I thought it was time to confess to what most people have already figured out: I am a mean girl.
Most of my meanness stems from the fact that I'm really, really short and when you spent your lifetime looking up, you get a sore neck and it can make a gal cranky.
Also, I'm fat. So short and fat = beach ball. I'm a beach ball with breasts and a sore neck. You'd have an attitude too.
Oh, I'm not done. Not by a long shot. I'm also old. Age spots, grey hair, wrinkles in places where there shouldn't even be places. Add to that I'm a mother of a pre-teen. So everybody tells me what a great grand-son I have. That's my daughter, you dweebs. (Yeah, my daughter does super short hair and not girly clothes so she's obviously a boy.)
What? Not yet finished? Oh not by a fucking long shot. Because I'm also single. And my dog pees on the floor when he's left alone. And my cats chew on cords. And my iphone data plan sucks. And chocolate has calories. And George Clooney keeps ignoring my fan letters, even the ones with the naked pictures.
Oh yeah. And I'm an author who hasn't made enemies. Or created any rabid fan girls. And I don't have people blocking my Twitter.
I'm a goddamned failure, is what I am.
So to make myself happy, I make myself happy. I snark, I laugh, I do things that bring me pleasure (and gets me restraining orders from George Clooney's attorney). I don't threaten people however, I don't post their personal information (except Carolyn's and if you're curious, she's spending the afternoon at Lila Mae's House of Grooming) and I sometimes leave absolutely venemous reviews of books on GoodReads of books I hated.
I leave fan girls squees on Loretta Chase's books but that's not important. I'm still waiting for her restraining letter.
I'm mean. I do it to make myself laugh. And to forget for a moment that I'm a beach ball with an adrogynous daughter and a bathroom papered in court orders to stay 500 feet away from George Clooney at all times.
Oh well. At least there's chocolate.