IF A WRITER loves you, you’ll live forever. If you cross her . . . well, you’ve tripped over a rock, fell down a hole and rolled straight to hell.
So I woke up this morning, as Granna Lucie used to say, “On the wrong side of the bed” which is a total shame because yesterday I bounced right off this same mattress ready to fart rainbows and shed enough glitter to cause a worldwide shine-shortage.
Some day this will all be funny–and some of it already is, and I assure you, it’ll all wind up in a book. And of course, I will follow the advice of one of my favorite editors: If you’re gonna write a real man, give him a bent-dick-tiny-penis. That way if you wind up in court, he’ll have to stand up, put his hand on a Bible and say, “Yes, yer Honor, that’s me. The one with the bent-dick-tiny-penis.”
In the mean time, I have a proposal that has nothing to do with marriage, failed or not.
What if we all pooled together, bought my house (that I’m not currently living in) and turned it into a writers retreat? So if you’ve got $700,000 and some change layin’ around, this would be a good investment. I bought the lakefront land for $125k almost fifteen years ago, and in five years, it’s projected to be worth a million bucks. A way better investment than BitCoin . . .
Even better, what if we all pitched in and turned it into a women’s shelter? Oh, that would make my heart sing, even if I never stepped foot on it again. I would know the house is being loved as much as I loved it the first day I put the money down on the lakefront . . .