Grace under fire? Don’t got it. That is…I do not possess it. It is not mine. I warn men with my poems, videos and blogs. Don’t go there. Don’t fuck with me. I’ve got more baggage than LAX. Still, heterosexual men being heterosexual men, they do not heed the warning. They go there. They fuck with me. I get pissed and write about it. They read what I write and say,”Well, she went there. She wrote about it. Not too cool, sweetheart. Not too cool.”

I am in no way cool, don’t pretend to be. “Keep your booty cool,” an old friend liked to say. My booty is Mercury, alas. My mind is Pluto. My tongue is Neptune. My tits are Venus. My fingernails are Saturn. I scratch my nails down chalkboards, not backs. School, it seems, is always in session. I keep flunking yet on I go with my manic scrawl. Hurt me. Fuck me. Love me. Need me. Dismiss me. I’ll write it all down and won’t pause to wonder,”Gee, does this much truth, this much reporting from the front lines, make me a tacky little trashy mouth broad? Should I treat myself to a mental margarita and tone down my ungodly screech?”

Barbecue me. I’m begging for a barbecue. Keep me on the radar. Stalk me. Judge me with those cool appraising cordially aloof eyes. I’m not campaigning for Small Press Sweetheart 2013. I’d like to achieve peace, eventually. This is my process, my truth to tell. It might not help you but it sure as fuck helps me.

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