Tag Archives: writing

Mishaps.

This is a thing that happened:  We Don’t Chew Glass

So, I haven’t been sleeping well.

Yesterday I maimed a lawn chair.

I just now SET MY FUCKING ROBE ON FIRE WHILE I WAS STILL IN IT.

How are y’all?



I posted the above on my fb page right after it happened, but I need to elaborate on this fuckery. You might need to see this picture I posted a couple days ago to get the full effect of what went down.

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Me, in my usual attire. Notice the two bathrobes.

Okay. So, it was really windy, and I was trying to light a cigarette (Once again, AT LEAST IT’S NOT HEROIN. I’m a work in progress.) so, being the genius that we all know me to be, I ducked my head into my robe to block the wind.

Well. That red robe up there is flammable. I don’t know if you guys know this about bathrobes, but now you do, and you’re welcome. That motherfucker just whooshed, top to bottom, huge flames. I didn’t think I would die, because I was too busy thinking, damn, I didn’t know fire was so fast.

I even put ACTUAL EFFORT into making fire a few days ago, and couldn’t. But accidentally set myself on fire? That I can do without even trying.

So, the inside of the red robe is on literal fucking fire and, incidentally, still on my body. But I was wearing two robes, so I didn’t feel anything.

Remember when I said it was really windy? Okay. So I stood up, trying to decide whether to rip the robe off or stop, drop, and roll. While I’m pondering this, I realize that the wind (and possibly my frantic flailing about, idk) has not helped the situation. Not even a little.

I finally got the thing off, and threw it in the yard, because, hey, it’s not like fucking GRASS AND TREES EVER CATCH ON FIRE.

I tried to figure out how to stop, drop, and roll the robe itself, but for some reason that seemed like maybe not what I should do.

Once the fire stopped, obviously with no assistance from me, I took it inside. Because, much like grass and trees, houses aren’t flammable. ( How have I even survived this long?)

Anyway, I decided the safest place for it was the bathtub.

Don’t ask, because I don’t even know.

Later that night, I was feeling pretty not good and sometimes hot baths help, so that’s where I headed. Lots of times, I’ll lay a towel over my body while I’m in the bath, and it’s like extra heat. But, in this particular case, I already had a burned-ass red robe in the tub, so I didn’t even have try to find a clean towel. *Note: I just realized, the robe wasn’t clean. It was my “outside” robe. Also it had just been on fire. Whatever.

The bath was very relaxing, the robe was super heavy, way better than a towel, so I just leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, cause my legs weren’t driving me insane for the first time in days.

I guess everybody knows not to wash red clothes in hot water. If not, I’m telling you now. When I opened my eyes, that fucking bathtub looked like I had been bathing in the blood of virgins. It was like a goddamned crime scene.

My legs felt better, but from past experience I know that if I don’t fall asleep before the bath-relax magic wears off, I’ll be right back in there. So I left the blood-water in the bath, along with the robe.

I also left my soaking wet shirt, bra, and underwear in the floor, BECAUSE I FORGOT TO TAKE THEM OFF BEFORE I GOT IN THE BATHTUB.

How does a person take a 30-minute bath and not realize they are still dressed? I didn’t even notice I was wearing clothes until I tried to dry off.


Anyhow, I know I’m like the Worst Blogger in the History of Ever, but between writing stuff to hopefully get published and being sick all the time, I’ve just been lazy as fuck and used my Facebook page to share my…mishaps. Let’s call them that. That sounds like maybe shit’s not my fault. I like it.

 

 

 

 


Sit Down, Charlie Sheen, I’ll Take It From Here.

As I’ve displayed my Freshly Pressed badge so prominently (to the right, if you hadn’t noticed) I’m sure you’re all aware that My Grandma’s Room was an editor’s pick this week.

pop-steph

Normally, I’d make a self-deprecating joke here, but unlike the majority of my posts, that one was really heartfelt and I’ve been crying all day wishing I could tell my Pop that I Won The Internet, so that he in turn could regale everyone he met with stories of my Writing Prowess, Innate Wisdom, and General Success At Life.  All of these tales would be highly embellished, and neither of us would care.

Instead, I will tell you how I became all Writerly and Such.  It’s an inspiring story, I’m sure. *insert hysterical laughter*

I’ve been a huge reader all my life, and last year I started re-collecting all my childhood favorites, like Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie, and Nancy Drew.

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Much like Anne Shirley, I was a pain in the ass as a child.  I was overly dramatic, I sometimes lied (confession:  It was me that cut the hair off all my Barbie dolls.  I cannot and could not ever play the banjo and I never wrote a song called Eagle.  Also, I’m ashamed that I didn’t come up with a better name for my song which didn’t exist.), I liked to read more than play, and I was bossy as all hell.

I haven’t changed much.

Anyway.  In the third grade I started a newspaper for the kids on my block and sold copies for 5 cents a piece.  It wasn’t a particularly long-running endeavor, mainly because as Head Writer, Editor, Copy Maker, and Boss Lady, I was too good to hawk my own wares on the corner and my friends grew tired of it quickly once they realized they weren’t getting paid.  Nine year olds have no work ethic anymore.  Especially for unpaid labor.

My next brush with fame came in the fifth grade.  On the same day that I opened a package of gum and won ten dollars, I also won 3rd place in a statewide essay contest.  Best. Day. Ever!

I don’t remember what the essay was about, but I do remember that I got to meet Bill Clinton (just the Governor then, not the President, although I’m sure I probably had something to do with his election).

You're welcome, dude.

You’re welcome, dude.

Also, they served really disgusting food at the banquet.

Not too long after that I tried my hand at fiction, penning The Big Black Bucket, which was a story about chickens living on a farm and plotting their escape.

Yeah.  Let that sink in for a minute.

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Those Chicken Run assholes.  I wrote it first, dicks.

Fast forward through years of bad poetry, bad decisions, and one too many people saying, rather accusingly, “But you’re so funny on Facebook…” and here I am, reading lots of awesome blogs, writing nonsense, and enjoying myself immensely.  THANK YOU!!

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Please stop me if I start referencing tiger blood, in any way, shape, or form.  Thanks, guys.


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