Gang Banged by Sound

Gang Banged by Sound

Sound. As I type to the hum of traffic, the cross-hatch of MTM's pen, the pulse of keys, I sob and wish sound weren't a thing. I know people who are virtually deaf. I don't wish for that fate or mean to diminish their disability. But I am waterboarded by the sound of my own voice. People want to hear me read my memoir. Or they *think* they do. They don't know a theater critic once eviscerated my speaking voice in a review. "Etched in acid," he crowed.


The Incredible Faintness of Being

The Architect preferred white plates. No rims. Slick buggers, soapy and wet. A slice plowed her middle finger when she dropped one. An ironic flip-off. She saw blood and bone. Her meat and marrow.

Why I’m Tired of MTM’s Package

I get tired of MTM's package. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like to unwrap things as much as the next girl......even when I know what's inside. Especially when I know what's inside. I don't like surprises. But MTM and his do I type this?