*Note to reader. Or hopefully readers. This is ENTIRELY FICTION. No need to call social services in a panic. The only things that are true, are that I have two rad children and my ex is overweight. No children were harmed in the making of this blog. Thanks and happy reading.


It’s 12:40a.m. I’m watching the end credits to the horror flick “Children of the Corn” in hd and I’m 3/4 the way through a fifth of Maker’s Mark  and well into my third brownie. These ain’t the brownies your granny makes either. (Chances are her pot has a relatively low THC content, but theyre great for a reason, and it ain’t love:)  Yes, I realize I  may need to take a good look at my lifestyle, especially considering I have two kids. Whatever. My alcoholism isnt your business. Just know im drunk and happy, and now I’m maybe kind of scared. Ok. ALOT scared. And alot inebriated. The standing lamp in the hallway and glow from the blank  t.v. screen are all that illuminate my immediate surroundings. Beyond the tunnel of light just out of view, masked by the darkness, lies a horrific  Christmas themed battlefield like scene and possibly evil children with solid black eyes out there somewhere as well. Killer farm kids aside, wrapping paper and ribbon shrapnel and gift box rubble litter my room, and the family room, and the living room, and debris is overflowing into each adjoining room. Im certain if a discovery channel producer comes in this moment I’m in a favorable position to be awarded a spot on “hoarders”.  Now that I really look, which requires the use of my Jedi powers to force my dialated glossy pupils into focus thus turning a blurred mass into a slightly less blurred mass, I notice something disturbing. A tingle runs down my spine. Lying amongst the litter are toy army men doing unspeakable things to barbies. It looks like re-creations of some of those morbid “faces of death” videos or a scene from a snuff film.  Things that are most certainly war crimes even by toy soldier standards. My son is 8 and its doubtful he’s familiar with the rules of engagement or the Geneva convention but this is disturbing. He’s fast asleep though so I’m not addressing the clear warning of mental illness and serial killer like tendencies with him just yet. Im putting it on my to-do list now though. Who am I kidding. There is no damn list. What if my son is being molded right now into a Jeffrey Dahmer all because I can’t make a damned list. Im going to check on him………………………………………… No dead bodies. He seems to be sleeping. Unless he’s faking. Holy shit,  he’s faking isnt he? It has begun. He’s lying there alone now, all snuggled up rubbing his hands together wide eyed giggling to himself maniacally. I just know it. Screw it. Im pad locking his crazy little ass in there. 30 years on this rock, floating through space around a giant fire ball and im still surviving. Im not about to let my own 8 year old spawn take me out. His mother is a social worker and takes issue with padlocks on doors, food cabinets, ankles, etc. Luckily my journal entries are one hundred percent confidential and protected. My thoughts and questionable actions are password protected. The only way my secrets can get out is if I accidentally post them to my blog in a drunken stupor. There is some irony to my ex’s padlock bigotry though because she will most definitely gain alot of self confidence by locking her own food pantry and maybe just , you know, throwing away the key. She’s not obese but I will wager that (on my padlock diet) she survives for the next 10 to 12 years on stored body fat alone, and boom, a village in Somalia is eating well for a decade from the food freed up. That’s what I call a win/win. Crap. I wonder what to do about this lock. Its securely in place now, but think I’ve forgotten the combination. And is it left turn, left turn,right turn? This is what my ex daydreams about daily. Me screwing up so epically that I end up on  Nightline special.   I need to remember to stop drinking for any future middle of the night padlock installations.  Hope he doesn’t have to pee. I can slide poptarts under the door with only a small amount of icing scraping off for sustenance but he’s not pissing in anything that will fit under that door. He can’t even hit a toilet with the seat up. AHA! Amongst all the mess, dotting the landscape, are Christmas sweaters. I don’t mean Christmas sweaters in the sense that they have Christmas motifs. No, these are sweaters my family are blessing me with this holiday season. And every holiday season. Horrible, tacky sweaters galore. Im sliding every itchy, fuzzy one of em under his door for a Christmas sweater pee pad. Crap hes waking up,or getting his scalpel sharp. Can’t tell from the sound. Annnnd he just walked right out……………………………….apparently in my drunken stupor ive managed to mount a padlock on his door but not to anything else.   Im hiding under my comforter, but im also sitting up which is drastically reducing my ability to blend in im sure. What the hell am I doing? He’s my son! And he’s 8 and weighs 40lb soaking wet. I’m just strapping my glock on with one in the chamber and having a nice, heart to heart with my son like a normal parent. Maybe I am using bathroom door as a nice solid barrier but he’s peeing. He doesn’t want me watching….Here I go. Im asking him to explain the brutal physical and possibly sexual torture going on with his toys. He’s responding as he washes his hands. He’s saying it wasn’t him. It was his little sister. My God. She’s even scarier than him. I panic. I have to wade through the mess like a soldier in the swamps of Vietnam to make it to her room. I listen. No sounds. She’s even younger at 5. But a mean 5. Vicious even.. Her hurtful words alone cause me many a trip to the bathroom to cry alone. I grab the doorknob. It’s cold. I suppose this is normal for a door knob of this type. I can’t be certain though. I’m no door knob expert. I can’t bring my hand to turn it. Im thinking about those little beady black eyes. I certainly don’t know that possessions aren’t possible. She’s small but she’s wiry. With a little adrenaline, or evil power, or methamphetamine, she could take me. My hand withdraws from the doorknob. Now, I know what you’re thinking. After all the alcohol, and pot brownies, and the hit of acid I failed to mention earlier, I’m still lucid enough to know you’re thinking I shouldn’t watch scary movies alone at night. You’re right. Better go sleep this one off.


Write Here, Write Now


3 thoughts on “Write Here, Write Now, Right?

    1. Ha, thanks. I think 2 people read it. Or both begrudgingly found themselves there by accidents. Thanks to you though, I can see the cheering crowd of 2 people struggling to lift me upon their witty blogger shoulders and parading me across plush green shag carpet deep within the confines of my grandparents basement. My day of reckoning. Our cheers would barely be heard over the Zenith radio and it’s current act. Freddie. Mercury. Queen. We are the champions. You get the picture.


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