Wednesday, 13 December 2017

My First Facebook Live

Hi. So I decided to do a facebook live in which I tell you guys about my brightest of bright ideas. I accidentally started a facebook author page group and I've been wondering what to do with it. So I got the idea last night to make it into a story prompt page. My dear followers are free to give me story prompts and I will write a short story for you using your prompt. I think the sound is pretty low but that's the gist.
What do you think?


Sunday, 10 December 2017

Stagnation And Fatigue: Just in Time for the Holidays

There is this girl.
She's from Brazil.
She has several Supernatural-named accounts on Tumblr.
She uses them to beg the internet for money on the daily.
Now I'm not trying to poor-shame her or nothin'. God knows I wouldn't have a leg to stand on if I did. But every day for a year or more, she asks every day for money. She outlines her story; how she has no money for food, rent, her mother's medicines, hospital bills, her own hospital bills. It all seems very hopeless. Then I think in October or something her mother died so it was money for the funeral, for the pending hospital bill, for rent...
Then she let slip that she has a sister. She mentioned her in a "Please help me pay rent because I don't want to move in with my sister, I want to do it by myself."
But you're not doing it by yourself. You're asking the internet to do it for you.
So now that we know there's a sister (and a brother-in-law) instead of just her and her poor dead mom, then I wonder, so...how much did you actually have to pay for-
No wait, that's not even it.
My actual problem with her and her relentless posts is...there's never any change in the status. There's never any reports of job interviews, applications for jobs, a future plan that doesn't involve begging the internet to pay for every single expense. That's what bothers me.
There's an African saying about how if someone is carrying you, you make yourself easy to carry. You don't sprawl about in their arms like you're sitting on your throne. You try to take as much of your own weight as you can.
For this girl, nickname gadreelsam, it's all about sitting and crying and hoping that people will feel sorry enough for her to basically become her sugar daddies online. And that's annoying because of the entitlement of it. Because she's not making an effort. She wants to just take take and take, no expiry date, no specific plan for the future. Oh and of course we get the occasional, "I'm losing hope, I want to kill myself" message.
The thing that puzzles me is that in the midst of all this poverty she continues to have an unbroken internet connection, data to spend and a device with which to spend it on. And Tumblr takes so much data, hell I can't afford to be on that site every day. But there she is like clockwork, endlessly reblogging herself...I mean I don't know about Brazil. Maybe the internet is free? Maybe she borrows a laptop from...yeah okay that theory just died an ignominious death.
Why do I continue to follow this girl you ask?
Well, it felt rude to interrupt the whining you know? I was waiting for her to say thanks, guys, I'm good for a bit now before I unfollowed. Well, then I realized it was never gonna end so I just unfollowed.
So anyway I'm not saying she's lying or conning us. I'm not. But I don't even have donor fatigue; I have reading her whining fatigue.
Life is hard.
And when you've reached the end of your rope you should ask for help.
Please.
Ask for help.
But as you ask for help, also try to come up with solutions for your problem. Demonstrate that you are actively trying to get better. I want to cheer you on; I don't want to stay with you in a stagnating pool of self-pity forever, I'm sorry.
Speaking of stagnating, I've kind of been feeling like I'm doing that myself. I feel like I complain, to myself, to people who ask how I am, about how I'm not working as hard as I should. I feel like I'm trying to resolve it, but it's not getting resolved and that makes me feel discouraged. Then I start to feel like, "What's the point anyway?"
But my son wants to go on holiday for Christmas and enter a football tournament and eat lunch at Java...those things cost money mayne.
So that's my point I guess.
Is it a good one?
It certainly gets me up in the morning.
But I'd like my passion back, please.
Somebody make it happen.

Monday, 4 December 2017

Storytelling with Google

I just spent the last ten minutes scrolling through NASA infographics in order to find out what the interior of a spaceship is called. (turns out there's no particular name but flight deck would do nicely for my purposes). Like I'm just wanting to show two people giving each other the silent treatment in the er...place - *disembodied voice* - it was at this point that she turned to Google.
I use Google a lot when I write. Sometimes words just disappear from my mind so I have to use google to write a description in the hopes that it will turn up with the word. It's jarring to do so because it breaks up the flow of the story in my mind but needs must. I really wonder what people did before everything was literally at your fingertips (p.s. I just wrote fingerprints instead of fingertips...that's me nowadays). Diana Gabaldon says that when she's writing she has all these reference books that she gets plus reference people who help her with words and shit...I am one hundred percent sure that if I had to do that much study to write a story, the story would never get written. I am such a pantser it's not even funny.
Speaking of being a pantser, I was watching Insecure season 2 the other day and today while I was having my lunch and harassing the staff at Chicken Inn, I had an idea for a book. Because see Issa's friend played by Yvonne Orji (I can't remember the character's name) finally steps outside her comfort zone and dates this guy because 'he's funny and makes her laugh...' rather than, I guess his CV or whatever. But when she's telling Issa and her other friend about it, she seems to give the impression - without outright saying so - that the dick was not bomb even though she likes the guy. Anyway so what does she do?
 Has sex with the married man she was seeing before.

It gave me an idea for a non-fiction novel. I say non-fiction novel because while it would be in story format, the point of it would be to deliver facts rather than fictions. The premise of the novel would be a girl who finds a guy that is everything she wants and needs in a man, but his dick is not bomb at all. Like...at all. So she decides to be honest with him about it and let him know that he's not living up to her expectations. She doesn't want to cheat on him but she knows that she will in the long term if they don't address the problem. So her proposal is for him to take classes ideally from a lesbian, about how to pleasure a woman. And just so he doesn't feel like he's doing all the work in the relationship, she would be willing to take classes from a gay man about how to pleasure a man. So the chapters would just be different ways that the guy is taught to pleasure his woman. Then maybe one chapter at the end of what the chick learned.
Why go to the homosexuals you ask?
Because let's face it, who else knows what a woman likes better than another woman who has sex with women? Heaven knows if you asked me how to pleasure a woman I would not know what to tell you. And I'm a woman! All the magazines only seem to focus on "making the man in your life happy."
What about us?
It took this story premise for me to realize that I would not know how to pleasure me if my life depended on it. Innit sad? Is it my fault? Did I not expect enough from my relationships? Probably. But I just didn't think to. It wasn't on my radar. Am I alone in this?
I really do need to write this book and do interviews.
I still think that the best person to ask about pleasuring females would be a lesbian though. I feel like Portia de Rossi has that "I orgasm daily" glow. It's time to educate myself y'all, and give all the girlies out there some reference material.
Holla if you hear me!
I saw on twitter the other day that a girl pooped in the club. Not in the loo of the club. Like she had an incontinence moment and the poop just fell out of her as she was walking.
I have so many questions.
What?
What happened?
I thought the sphincter only loosened when someone died. What disease is this? Or did she hold it for just way too long and her body couldn't take any more? Did someone mix laxatives in her drink? I need answers. Is it drugs?
You guys know that I love Shadowhunters the TV show right? Okay, maybe not the show so much as Malec. Anyways, so Dominic Sherwood who plays Jace on the show said a homophobic slur the other day. He said it to Mathew Daddario who plays Alec, and who was on Facebook Live at the time.
Super awkward.
Okay so first I gotta say that this white boy is super idiotic. He must have known that it was a Mathew Takeover which meant that if Matt is talking into a phone, very likely he's talking to the fandom. So this brain dead individual yells, "Hey fag" at the guy. Like...even if by some miracle you were not aware that there was a takeover if someone is talking on the phone do you shout things that are best not overheard by anyone? It was so stupid I can't even.
So, of course, everyone got in their feelings and they want Dom to be replaced. On the one hand, I get it. On the other hand, lissen...
I compare it kind of to that situation where a white person does something racist because they are unthinking and unconcerned and safely ensconced in their privilege so much so that they can just afford not to care or to be aware of their actions. So they are uncaring and indifferent to the suffering of others. It's the way their life is set up. Can you blame someone for the way their life is set up? It's up to them to take the time to get out of their comfort zone and try to understand others' pain. It's not an obligation though. You can't make people care about your issues. And just because they are on a show where you are represented doesn't mean that everyone on the show is concerned with the issues that plague your community. I get it, for some people, celebrities are their everything. And I am sorry that they do not have role models closer to their real lives who they can glom onto. It makes it so much harder when something like this happens. It's important to remember that sooner or later, celebrities will let you down...
Except for Rihanna.
Speaking of racist fuckery, I would like to address the hoo haa surrounding Meghan Markle. See instagram post below for example.




A post shared by Forgive My Fuckry 🙏🤣 (@whypree_tho_vip) on
Is Meghan Markle Jamaican? No, she is not. But she's black right? So we can just impose on her any type of black culture we feel like because all dem monkeys is the same right? BBC Africa had an article about how the "Royals fell in love with Africa before Harry fell in love with Meghan."
Okay first of all...
 Nope, I won't let Y'all make me 'first of all' you. Just a question. Giuliana Rancic is a first-generation Italian American right? But when discussing her wedding, did anyone mention Italy anywhere? About how Italy is the home of red wine and romance and that must have been why Bill fell for her? No, why? Because she's American now, he's American too and where they come from or their ancestors came from doesn't come into their Americanness. But Meghan, regardless of how her ancestors reached those shores; whether they were abducted and sold or emigrated of their own free will later; they are just as much entitled to be called Americans as Guiliana is. But no, her entire history and identity is erased so we can reduce her to this one aspect of her ancestry. That someone in her bloodline came from Africa so she will forever be your exotic little 'African' flower.
No fam.
She's an American of mixed race who is apparently not even black enough for some black Americans. Poor dear, everyone is so willing to disenfranchise her of her identity just enough that when she says 'her people' she probably just means her mom and aunties. But they're all very happy to say 'a black person' is joining the royal family. She's not even a person, not really. The only pertinent thing about her is that she has some black in her. That's the entirety of her importance to the world. So, by all means, let's talk about how extra her black relatives are gonna be at the wedding, blasting Jamaican music and how Prince Harry fell in love with Africa before he fell in love with her like he found her underneath a bush in the Sahara. Let's erase the PERSON that she is so we can find ways to diminish her. God sometimes y'all make me so mad.
However.
Her husband sees her.
That's who all she needs right?
Congratulations to the happy couple though. I know Diana would be so proud.
Also just to let you know, seeing as it's the season of giving, I got a great gift idea for you; the Child of Destiny box set! Get it here.

Thursday, 23 November 2017

Is It Resting Bitch Face or Do I Just Not Like You?

If you had asked me yesterday, "Annemarie, do you enjoy scaring the youngins?" My answer would have been a very definitive "No ma'am."
Today I learned different.
Not only is scaring the youngins fun as hell, y'all make it too easy.
My work output has been at the 'are you fucking kidding me levels' for a while and I've been looking for something to turn things around. Then it occurred to me that I had not, in fact, seen Thor Ragnarok yet. Nothing like a good Avengers movie to reset your fucking life.
I actually woke up in the daytime and left the house.
I get to Century Cinemax somewhere in between movie times and so I have time to kill. I decide to go downstairs and have lunch at the coffee shop. There were like five tables occupied so I figured I'd get service pretty fast. Perhaps it was the ho' earrings that made them take me for granted because wow.
First, they bring me a cold sandwich when I asked for toasted.
Then after they take the sandwich back to toast it, they fail to bring it back until I asked what happened to it.
When they bring it, it's cold, again.
I tell them to fuck off with their sandwich and bring me the bill for the hot chocolate I'd drunk. Of course, trainee manager comes by, asking me as if totally mystified what I the problem with my meal could possibly be?

Well, I told her. In detail. I held nothing back.
She's apologizing, asking me if she can get me a desert and I'm all like, "No thanks. I'm done with you people."
While they're sorting out the bill, the young and lovely, reminding me of Mya but with a lot less spine, at the next table says "Excuse me?" in a very soft voice, "Would you mind watching my laptop while I go to the loo?"
I'm like, "Sure, whatever."
And I don't know if it's my face or what but she goes like, "Never mind, I can just ask the waiter." Which she proceeds to do while I'm wondering why she looks so scared. I'm still signing my bill when she comes back and she thanks me for watching her laptop even if she'd asked someone else to do it. (internal Kanye shrug).

Well I run upstairs coz it's ten minutes to movie time and as I'm entering, there are three white people behind me and they're singing along to the song playing on the speakers and generally being loud. And in my head I'm like, "No thanks ma'am, I'm sitting as far away from those people as I can."
But I'm in front of them. Which means I'll choose a seat before them.
I choose a row and make my way to the furthest end, and they choose the row behind me and follow me as if they're going to sit directly behind me.
Nope.
Sorry but no.
I just turned around and retraced my steps, went three rows in front of them and sat down. If they wanted to take it amiss they were welcome to because they were right. I was avoiding them. I did not come to the theatre to have my movie experience ruined by loud ass people behind me.
I sit down in the middle of an empty row, place my bag on the seat to my left and my soda on the seat to my right. That says keep your fat asses away from me quite clearly, doesn't it?
Apparently not because these two boys come and sit right next to me.
Honestly, there was a whole empty row!
Worse, they start to talk and laugh and eat popcorn as loudly as possible.

No! Just no.
I wasn't having it. I leaned in and told them "Excuse me if you're going to talk and laugh during the movie could you please move? There's plenty of chairs along the row you can sit on, you don't need to be sitting next to me."
I think they were a bit surprised but they said they were fine where they were. Two minutes later though, they moved away.
I didn't even feel a little bad about it.
But I realized that maybe I'm not people trained anymore. I don't know how to do those politenesses which enable people to endure discomfort in public with a grim smile. I'm just like, sorry, life is too short. Is it age or being a shut-in?

Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Expectations vs. Reality

I grew up Catholic and everything from school to home life taught me that people strove to be good and kind and fair so that they might one day get to heaven when they die. I assumed that adulthood and maturity were the same things. I assumed that everyone had common sense and thought logically. Well, you know what they say about assuming...(it makes an ass out of you and me). The reality is so much more different. Churches aren't about bringing out the best in people and all people want to know from God is..."What have you done for me lately?"
Africans are being sold as slaves in Libya. (What a segue way huh?) Now I haven't so much as read one of the articles or watched a clip; I've just seen the headlines on social media. Do they surprise me?
No.
Do you remember that Jada Pinkett Smith did a whole segment on CNN on human trafficking in America? About how kids as young as twelve years old were sold into prostitution by 'their boyfriends' a.k.a pimps. It all came down to these kids looking for love in all the wrong places and these predators willing to brainwash them into thinking they were getting it from them. Since their parents are never home anyway and they don't notice what happens in their kids' lives. Or they live with frail grandparents who it's all they can do to get up in the morning. When I think about it, I get so sad and just want to hug my boy close and let him know that he is loved.
I also saw another segment also on CNN about 'child brides' in India. I put the child brides in quotes because these girls were being 'married off' by their families and Catholic priests to men from Dubai and wherever; the men used the women for sex, rode them hard and put them away wet...and then abandoned them. Then they went home to their families and probably went through the whole thing all over again.
Modern-day slavery is alive and well.

This world is fucked up.
Most of these reports though look at the problem only through one lens. The lens of the predator coming, using their money and influence and getting to use human beings like tissue paper. Nobody examines the problems from the other side. What makes these girls submit to being degraded in return for this toxic 'love'? What makes families in India sell their children like livestock? Why are young men submitting to being sold as slaves in Libya?
What is the driving force behind this?
I know I know, nobody wants to be labeled a victim blamer, but I tell you true, unless you know what drives both sides, you're never going to solve the problem.
Maybe we don't want to solve the problem?
Maybe we're content, to be fake outraged on social media, and life goes on? After all don't we have enough personal problems? Who needs more shit on their plate right? No one that's who.
And what about these men? What is it that makes you see a child being exploited and it makes you hard as diamonds and wanting to despoil that child even further? Use them hard and leave them whimpering in pain and misery? Knowing that behind you are fifty more men who are going to use her just the same. And then all of you go home to your wives and kids and say, "Hey honey, how was your day? My meeting ran a little long. I'm so hungry, is there any of your delicious meatloaf left?"
See this is why I'm single.
Then there is the case of Cyntoia Brown. She was sixteen when she was trafficked by a pimp named cut throat. That was after being drugged and raped for days by those men above. Then she was sold to a 43 yr old child predator. She shot him dead and guess what? She's in jail, sentenced to 51 years. My young self would have been like, "Don't be ridiculous! No one in their right mind would do that!"
So, is the American justice system not in its right mind or are people just inherently without a moral compass or a smidgeon of compassion? It really boggles my mind how evil sons of bitches are. To think that she was alone in this, nobody helped her...my heart hurts.
I keep seeing this post on Twitter about Mansa Musa being the richest man on earth ever, with a net worth of 400billion. I don't remember when Mansa Musa lived or which village he was the chief of. That must have been primary school history which was a long time ago. What I definitely don't remember reading is that his village was also rich and prosperous. Perhaps he was just another leader who liked to accumulate wealth while his people languish in poverty. Nothing to celebrate in other words.
And if we're looking for the answer to slavery, I think we find it in poverty. No doubt Mansa Musa sold some of his 'less desirable' folk to the slavers. They were poor anyway, a burden on the village? Criminals? Weak minded? His enemies? Whatever the reason, I'm sure if I did my research, there'd be some people selling in there. Supply and demand. An endless supply of poverty-stricken individuals are just rich fodder waiting to be plundered by somebody.
A girl wanting to buy a new weave so she's more socially acceptable in her school circles; meets a man who says, "Hey, why don't I buy it for you? All I want is...a kiss in repayment. How about it?"
And that's how the devil offers you domain over everything you see.
"Just jump off this cliff for me, and it's all yours."
Dreams of a better life.
Food on your plate.
Whatever it is, you get offered it in return for...nothing that you'll miss anyway right?
Just your soul, your dignity, and your self-respect. You can't even see those. Very likely they don't even exist.
We have to do better.
We have to be better.
My mini romance story that won first prize, I believe you can read it in the post before this one, is about slavery. It's only alluded to because it was a romance competition not some literature thing that was looking for deep sad stories. It was one of the reasons I was sure they would throw it out. The girl is enslaved by one guy and won in a poker game by another. I was constrained by the word count, but if I had my way, she'd have run away from him too. Because even though he figured he was 'saving' her, the truth is that he just bought her manumission papers and if he so chooses, he could enslave her just as much as the guy he won her from. At the end of the day, we have to realize our own value and save ourselves.
Enough real-life horror. Go read some contrived horror here and here for November, which is horror month. Or allow me to buy you a copy by filling in the form.

Monday, 20 November 2017

The Story That Won First Prize


This is the story which won me that Amazon gift card. The one I'm using to buy anyone who wants one, a copy of any book you want (of mine - see google form at the bottom.) What I like about winning a prize with this story is that it's one of my crazy wacko concepts and frankly I was expecting it to be thrown out without ceremony. If you know me at all you know I like to avoid the beaten path when it comes to storytelling. I'd rather beat on the poison ivy with a machete than take the pig path. Only in my head of course. Real nature has chameleons and snakes...I'm gonna take the road. 
So here it is. 
Comments are love.

Copyright © 2017 by Annemarie Musawale All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Clyde and His Bonnie

Iman wiped his shoes on the rug outside of the bar. Sure, this was some Podunk town in Texas and the way the wind was blowing dust everywhere…his gesture was probably pointless. But that wasn’t the point of wiping his shoes anyway. He wanted these small town hicks to know he was a civilized gentleman with manners. With his dusky skin and curly hair, it was necessary.
The bartender looked up as he walked in, an assessing look in his eye. He looked down again and continued dusting the counter so Iman guessed he’d passed the test. He ambled slowly up to the counter, taking in every aspect of the room.
This was a dying town, a relic of happier days before the assembly plant was outsourced overseas. Iman was probably the first stranger they’d seen in a while.


“Hey. I’ll have whatever’s on tap,” he told the bartender. The man nodded, picking up a relatively clean glass and filling it up. He placed it on the counter and then picked up his rag. He didn’t move away so Iman took it as his cue.
“I hear there’s a poker game here every Wednesday night. Any chance I can get a buy-in?”
The man raised his blue eyes narrowing them at Iman, “whose askin’?”
Iman stuck out his hand, “Name’s Cole Sprouse, looking to make some money to buy me some fuel. Got me a job in Dallas waitin’...”
The bartender looked down at his hand with suspicion before reaching out slowly to shake it. Iman had found on his travels that if a man shook your hand, he was less likely to stab you in the back.
At least, not right away.
“Game’s in the back,” he said.
“Thank you, kind sir. And you are…?” Iman held on to the bartender’s hand, widening his whiskey eyes at him.
“Dan Shumpert,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, Dan,” Iman said with one last vigorous shake. He had some money to make and no time to lose. Deadlines were looming.
Iman was winning steadily and his opponents were getting steadily more upset. He figured it was time to bail and pushed his chair back to stand up.
“Uh, well fellas it’s been-” he began to say.
“One more game,” interrupted the sweaty guy on his right with five o’clock shadow and a dirty wifebeater. Iman had been keeping an eye on him because he seemed like the kind to keep a gun under his chair.
“Uh, you don’t have any collat-” he began to say.
 Wifebeater guy looked up at the beefcake looming in the doorway and said, “Bring her.” he cut in.
Iman sat up straighter. What was going on?
Before he could catch his breath, a young woman was pushed into the room. She had zip ties on her wrists, tying her hands together. Her long silky black hair hung halfway down her back in a greasy curtain and her white dress could have done with a wash. Her black eyes were wide with fear as she stared at Wifebeater guy.
“What’s-” Iman began to ask.
“Your entire stake for the girl,” Wifebeater guy said.
Iman stared at him in shock, “You want to wager…a person?”
Wifebeater guy shrugged, “She’s mine to do with whatever I please. Bet or no bet?”
There was no way he could stand up and walk away. Not when these people were…wagering humans.
“Bet,” he said.
Wifebeater nodded at the dealer who immediately began to shuffle cards. Iman could not stop staring at the girl as she stood shivering behind Wifebeater’s chair. She was tall, maybe five eight, voluptuous with her heavy breasts and ample hips, tiny waist in between. But it was the look in her eyes that drew him again and again. She looked like a trapped tiger, looking for an opening to escape. Iman resolved there and then, that he was going to help her. He looked down at his cards, knowing with even more certainty than before, that losing was not an option.
Iman grabbed the girl’s hand, pulling her out of the Saloon at a run. Wifebeater guy had not been expecting to lose and it had been tricky getting out of there without a fight. He skidded to a halt in front of his Camaro, pushing her in before getting in after her before gunning the engine. He raised a lot of dust himself as put the pedal to the metal. They careened out of town, one eye on the rearview watching for a tail. Iman didn’t stop until he’d put two hundred miles between him and the Podunk town. Too tired to drive anymore, he stopped at a no-tell motel on the side of the road. Parking in the driveway, he turned to the girl.
“So…what’s your name?” he asked.
She looked at him as if she was thinking about pretending not to understand what he said. But at last she sighed and turned to face him.
“Will you untie me if I tell you?” she asked.
Iman jumped. He’d completely forgotten about the zip ties, “Of course I will damn.” He said fishing for the knife he kept in his stocking. He pulled it out holding it toward her. She held out her hands, too trustingly he thought, and let him cut through her restraints.
“So, you going to tell me your name?” he asked.
“It’s Honey,” she said.
Iman smiled at her, looking into her eyes, “It suits you,” he said looking down at her arm, “that’s the exact color of your skin.”
Honey smiled, “And what is your name? Prince Charming?”
Iman smiled, holding out his hand to be shaken, “My name is Iman Bridges. And I am here to rescue you.”
Honey shook his hand with a laugh, “Yeah right. Are you getting us a room or what?”
“Your wish is my command,” Iman said suddenly feeling like he had indeed won the lottery.



Fill in the form with a book of your choice and Merry Christmas. First come, first served.


Friday, 17 November 2017

The Highs, the Lows, The Life of an Artiste


You know, mostly this week has consisted of good news. So  I don't know why I feel kinda depressed. I guess I'm waiting for it all to turn bad or something. Or I have burnout. Anyway, not your problem.
Let us start with the good news then.
Child of Destiny is back in circulation!
Yaaassss! I was really worried there for a minute.



It made me doubt myself.
Well if there has been a week for doubting myself, it's been this one. For one thing, I got my first reviews for In Search of Paradise...both three stars. I suppose that's not too bad right? 60% grade is a pass.
Right?
Wrong!
I haven't felt more like a trash writer than I've felt this week. I found myself questioning my vocation. Is this really worth the heartache I wondered? Maybe I should just chuck it all in and go live in a commune or something.
(I really hope this is some sort of hormonal thing because being this dramatic all the time is going to be exhausting.)
But being me, I had to psychoanalyze why the fuck I felt like such a failure. I think it goes back to my mother; she had such high standards for me. Getting 60% would definitely have not been acceptable to her.
"You can do better than that," she would have said.
And so she created this expectation in me that I must be always above average or nothing at all. It's generally played havoc with my life I can tell you because you're going to be crap at something or other. And it always hits me hard when I do just okay. It has to be excellent or nothing at all.
It dawned on me some time in my musings that I may be a perfectionist. Which sucks because I hate perfectionists; they're so unrealistic!
I guess it also explains my mood this evening. I missed a deadline and a client canceled a contract and I was legit ready to chuck it all in and live as a hobo on the street. Thankfully my son talked me down; without being aware that that was what he was doing; him and DJ Khaled actually. Check my Instagram if you don't believe me...
I entered a competition and I won...I did tell you it's been mostly a good news week. I submitted a short story to the Mini Romances Short Story Writing Contest. Shock on me when I won first prize. I'd just been reading Awesomely Luvvie's post about how two years ago or something she was ugly crying into her beer feeling like a failure and then she got a phone call to say she'd won a competition. And I said to myself, "Yeah well...that isn't going to happen to me." *continues to wallow in self-pity*
Well, that was yesterday. Today I won a competition.
Woah, right?
So anyways, my prize is supposed to be a $25 dollar amazon gift card. I'm gonna use it to buy books for you. Fill in the form below, choose the book you want, and Bob's your uncle.