Episode Seven: Keeping Up With the Insomniacs

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a fly on the wall of someone's home, privy to all the conversations that go on behind closed doors? Able to see what they're doing when they think no one is watching?

Or perhaps you, much like me, suffer from delusions of grandeur and think your life is so ridiculously funny, so entertaining, sometimes so downright tragic, you should have your own reality show.

Welcome to the 7th Fly on the Wall sponsored by my Fairy Blogmother, Karen from Baking in a Tornado. Today, 13 bloggers will invite our readers to be a fly on the wall of our homes.

So.  Moving day.  Remember when I put the majority of my belongings into storage?  We're in the midst of all of this and The Tester and I, we decide to stop at the grocery store not only for drinks, but for all the  items needed to have one last grill out, blow out, party with the neighbors.  So we park.  I look at him, run my hand through his hair.  "Yes?" he asks.  "Your hair is unacceptable," I respond.  Me, who has been bitching all day because I do not have my make-up on.  My eyeliner is like a lifeline folks.  He smiles.  He's 

getting my sense of humor.  Finally.  And he laughs, "Well, put make-up on!" he gasps.  OMG  He wins.

From the backseat I hear Tiny Bard, "Why do I have to live in a house full of retards?"
(being that I live two hours away...Is he referring to his dad and brother? His dad's roommates?  His dad's girlfriend?)  When asked to be more specific, Tiny Bard retracted his comment and stated, "Just my little brother.  Everyone else is smart."  Which is what I had figured he meant.

"You need to stop, we are in public.  I will not have this argument with you out here."  From a nine year old to his older brother.

I've told you folks before about my bad luck?  Well on my birthday after dinner, The Mustang wouldn't start.  I've already told you about the spiders.  My phone broke that week, too.  Again.  Shut the fuck up, do not judge.

So we're at a car show.  That The Tester is racing in.  Some clown behind us in the stands has some asinine comments to make.  But he's so dumb he doesn't know it's a Mustang he's insulting.  So, my oldest son turns around, smirks, and says, "It's a Mustang.  Being that you're at a car show you should probably know that."

Me and my little dude have this thing.  He says, "Mommies" and I say his name, in plural form.  We go back and forth and hug, kiss and giggle until he gets bored.  Then he'll throw his cat's name at me, and I'll respond with my cat's name.  It's an association game.  With hugs.  I win.

The Tester and I took Tiny Artist to Cracker Barrel for his birthday dinner. (If you don't know wtf I am talking about, Google.  Now.)  When we walked in, "Mommy, this isn't a restaurant, this is a store!"

So, in passing, I may have told The Tester that I had a conversation with his mother in which she exclaimed, "You write erotica!?  I love erotica!  Especially vampires."

"That's what I write, " I said.  With a smile.  (Because fuck me, Vampires are hot.)

The Tester closed his eyes.  He shuddered.  He looked at me and said, "I did not need to know that.  You ruined my life."

I referred to The Tester as "The Tester".  Both of my boys giggled.  "You do know that I call y'all The Tinys?  Your Daddy, 'The Artist'?  I sort of refer to all of you by your 'blogger names', " I said.

My youngest looked at me with big eyes.  "We have all become our fictional selves," he said.  So serious.  Then he giggled.  And said, "Hey, Mommy? Can I call you Sleepy Bard?"

My kids rock!

I leave you today with quotes from Tiny Artist.  This kid.  Nine years old.  He's figured out life better than most adults have.

"If a Mommy has to be told her son died, wouldn't it be easier to tell her in the morning?  Cause if you tell her at night she'll  be so sad and probably cry herself to sleep.  If you tell her in the morning she has all day to cry and be sad.  Maybe she can sleep at night."

"Mommy, you're 25 right?"

"Mommy, you were around for WWII weren't you? Wait . . .No.  That was like a billion years ago."

"Mommy, we can leave whenever you want.  My phone is charged enough to survive a car ride."

"Mommy," in a convenience store, "Do you have any spare change?"  (What the fuck dude, you a homeless person?)

"Mom?  I have a plan.  For my life.  My plan for life is to stay single.  That way no one ever breaks up with me and I never have to deal with heart break. "

(I may have cried.  Who in the hell needs to have that revelation at nine years old?  Yes, I cried.)

"Mommy?  Did you know there is snotty people out there that will marry someone just for their money?"

"Mommy?  People go crazy sometimes.  They kill each other.  Sometimes, they kill themselves.  I looked it up online."

Oh Jesus Fuck.  Protect my baby from all the evil in the world.  He's NINE.

Why in the good fuck does he know about death, murder, heart break?

"

Evil Among Us

Holy shit!  That's some serious fucking evil.

As a child I spent a good part of my life afraid.  Didn't we all after the sun went down and we were tucked away into our beds?  The silent house would creak, the dog outside would bark.  The closet door was open just a little more than the last time you looked.  Too terrified to get out of bed for fear of the monster beneath grabbing your unsuspecting foot, you laid there in silent terror, holding your pee for hours, listening to every single noise until sleep finally overcame you.

I was never afraid of the dark.  It was what the dark held that frightened me.  

Monsters lurked in my closet, werewolves bayed at the moon in my backyard, zombies crept through the streets, witches flew their brooms over my roof.  Rabid dogs and serial killers hid in the bathroom waiting for their opportunity.  

The only thing I wasn't frightened of, Vampires.  Oh, I knew someday my Vampire Charming would sweep me off my feet and take me away from all this to live forever in his embrace.

Eventually I grew up and lost my innocence while shedding the last visages of childhood fancy, leaving all those imaginings in the past.

Real life wasn't as fun as I had thought it would be.  Life was hard.  Life was disappointing   Life sucked.  People lied, people died and it just wasn't fun anymore.

All those monsters I feared in my childhood were things of fiction.  

What hurt the most about growing up, what revelation was enough to sometimes feel like I just don't want to live in this world anymore?

Evil does exist.  Evil is real.  

And it's not monsters, werewolves, witches or killers from legends and folklore.

The real monsters are the men that hurt women, that take pride in slapping them around and holding them down.  The women who kill their own children.  Men who forces themselves on unwilling women.  Humans who kill for the sake of killing.  Those who pick up a gun and spread their insanity through pain and terror.  

Humans who hate based on beliefs, religion, sexual preference.

I could go on for days.  You get the message.  The real evil lurks in our fellow man.  That's terrifying

Hey, sugartits.  Guess what's up and published?  Chapter 4!!   Hannah returns to Arizona in this chapter. . . don't miss it, you snugglefucker.  .The Murder Site.

Spider Apocalypse

Cautiously I opened the basement door, cringing inwardly as it creaked loudly and brought to mind every horror movie I have ever seen.

I peered into the darkness down the steps. Sucking in a deep breath for courage, I took that first, terrifying step onto the creaky stairs.  It wouldn't have mattered had there been light, my eyes were closed.

Heart pounding in fear, hands trembling, perilously close to an anxiety attack, I crept down two more steps.  Blindly reached out for the light switch and flicked it upwards quickly, with surety. As if the flick of a single light switch could aid me, give me the bravery I needed to ascend into this basement.  Sickly yellow light pooled at the bottom of those stairs, allowing a small circle of safety with so much horror at its edges.

I crept down those stairs, one at a time until I stood in that circle of safety, that sickly yellow light.  Then panic hit.  Where was the next light?  Here I stood in this spotlight, dark stairs rising behind me, nothing but a dark expanse in front of me.

A flicker, a flash.  A silver beacon.

Hanging from the ceiling, no more than two feet in front of me was a pull-string, metal oval at it's end.  I could make it that far, surely I could.  One step.  Two.

Gasp!

I froze in place.  I couldn't breathe.  I couldn't function as a normal human being.  There were whimpers, frightened animal sounds coming from somewhere down here.  Oh, that was just me.  Crying.  Paralyzed in fear, covered in spiderwebs.

Please, please, oh Goddess please, just let it be spiderwebs I silently begged.  The thought of a spider on my person unbeknownst, its whereabouts unknown almost brought me to my knees.

It almost unhinged me.  My mouth opened to let out a blood curdling scream, but all that came out was a quiet hiss, an exhale of air.  Because even my vocal cords had fled the scene.

It's just webs, it's just webs, it's just web, it's just webs.

A mantra.  Something to ease the fear.

I scuffled forward, eyes closed, sobbing in absolute terror.

The light cord gently bumped into my face.

"OH JESUS FUCK!" I screamed out.  Finally found my breath and the words flew out of my mouth at a decibel worthy of a horror movie actress.  I flailed.  I danced.  My body did things I did not know it was capable of doing while swear words that I didn't even know existed flew from my mouth.  I had found my voice, and I wasn't paralyzed anymore.

I thought a spider was on my face and flight or fight kicked in and I was trying to do both at the same time. I slapped myself in the face.  Repeatedly.  I felt no pain, only an instinct to kill that fucker on my face.

A flicker, a flash.  Silver metal oval swung to and fro.

Oh, silly me.  It was simply the light cord that touched me. 

A nervous giggle.  A soft laugh.

Just cobwebs, Starr.  See? 

The humor of the moment gave me the strength I needed to shuffle forward the new few steps and pull on that lifeline light cord.

What a joke.  The smallest amount of light.

But now I understood this game and I looked past the light, into the frightening darkness, searching for the next flicker, flash.

I found it.

It too, was not enough light.  I was forced to admit that I was a fucking pussy and these lights, interspersed throughout the ceiling of this torture chamber BDSM haven basement were not enough to fight the good fight.

It was at this moment that I remembered I have a smart phone.  With the "flashlight" application that is set to a "widget" on my home screen.  A small, cute, purple rectangle with a light bulb picture in the center.

(Because the dark frightens me.)

I flipped that bitch out.

I immediately wished that I had not.

The shadows that danced on the walls from my phone flashlight were of spiders large enough to rival any I have seen in any movie.  Larger than the end scene of "Stephen King's It", deceivingly more huge than the Aragog in "Harry Potter", more ginormous than those motherfuckers in "Eight Legged Freaks", their shadows swayed upon the ceiling and concrete walls in a terrifying display of death.

I screamed.

Covered in those gossamer, tacky spiderwebs, surrounded by thousands of spider shadows larger than my small five foot self, I screamed.

Except we were back to a mere gasp of air, such a small sound to emote such abhorrent horror. Just a sigh escaped my lips, while inside of me I screamed like Jamie Curtis from "Halloween".

Like I screamed when I used to work as an actress at a local Haunted House Attraction.

I finally, eventually made my way to the water heaters and the spigots for the hoses, which is where I needed to be.  Of course they are in the farthest corner against the back wall the entire length of the apartment away from the stairs.

But I made it.  Through many lapses   Through much paralyzational despair and abject terror.  Through screaming, gasping, fighting for air into frightened lungs.

Did you know I knew Kung-Fu?  Me either.  But apparently, with life size shadows of over fifty spiders flickering around me on the walls while traipsing through spiderwebs, I fucking know some karate shit.

I apparently know many Martial Arts moves.

Battling those webs while their elephant sized shadows threatened imminent death and impending Hell, I turned into motherfucking Bruce Lee.

Obviously, I made it out alive.  I am here to write this tale.  What felt like hours later, nay weeks, I emerged from that cellar of terror, never to be the same again.


Flash forward.

That evening in a motel in Nowhere, PA while climbing the stairs to the third floor where my room was, I encountered spider webs full of their makers in every stair well.  They were everywhere.

An hour later, I stepped from my room, plastic bucket in hand, intent on going down for ice to chill my wine.  Because all classy bitches take a box of wine to motels.

What I saw when I opened that door chilled me to the bone.  Swooping through the railing like curtains in Hell, spiderwebs.  Every available space was decorated with webs, spiders crawled to and fro, busy.  Busy building webs, busy covering the building, busy taking over the world.

The next week, I received notifications via Social Media and emails from many a reader sharing with me their own horror stories about spider attacks.  All over the Nation.

The spiders followed me a week later to another motel.  They busily crafted their sticky threads into traps outside my door.

The spiders are stalking me.  They are stalking my readers.

These evil creatures on eight legs of hell are amassing.  The end is nigh.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Spiders have taken over the whole town!
(Tits! Wrong picture.)

There's.  Something.  On.  The.  Wing.
(Oh fuck, wrong one again)

SPIDERS!
(Goddamnit.  Again!)

Zombies won't be the end of the World.
The Spider Apocalypse.  Are you prepared?

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The Weirdest Place I've Done It

Were you hoping for some smut? Did I get your hopes up? I did, afterall, admit yesterday that I'm writing erotica now. Sorry to disappoint you, Dreamers, we're not talking about sex today.  There will be no rimjobs or renobs.

You know that moment when an idea for a story, or a blog post hits you?  And it's the best idea you've ever had?  You know if you don't write it down  right away you will lose it forever.  These ideas usually come to us mid-shower, while driving, or during sex other inopportune moments.

But we have to write it down.  Somewhere.  Somehow.  So we don't lose that epiphany, that fantastical story, that amazing idea for a post.

I have pulled over into parking lots to write.  I learned a long time to always have a pen and a journal with me wherever I go.  So I can simply pull over, park, and write.  People look at me funny.  Fuck them! I'm busy doing stuff with my words.  Now that I have a laptop. . . you guessed it.  Goes everywhere with me.  Now those are some funny looks I get when I'm sitting in a McDonald's parking lot, happily tapping away at the keys.

I write when I'm the passenger in a car, too.

However, I have been caught without the laptop, journal, or pen.  I could tell you how I write on receipts  grocery lists, envelopes, napkins and paper-towels.  But that's not that interesting.

I wrote on an empty fast food bag once with an eyeliner.  On the side of the road.  In the middle of the night.

In the steam left on the mirror after a shower.    Once on the sink with lipstick.

When I was a teen, I wrote on my desk.  On the actual wood itself.  As an adult, I am guilty of writing on The Tinys' bunk bed.  Yeah, I went there. What?  It was in pencil that I later erased.

Of course, I've written on my hands and arms.   My jeans and my shoes.

With sidewalk chalk on the kitchen floor.  (Don't ask)

As far as physical places, I've done it everywhere. Every. Where. If I get an idea I don't care what the fuck else is going on, I stop and write it. In the grocery store, in the middle of a parent teacher conference, or during a party. My friends are used to me stopping them in mid-sentence so I can jot an idea down. It happens all the time. (I am accustomed to sighs, eye rolling and comments such as, "Life with a Writer.")

I opened up the floor to you fine folks and this what you sent me:

T.A.  Woods from PenPaperPad wrote:  "I had to think really hard about what the weirdest thing I've written on. I mean we've all done the back of receipts, newspapers, notepads, dry eraser boards, etc. The weirdest thing I've written on happened when I was just starting out as a young writer. A very young writer. Ok, I was like 6. I had stood on the windowsill on my tip, tip, tippy toes and wrote on the ceiling with chalk. I can't remember what I wrote on the ceiling, but I had a lot to say. My Mom still shakes her head wondering how I did that without breaking my neck."

Sarah from The Sadder But Wiser Girl says, "I have to write my ideas down when I get them or *poof* they are gone. For some reason, I only seem to get ideas when I am nowhere near a pen and paper or am surrounded by water. Yes, I get my best ideas in the shower, go figure! I get in, get shampoo in my hair when something great hits me. I can't get done fast enough-by the time I dry off, well, you know the rest!

I've written posts on the back of church bulletins while in church, on receipts while standing in line at the store, on Kleenex in the car, on napkins in a restaurant, and on the back of my checkbook at the bank. It's all part of seizing the moment!"

Rarita Vanesita from The Obnoxious Wallflower shares:  "Ironically it was today when I was in the zone and had to take a "meeting" (code for dropping a number 2). I didn't want to stop so I took the lap top with me. I must have been really engrossed in what I was doing while hosting my meeting because the fucking battery died and then I realized that the new roll was still on the shelf which meant I would be clenching while waddling over."

CrakGenius sent me a Tweet, adding, "Weirdest place I've written? Got a story idea once at a casino... wrote it on cocktail napkins with a hotel pen."

So tell me you rat bastards, where is the weirdest place that you have done it?

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Sell Out

Dreamers, readers, fans and folks, this is the one where I tell you I'm a sell out.  I am monetizing this blog among other things . . . But first, allow me to lead you through the process that has led me to this decision.

I have to write this carefully and skirt around many an elephant.  I had to tuck all the skeletons away in the closet when they tried to march across the blog.  I had to decide how much I would reveal.  For you see, I understand that as a writer and a blogger I am in the public eye, and through my words I expose my soul to the world.  I get that.

But there are just some things . . .

And you add in the fact that I'm not anonymous.  That everyone who even remotely knows me reads this.   There are just some things I'm not alright with the entire world being privy to.

So here's the basic gist.  I'm in a bind.  I'm stuck in a rut.  I've hit rock bottom and there is no where for me to go but up.  I am living two hours away from my kids and I'm in the midst of a legal battle (or trying to be, you damn lawyers are so expensive) that isn't the big D or child custody.

In a nutshell?  I'm royally fucked and not in the good way.

I write everyday.  I'll have a novel finished eventually, but now is the time for action, not eventually.  I write all the time.  I entertain you fuckers.  I do stuff with my words.

And I do it for free.  

Folks, I work full time.  For free.

Fuck that noise.

You may see that tab up there, "Advertise with Me".  Or the donate button over there --->

I'll be submitting articles to sites and ezines that will pay me for my work.  Articles that are not my normal style, voice, or even choice of topics.

I'm so desperate I'm opening myself up to write reviews.

I'm selling real estate here The Insomniacs Dream.

I'm co-authoring a book on a site that pays me per chapter.

You.  Guys.  I'm writing erotica.  For a porn site.

You may see me begin to Tweet and Facebook ads.

Please forgive me.  Ignore the ads if you wish, and continue to read my words.  At the end of the day all I ever wanted to do was give the world what I have to give through this talent I was born with, to share my words and maybe make someone laugh, or know they're not alone, or change a life.

But a bitch has got to pay her bills.

I need to afford a lawyer.

I need to be with My Tinys.

I once told Jenn (Something Clever 2.0) that  I'd sell drugs, strip, even fuck for money for those boys. I.  Would.  Do.  Whatever.  It.  Takes.  We were currently in a Google+ hangout chatting via video.  Jenn got up and hugged her laptop.  I believe her words were, "Now that is a good Mother!"

Selling out doesn't seem so drastic in light of my other options does it?

If you know anyone looking for adspace, send them my way.  They can view my traffic info in the advertising tab.  Know someone who pays for reviews?  Pays for articles?  Wants to write their own damn post to advertise and let me guest host it?  Someone who wants to sponsor a post?  Send them way.

SHOW ME THE MONEY!

I have gone queer, I'm a sell out and possibly a queef.  But hey, I'm off the streets and this is legal.

P.S.  Speaking of selling out, you can read Chapter 3, written by The Writer, of our book by clicking here.  As always, please remember to rate it by clicking on the stars.

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