That will not get you repeat business, em kay?<br />
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I'll post excerpts here over the coming weeks (pun not intended) to keep you up with the progress.<br />
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Cheers,<br />
CindyFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-35897917294721096542018-01-29T00:00:00.000-05:002018-01-29T00:26:23.205-05:00Bigmouth Strikes Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Nothing pleases a writer more than a reader having a real and powerful emotional reaction to something they've written. Unless that reaction is hurt feelings. Not because what the writer wrote offended their sensibilities, but because the piece was about them and there was awful backlash to this portrayal.<br />
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Seeing yourself through someone else's eyes is daunting and I always consider what I am saying before I ever base a character or use a real life event as the basis for a story or article. What nerves will I touch? Was this a private moment not to be shared? Will others recognize about whom I write and will this cause problems for them either personally or professionally? But first and foremost, I always ask permission before using personal information in my writing.<br />
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As for the latest case of open laptop, insert foot, I never saw this friend's hurt coming. I'd asked permission. I'd explained exactly what I would be writing about and was given a whole-hearted thumbs up. Only caveat: they had to be able to read the finished problem. <i>Por supuesto!</i><br />
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The fly in the ointment came when they shared the article with someone close. A bit of party foul, but not being a writer they're to our etiquette. Not to mention, I'd forgotten an info sharing situation. Big oops on my part. I wrote the piece for a very specific audience and their boo was not on that list. But since I hadn't spelled out FYEO, I couldn't get upset about it.<br />
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So, writers, how much responsibility do we bear as observers and chroniclers of the world we live in? I know readers do not have a right to all the secrets, thoughts, and feelings we collect, but it's those same gritty details that take a good piece to great. How much do you worry about using real life? Have you ever offended someone by your portrayal of them? And if so, how did you fix it, if indeed you were able to fix it?<br />
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Fortunately for me the drama I caused calmed down pretty quickly. Sorry, Batman!<br />
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Cheers,<br />
Cindy<br />
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<br />Foxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899669321084154148.post-67615657405778977732018-01-28T00:00:00.000-05:002018-01-28T20:27:26.934-05:00Rebranding is a bitch!You'll notice the half-naked chick and the bad girl fiction stuff is all gone from my blog. I will still maintain my backlog of erotic romance as independently published and I may write a bit more when the mood strikes. I do have to say I don't miss churning out the books, desperate for sales and new ways to connect stems and valves.<br />
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My new tagline is "It's complicated". Not original, I know, but it sums up my life to a tee right now. What you can expect from me going forward are honest short-stories and novellas about how fucked up life can be. Of course with a dash of my signature humor. Humor does come from pain after all.<br />
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Creating the new logo was a breeze which I love. I used Canva and can highly recommend it for logos, book covers, Twitter covers, Instagram posts and more. Their stock photos are cheap and there is a lot to choose from.<br />
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The photo in the new logo, however, is NO stock photo. It is a real pic of my hotel floor about a year ago after a night of grown-up fun. When I woke up and stumbled to the bathroom, the crumpled clothes, empty bottle of booze, and rope gave me an odd sense of pride. We'd done the night before justice. Yes, we had. And yes, that's real firefighter-grade bail out rope. No fuzzy handcuffs for me, thank you very much.<br />
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No, the bitch has been stripping Blogger, Twitter, Facebook, Amazon author page, Istagram and Snapchat of my old fucking logo. I would pay someone else to do that crap, but I'm a control freak. So it's a pain-in-the-ass of my own making.<br />
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As for the actual writing, it has been a joy. Once I figured out the the glitches holding me back, I'm in top form again. Words coming faster than I can type. It's nothing short of elating.<br />
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I have two novellas in progress, one titled <i>Shelter Me</i>, detailing what I imagine is my neurotic rescue dog's backstory and reaction to becoming a family pet. The other is titled, <i>The Last Year of Her Life</i>. This one hits as little too close to home right now as what started as fiction has begun to happen for real with my mother. Wish me luck!<br />
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As for everything else I have cooking, I will keep you posted. I may have a few freelance positions on the horizon. We shall see.<br />
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Cheers,<br />
CindyFoxx Miyamotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12716774428394552845noreply@blogger.com0