Category Archives: Writing

Read This if You Follow Me!

Duct-tape Moving Van

Duct-tape Moving Van (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m moving back over to my original blog,, and leaving the Rapist Monkey.

It’s the exact same blog, only older with more hits and followers.

I started writing over here due to the fact that I created more enemies than friends with Melanie’s Life Online and so I tried to conceal it better.  But hey, what life has taught me is that you can’t run from your problems.  You can’t deny them or hide them because they’ll keep popping back up.

So from here on out I’ll be posting over there instead.  I would love it if you followed me on my Camino adventure!

If you choose to follow me, I will follow you on your blog.  I figure that like-minds follow each other.

I will continue to post the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me God.   And I’ll deal with the repercussions come what may.  I can do this thanks to my inherent nature of being a compassionate, sentimental and an honest asshole.  I’m one of a kind.  There can be but only one Melanie’s Life Online (It’s true because I bought the domain!)

Peace out trouble makers.  See you on the flip side.

Mel Out

Enhanced by Zemanta

Leave a comment

Filed under All about me, Writing

My “Such a Dope” Poem

There’s a place inside of me where all the answers dwell.  

A place untouched by reasoned thought, in lieu of this mind of Mel.

It clarifies simplicity and sets the record straight.  That I am my own maker, it is I who can create.

To quell the froth of babble in my head that is on top, and listen to the beat of reason from the fizz of my soda pop.

Everything so simple, made hard to bear with fear.  Fear of thine own uncertainty, I drench these thoughts with beer.

I turn off the fizz and lay awake.  

Thoughts arise I cannot shake.  

Drama and fiction juice up my drive.  

I stew in the remnants of all I contrive.

I must work, I must rub.  Another old man with chub.  I set goals, answer calls, buy socks at shopping malls.  I’m okay, I still breathe – I stay afloat on my knee’s.  I beg you to pardon my

old baggy jeans.

I get up, I go out

Into town I loll about.  

Squawking and squabbling like a dunderhead clout.  

I chip away what’s most dear, my soul inside with the answers so clear.

I chisel away, no time to chastise.  The last ounce escapes, leaving me with big goofy doll eyes.

It is gone, the last shimmering wisp.  A Gust of wind taken it up and set it adrift.

 Now I am free to a life of certainty.  I can control all fears with actions derived

from the mundane human interference of controlling the tides.

Go to school, go to work

Massage the next jerk

Go home, wash the sheets

Listen to how serenely my heart does NOT leap

I lay in bed so dead

Stare at the tv screen

No new thought in my head

No need for beer when life is so stable

No need for questions as long as my body is able

To get up another day, wash the sheets, dry my hair

Done all unblinking, done all without care

I’m back in my bed

Emptiness abounds

I wonder what’s gone,

Then I hear a rapping, a tapping of sounds.

Coming from my window, I get up

Lift the blinds

Outside I see it, my soul beckons, it shines

“I need this after all, I can’t deny she’s not here.  She stands quietly gazing, this beauty of light without fear.”

I take her up in my arms and swallow her whole.  She squirms in my stomach –

it’s hard to digest,

my soul.

I keep her in place, letting her out while I write.  I repress her during most of the day and during the night.  I condense and compress, keeping her squished good and tight

into a mighty ball of fury, but she does not fight.

It’s been months and it’s been days to densen and contract, she grows heavy and sits as a pit wanting me to extract.

“Calm down in there, your day will soon come.  Stop wiggling so much, you weigh a ton.”

She flattens my lungs, crushes my heart

Something starts piercing through all my vital parts.

My spleen gets punctured, my stomach rup-tured

“Why did I swallow you again?  You’re more of a curse than my zen.”

My soul stirs and awakens – her fizz fuzzing my nose, “You suffered enough, can’t you see?  I’m all that you were and will EVER be.  You kept me here so long in your womb, you nurtured me with creative knowing but this incubator is really a tomb!  I am your prize for at the end and for the start.  Now push me out of your damned-up hymen, I am you – your polished star, I’m your diamond.”

“But how do I do it?  Won’t it hurt to try?  I never gave birth.  I don’t want to cry.”

“But that’s just what you’re doing while keeping me here.  You cry out in pain but your only reason is vain.  You choose to weaken, to play out your fears – to live by circumstance AND consume beers.” 

It’s late at night as I lay here fighting sleep.  Seven massages tomorrow steal my soul to weep.  It’s almost done, this Groupon uncharted.  I lost count of redeems, reason for my soul


My wavy scoliosis back, bloodshot eyes – like on crack.  Frayed work attire,

shoe’s that are mired.

I lay here and blink what little is left

Of my golden diamond light that I can mirror back.

I bequeath these last words 

Words of great hope

Why did I sell 606 massages?  I am such a dope.

Enhanced by Zemanta


Filed under All about me, Odes, Writing

A Dream Within A Dream

Dream (comics)

Dream (comics) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s 3am and I’m reading poems on the internet.  I didn’t even attempt sleep.  If I were high right now, I would think I’m out of my damn mind for staying up this late for no reason.

I would be saying to myself over and over, “It doesn’t make any sense.  No sense at all.  I’m confounded that I’m writing these very words to you at this very moment.  How can this be?  Why?”

I’m starting to get into poetry.  I love and hate it.  I have to siphon out the trash before I find the treasure, and there’s a lot of trash.

But I gotta say that when treasure hits, WOW.  I mean seriously, wow.  I’m reading the poem, reflecting on it, being subjective and yet at the same time envisioning what the poet must have been feeling while writing it.  The poem drugs my brain – seriously feeling like I been drugged.  It’s like saying “Ah haa yes! I get it!”  But it’s so much more than that.

Or it can just be that it’s 3am.

Anyway, here’s the poem that did this to me:

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! Yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

-Edger Allen Poe

 I mean wow, come on now.  Do you feel it?  The pain, the anguish, the illusion, the inability to let go?  I know I’m taking this poem to places where I can relate to it, but I see no other interpretation for it.  It’s like, yeah, that’s life man.  You got it, you really fucking got it.

Poe is the bro fo’ sho’ yo

His shit is shellacked 

it glow

While I weep

Oh while I weep!

For the loss of

tonights sleep

The grains in my palm

Just 4 or five


Nothing to no one

And yet they arrive

in my palm

So subtle and small

feeling their worth by their graininess 

Barely nothing at all

Do they exist merely for me?

In this moment of time

compared to eternity?

No, this one moment,

with them in my hand

I return to the ocean,

And me,

The land

I have no idea what I just wrote…

Okay, it really is 3am., well, no.  It’s 3:14.  My eyes are completely blood shot.  It was snowing all day – I was homebound all day.  The plow truck got stuck in front of my house.

It’s not going to stop until tomorrow.  Esmeralda the Escort is outside blanketed over looking like a cozy little igloo.  Slowly shrinking as the ground rises.  I can’t recall ever seeing anything like it.

Basically what I got from the poem is this:

Our dreams are as real as those little granules of sand.  They mean nothing, and all just pretend.  They only mean something if they mean something to you.  Nothing is stopping them from returning to the ocean, only you can stop it, but why?  And should you?  They mean so little after all…And nothing is real.  It all gets washed away in the end.


I just flossed my teeth

For an hour

Out of my gums

Sprouts a flower

Needing and weeding

Despite the bleeding

What am I saying?

I don’t know

Over the mountain and thru the woods

It’s grandmothers house we go

Yep, definitely bed time.

Enhanced by Zemanta

1 Comment

Filed under Odes, random thoughts, Writing

“If -“

I really like this poem.  It hits home with me.  It’s so important to me, that I’m sticking it here in my blog so I never forget it.  I should work on memorizing it.  I wish I read this at the beginning of last year, it would have made everything a bit easier.  I should keep a copy of it with me for the Camino.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

Honestly, I can’t stress enough how everything he says is exactly what I learned this past year.  It’s amazing, really.  Every sentence resonates with my own truth.  I need to start reading more poetry.  It gives me strength to keep me on the right path.  Seriously, awesome.

Enhanced by Zemanta


Filed under Odes, Writing

Yay six hours of blogging! Aren’t you excited to see what spews out of me?

I am such a weirdo – huge in fact.  I’m sitting in work waiting for my first client of the day to arrive, and after her, I’m not booked again until

So-called “Venus de Milo” (Aphrodite from Melo...

So-called “Venus de Milo” (Aphrodite from Melos), detail of the bust showing the difference of surface between the two arm sections: right one smooth; left one rough with a mortice. Parian marble, ca. 130-100 BC? Found in Melos in 1820. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

6pm which leaves me with 6 whole hours of me time.  And I’m actually happy over this!

I’m a weirdo in the way that I NEVER get bored.  Not ever.  I always find something to do.  I don’t know the feeling of boredom.  No, that’s not true, church is boring, school work is boring when the subject doesn’t interest me, people can be boring.  But when left to my own devices – it’s heaven!

Bored people to me, live in a box world.  They are in a box and can’t escape without the help of others.  They feel sealed in, like prisoners.  I’m a dreamer.  It’s very hard to keep a dreamer inside a box.

I base every day around fun…

My client just left.  She stayed and talked my ear off for a good 45 minutes after her massage ended.  I can’t handle people like that.  I feel bad for the lady, I really do, but she’s one of those needy types whose energy just pulls and pulls.  I feel completely drained.  I’m a spirited lass, rather pleasant to be around, but I can’t handle people like her.  Poor lady.  She’s going from one job interview to the next without any luck.  It’s because of her personality.  She sounds a bit wacky.

I don’t understand people.  If they don’t get what they want, why can’t they change themselves?  If something about them’s not working, change it!

She needs to not act like a weirdo.  That’s a really hard thing to change if you don’t have the ability to see yourself as others see you.  It’s a hard thing for a lot of people, not knowing themselves.  It’s like being tone deaf, or trying to write a song, but having it sound like shit to everyone.

I’m starting to think that creativity stems from self-awareness.  Think about it, to dance beautifully, you have to be aware of what you’re doing and what you look like. To talk affluently, you have to know yourself enough to hear your own words. You have to be aware in order to invent and create.  To create art, artists always have to erase and fix their shit to better their skills – constantly ripping down old constructs and building anew.  It’s harrowing and humbling, but what you get in return is a crystalline beauty of that which is pure conscious knowing.

When artists are satisfied with themselves and their work, progress stops and they stop learning.  That’s why the best of the best end up being depressed crazies.

Shit, I talk a lot of smack.

I’ve been writing diligently for over 15 years now and it truthfully hurts my heart whenever I read entries from at least two years ago.  Those entries are humiliating!  Writing a blog is humiliating, not just any blog, but a blog like this one here is degrading.  I’m constantly ripping down my old out-dated shitty wiring.  I’m jaded, damaged and broken, but I’m actively and intently polishing myself up.

At least I hope.

So what was I saying?

Oh right, I try to make everyday revolve around fun.  How do I do that?  It’s easy!  I love to sleep, so there’s always that.  Just laying there doing nothing – not having to talk to people or use my brain, my arms and eyes don’t have to work.  Oh how I love sleep.

Little Bo Peep

Laid down to sleep

Having no desire in counting her sheep

She laid there so tranquil

Composed and serene

Waking and dreaming

She was somewhere between

Time passed by slowly

Deliberate and wholly

Until her tummy woke her up

She wanted ravioli

Mmmm ravioli…..

So yeah, sleep is fun.  But beyond sleep lurks something much bigger.  Something uglier and greater than I can ever be.  Something I can never fully understand until years later after having time to settle.

While I was massaging my last client, all I could think about was:  “I can blog for six hours!  Six whole hours!”

To me my blog is like the Red Ryder 200 shot carbine action range model air rifle with a compass and this thing that tells time built right in the stock.

Yeah thats right, I said it.  Can you imagine having a love for something that powerful and having it available to you every single day for the rest of your life?  That’s what my blog is to me.  It has everything already built into it.  I get curiously cautious before attempting to discuss exactly what’s on my mind.  It’s like I have to walk around circling my blog a few times, poking it with a stick to see if it’s alive.

The cursor patiently blinks at me.  Awaiting it’s next order.




Like a heartbeat.  A heartbeat waiting to be told the outcome of something devastating, or spectacular – sometimes devastatingly spectacular.




What can I tell you cursor?  You’re my curse all right.   You’re the necessary ten pound shit that hurts so good coming out.  Not that I ever taken a ten pound shit before, I imagine it’s like having a baby come out your anus (hopefully not squirming or blue).

To create something from nothing is poetry.  I evolve to solve.  Honesty is modesty.  Authenticity is simplicity, synchronicity.

My blog puts me in the Hoia-baciu forest.  Time stands still when I’m here.  The world grows rigid, old, and cold while I’m still here soft, warm, pliable and protected.  The world can nail me to a cross, but as long as my story is told, it can never be for nothing.  My blog brings me meaning.  It’s everything to me.

Eh hem (clear my throat), so yeah, I like to write.  I may not be the best or most entertaining, but I’m slowly gaining awareness.  Chiseling away at my hidden Venus de Milo.  Unfortunately, the only time I ever really felt my awesomeness was under the influence of Aya.

“Wow I’m awesome!  I’m like a god or something!”

That’s actually more fortunate than unfortunate…

My mom made me turkey soup.


I feel like eating turkey soup than taking a nap.  Then I need  to read Rich Dad Poor Dad.  Amy would get so mad at me if she knew I was blogging and napping for six hours straight instead of setting up an LLC for my business.  She cracks me up.  She tell’s me all this stuff I should be doing, but then apologizes for being abrasive.

Amy – “I won’t read your blog anymore, that way if you want to blog about my ass, you won’t feel bad.”

Amy my dear, your ass is truly amazing, really really.

I was over her house the other day and she says to me all excitedly;

Amy – “You know what I have that’s really good?”

Me – “No, what?”

Amy – “Raisin Bran.”

Me – “Really?  Raisin Bran?  Are you seriously excited over Raisin Bran?  Isn’t that for old people?”

It’s one of my greatest pleasures making fun of her.

Me – “I’m putting that one in my blog.  Pfff, Raisin Bran….”

The only thing that could complete me right now is if I were sitting in Cheshire coffee with a latte in my hand, my electronic cigarette (fully charged of course), and Amy doing what ever it is that Amy does, sitting next to me.  That’s all I need.

No, scratch that.  You know what I want?  I want the biggest house in Cheshire – No not a house, a mansion.  And I want it all to myself.  I want to throw huge parties that never end, no one will want to leave.  I want to sit inside, staring out of my big bay window, looking down into the chaos of my backyard.  People everywhere having the most amazing time, while I sit alone quietly and watch in amusement from behind an old antique desk, writing one masterpiece after the other.

Yes, wouldn’t that be something…

Damn, it’s only 2:52.  I still have another 3 hours to go until my next client gets here.  I’m going to make my turkey soup, be right back.

Okay I’m back and the soup is eaten.  I ate it all up.

You know what would be cool?  To start a viral memetic infection.  Yes, that’s right.  It’s when people have blind faith and unswerving belief towards an idea, a belief or a religion.  It’s what happens to a person when being brainwashed.  It can cause brother fighting brother, sister fighting sister – it’s complete unwillingness to hear the other person out – complete lack of compassion, awareness and creativity.  But the fun doesn’t stop there!  The great thing about it is, it’s contagious!  It’s contagious because 90% of the world is made up of idiots.

It’s hilarious to me, seriously hilarious.  Thousands of people end up dead each year, but it’s funny….too soon?

So, I’m just going to go ahead and create my very own viral memetic infection.  A plague upon the net – a viral video, a catchy poem, it’s going to be Charlie biting my finger.  I’ll instill zest and fervor in my followers.

But what belief can I create?  Hmm…..That’s the question.

Shit, I think I bit off too much to chew for this one.  I can’t think of a damn thing.

In the words of Lennon, Jai Guru deva om, glory to the shining remover of darkness.  AKA me, Melanie the rapist monkey.

Oh Blogosphere

Oh blogosphere

I write to everyone and nobody hears

Believe I am great

Come listen

Come learn

To a girl that’s a Shirley

And not a Laverne 

(Laverne’s a dope)

Omg I have to pee.

Jeez, why do I do that to myself?  Hold it till the last minute?

Okay, I really have to settle down and read Rich Dad Poor Dad so I can acquire my mansion.  I shouldn’t write for the next few days, yes I know, it pains me too!  but I really have a lot of shit to do, like sponsor a kid from Guatamala, read about real estate investment, and pluck my cholla eyebrows.

Wow they’re gross.  It’s going to take a while.

Enhanced by Zemanta

1 Comment

Filed under All about me, humor, journal, Odes, random thoughts, Writing

A little about myself

A late 1990's, 60 minute Memorex dBS cassette ...

A late 1990’s, 60 minute Memorex dBS cassette tape with the top cover removed, showing & labeling the insides of the cassette tape. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A telemarketer called me the other day while I was playing spider solitaire at the office.  She had a southern twang and sounded so sweet on the phone. 

Telemarketer – “Now I’m new at this, so I hope I do it right and tell you everything I’m supposed to tell you.”

Me – “Okay, you’re doin’ great.”

I stayed on the phone and listened to her schpiel.  I had nothing better to do.  I wanted to give her practice and confidence (I’m a weirdo like that).

Telemarketer – “How old are you if you don’t mind my asking?”

I had to think about it for a few seconds.  How old am I?  Oh right…but why is she asking?  Oh yeah, I sound naive and too young to afford her magazines.  Any moment she’s going to ask if my mother’s home.

Me – “32”

Telemarketer – “Oh WOW, really?  I’m right there with you girl but you don’t sound it.  You don’t sound a day over 21.”

Me – “Eh, thanks….”

She was being kind, but my voice and the way I come off to others is one of the things I hate about myself.  It’s one reason why I hate talking on the phone.

I have a loving, kind way about me.  I listen to others and care about them – I don’t even have to know them, but I still care about them.  It’s probably because of naivete or innocence, I don’t freakin’ know.  But nothing about it is fake.  There’s nothing artificial about me, maybe that’s considered naive.  Having a young voice doesn’t help.

Perhaps people mistake kindness for ignorance.

I don’t like people thinking I’m innocent, but I can’t help it.  God help me.  No wonder why everyone worries about me.

I feel that people are more likely to get pissed at me more so than at others.  Maybe they consider me as someone who knows better and I have no good excuse for my behaviour because they very well know that I know I did wrong, but I did it anyway.  There’s no wiggle room.  Some people can get away with acting stupid because that’s in their nature, it’s who they are.  But as for me, nobody cuts me any slack. 

Assholes do asshole things.  Nice people doing asshole things are harder to accept and can really hurt others.

I once worked with a slow-minded woman at Stop & Shop.  She was a bagger and I was a cashier.  I felt for her.  She was a bit defensive and ornery, but she had a heart and feelings.  She was working with a bunch of young high school brats who cracked jokes at her, so of course she’d be pissy.

One night at the age of 16 – an age where there’s not many fun activities to do at night, me and my co-workers went over to her house.  We were already in the neighborhood and thought it be nice to pay her a visit.  It felt wrong in my guts and I knew she would take it the wrong way.  If it was just me and my friend that came to visit, it would’ve been okay (she would have been elated!), but instead we brought along three jerky co-workers with us who just wanted to go see the “freak.”

I was against the visit in the first place.  I hung back in the shadows outside while the boys laughed and talked with her from her bedroom window.  I felt like the scum of the earth.  Her sister had to come out and tell us all to leave.

And she WAS pissed.  She forgave everyone except me – the one who stuck up for her and actually cared about her, I was the one she no longer spoke to.

She died in a horrible accident years later.  I never forgave myself for that night at her house.  I did know better. 

If you have two children with a significant age gap, it’s always the older one who gets in trouble, gets the blame.  The little one didn’t know any better.  Well, I’m always considered the older one – not in maturity (heaven knows I’m not mature), but in a different way.  Like, when it comes to matters of the heart.  A wise, caring understanding of people maybe?  When someone like me judges another person, says harsh things to them, it’s felt way more than when your everyday asshole says it.

And when people think I withdrawn my caring, understanding attention, they get spiteful.  It happened with Kristie, and sometimes with Dave (although he loves me too much to ever be rid of me).  It happens with Matt and just about everyone else I ever met.  It never happened with my really good friends though.

It happened with K in Nepal when I told her I didn’t want to hike with her anymore (its a really long story and you can read about it here), and I’m still getting punished for it.

Sometimes I get tired and need a break from everyone.  I have my own problems to deal with.

Telemarketer – “Are you married?  Do you have kids?”

I’m sure that a lot of people would’ve answered that question with a “What business of that is yours?”  Especially when it’s being asked by a complete stranger calling you up trying to sell stuff you don’t need.

But me on the other hand, that thought never entered my mind.

Me – “Ha ha, no.”

Telemarketer – “Oh now that could be why you sound so young.  I only wish I sounded like you.”

Another thing is, I have a tendency to love people in a non-sexual way.  I’m learning that most everybody takes my love in the wrong direction.  I have no ulterior motives or intentions when it comes to others, but they take my attention as being more than it is.  I feel hurt by this and think that the only reason guys stay friends with me is in hopes that one day we can do it.

I have a way with people. 

I was very sensitive, contemplative and reflective as a child – all the ingredients needed to be teased and pushed around.

In all my wonderings and ruminations, I realized at a very young age that all anyone ever wants is to be loved and feel connected to others.  All their actions, every single thing they do is done with the unknowing intent of gaining love and acceptance.  I forgave everybody and learned to accept people.  It opened my heart and changed me.  I guess maybe that’s where my wisdom came from.

I have the knowledge that all anybody wants is love.  I give people that love and connection.  Especially when they have none in their lives.  It’s easy for me to read people like this, and I know that what I give them is important to them.  So when it feels like I’m becoming distant, I get the proverbial shit kicked out of me.

It’s funny how I take the time to understand and connect with others, but instead of them wanting to connect back, they only want to screw me.  Male friendships are very complicated.  However, female friendships aren’t much easier.  At least I know what guys want.  Both sexes get equally fed up with me.

Should I just stop caring about people?  Is that how everyone loses their innocence?

I wish I kept all this crap in a private journal.  Nobody cares about what goes on in my head and writing a blog is pompous in that way. 

I stopped telling people about my blog a long time ago.  Writing a blog doesn’t make me special.  It makes me vulnerable.  I keep wanting to stop, but I can’t.  I feel like if I let too much slip by, everything becomes meaningless.  My life becomes empty when I have nothing of substance to look back on and learn from.  It’s like having a blank cassette tape with no music recorded.  And I love making Melanie Mega Mixes.

I’m sweaty, tired and have on no pants.  This laptop is really hot.  I’m thirsty.  This whole post started from one simple telemarketing call.  I can’t stop my brain!  I write a lot more than I publish, mostly everything I write is still a draft. 

I can’t wait to take some of those Columbian drugs.  My brothers fiancé know’s a girl from Columbia.  I told her where I’m going (upper regions of the Amazon in Putumayo and the valley of Sibundoy) and she replies back saying that it’s one of the most dangerous places in Columbia and she would NEVER under any circumstance go there. 

I wasn’t scared before, but now I’m a bit worried. 

I stereotype people – I love them, but still stereotype them.  An old man yesterday gave me a $20 tip all paid in half dollars for example.  Old men love change.  Who the hell carries around $20 worth of half dollars in their pocket other than old men?  Well, I do now apparently….

But anyway, I don’t have any stereotypes to assign people from Columbia.  These are the times when I don’t mind being blissfully ignorant – I don’t get scared.  The only thing I can connect Columbia with is the old 1980’s movie, Jewel of the Nile with what’s his face and sexy voice lady (forgot their names).  Colombians are comical ruffians who love romance novels, they call their vehicles Little Mules and throw enemies into crocodile pits.  I don’t have much to go on.

No wonder why people worry about me.


Filed under All about me, journal, random thoughts, Self help, Writing

Some quote’s about writing

I can’t sleep so here are some of my favorite writing quotes:

I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it.

-William Faulkner

William Faulkner

There’s nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.

-Walter Wellesley

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

-Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

-Annais Nin

Annias Nin

I try to leave out the parts that people skip.

-Elmore Leonard

Elmore Leonard

The time to begin writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction.  By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you want to say.

-Mark Twain

Mark Twain

The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air.  All I must do is find it, and copy it.

-Jules Renard

A writer is someone who can make a riddle out of an answer.

-Karl Kraus

Storytelling reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it.

-Hannah Arendt

As to the adjective, when in doubt, strike it out.

-Mark Twain

Keep a diary and one day it will keep you.

-Mae West

Mae West

One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment.

-Hart Crane

Writing is the product of silence.

-Carrie Latet

Books want to be born; I never make them.  They come to me and insist on being written, and on being such and such.

-Sam Butler

The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in shock proof shit detector.



The best style is the one you don’t notice.


I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everyone’s head.


I want to make a quote about writing but I think they’re all taken.



Leave a comment

Filed under Writing