Lucky is the Lobster

The disease has begun. The transformation is upon me. I have yet to relinquish wearing my bra, thank God for small miracles. And, I still have put on my make up, but mostly because it’s required for me to receive the specialized SPF formula in my lovely Estee Lauder foundation. All of which could potentially be threatened if the disease takes over fully.

I can’t exactly say when I contracted this, but my guess is sometime in the wee hours of the morning it must have slipped in under the door and found its way into my slumbering head. It has rendered my rational thoughts into one’s with no logic given the full understanding of what ocean sun does to pink white skin.

I am fully aware of these things and you would think in my sane mind the first trip to the store wouldn’t be for just deodorant or a new tank top. One could assume the intelligent action would be the one that provided me with a bottle of sunscreen. Unless of course, the disease had already perverted my thinking and beckoned me to sit upon the beach, unprotected like a hormonal teen on a first date.

The disease rotted my brain into believing I wasn’t getting burned or turning into something altogether, different. I started out the day as a woman and it is now with great confidence I can say with absolute, I’m no longer a woman, but a lobster.

A very largish, black haired and slightly feminine lobster. That’s right. Lobster. There’s no imagination in this as figurative speech, but in actuality a real lobster. I have been turned from white pink to blustering red in a matter of hours. It’s not that I mind the color, but I must say, it doesn’t quite match the estee lauder foundation color of “Pebble” and even if it did, my eyeshadow is all wrong. I’m not sure if I have acquired a keen sense of swimming yet, or even if lobsters swim at all given the opportunity. But, I shall not chance it today and opt for more lobster discovery tomorrow when the sun is highest in the sky.

I do hope it’s not lobster season as I’m not quite interested in finding myself flayed out on someone’s dinner plate either. I do think that might hamper my discovery adventures. I don’t think I’d be a great catch anyway, I’m rather large for most stock pots so I’ll have to pray this will keep me safe longer than if I were a wee smaller size.

Besides, if I remember correctly lobster is often tough and chewy. Who wants to eat that for a premium…although from the looks of it, lots would.

I should have only hoped for ever becoming one of those Floridan hobos, but instead, I’ve become a creature worthy of an aquarium. Perhaps this is the greatest folly of them all.

Thanks for reading ❤️

Floridan Follies, Hobos and Retirees

When I use the word Hobo here, it’s by far a completely different definition than the Obispo Hobo. Florida Hobos aren’t actually homeless although they might appear as such. These particular hobos have traded in their luxurious shopping carts and hiking backpacks for a bike or even a walking stick. The Florida hobo almost never wears clothes, if any, trading outerwear for darkened brown, leathery skin just as worthy as a cowhide is to a pair of fine shoes.

The strong scent of coconut oil and suntan lotion replaces the usual noxious stench of body odor coming from the typical Hobo. These hobos play in the day as if there is no tomorrow to only retire to a fancy hotel, condominium or retirement retreat in the evenings for a little needed R&R.

Women of all body types, but mostly ones that would make any self conscious girl feel better, slather on sunscreen smack dab in the middle of the beach as if no one is watching, carefully applying the creamy concoction to every single part of their bodies by merely shifting their suit to one side or the other. In my opinion, it might have been easier done and perhaps with more privacy in the confines of their hotel rooms. However, this is not the way in which it is done here, and for reasons I haven’t figured out being that I’m the only person fully clothed.

The aging Florida Hobo seems to have lost all sense of awareness when it comes to modisty. The men ride their senior bicycles in nothing but wind shorts just shy of being daisy dukes. The sheer ability to keep their jewelry tucked up is a complete mystery, but one I’m unwilling to investigate further. The granny’s have slightly more self awareness than the retiree male by wearing a few more articles of clothing, but only because it’s prohibited for women to go around topless. They have traded lofty cardigans and floral dresses for short mumus and skirted swimsuits. They sport those suits like Sundays best while walking small, manicured dogs down the lush sidewalks covered in flowering hibiscus bushes.

Lizards run about as if they own the places and some as large as small cars. If anyone could think a rat could make me scream, they haven’t witnessed my encounters with iguanas. They are horrific events that nevertheless leave other people around me stumped by my inability to stop screaming like a complete and utter psycho. Especially, if that particular, horrifying Iguana, does nothing but be the lizard it is by merely staring at the screaming freak in his solid, unmoving stance.

There are other predators here than just an Iguana. Large pterodactyls that everyone here calls a pelican, swoop and dip over my head as if I might be their next snack while beach hobos appear unaware of their pesky existence. Fortunately for me, I have an umbrella which completely tricks this bizarre Dino bird into thinking I’m furniture, furthermore eliminating me as prey. Thankfully, I’ve been spared.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been spared from viewing the young girl in her late twentieth who decided to pretend she were a bond girl by bending over abruptly in the midst of a crashing wave to dip her brassy yellow hair into the ocean and then flip her head back in a rendition of an old Bo Derek move from 5.0. She took that move as a que to look for anyone watching. Pleased with herself, the young woman decided to turn from the salty heaven and run, bouncing her body around as if she had just become Pamela Anderson in Baywatch, giving all of unlucky spectators a few laps to gather it all in.

The other strange folly comes from the strongest urge to take a nap or pass out right where I’m sitting as if I had been slipped a roofy in my morning coffee although I would have been the only person to do that and, I certainly did not.

For now, I shall return to reading my book and keeping a watchful eye on the Pterodactyls I know want to devour me whole all the while burning my skin as if I were toast.

Thank you for reading ❤️

Horror of the worst

Something with the utmost peculiarity has occurred. It’s baffling to say the least and I’m not quite sure if I have somehow landed on my own episode of the twilight zone.

I hadn’t been aware of such things happening, but then again what the hell are the polka dots on the backs of my hands. Are they leprosy of some kind or perhaps an infection? Is it somehow related to the biggest horror of them all? I couldn’t possibly know, and come to think of it, I don’t want to know, but I must.

I must find the awnsers to these hideous things that have befallen upon my very own heart. It’s a crime I think, but no one is formally charging anyone, although they should. It’s certainly not a misdemeanor, no no. It’s far greater. It’s murderous and evil. It’s disgusting and vile.

I can barely speak it, but I must try. I must make the greatest attempt to say the unspeakable. I can barely stand the turmoil and horror within me, but I have Christmas tinsel growing from head. It’s true. And, I’m ashamed.

I have been plagued with something so foreign, that not even I can comprehend it. Christmas tinsel. That’s right, the metallic silvery strings used to decorate holiday trees for the Yule merriment has not only found its way off the ol’spruce but into my hair. It’s growing out from my scalp as if I were a tinsel farmer all my own, growing for one purpose only, holiday cheer.

The polka-dots aren’t a disease, but I must say it is. Age spots, That’s what those are, and I can’t even believe that my forties are considered aged. A good wine needs much longer on the shelf, so how might this be plausible?

I can’t understand it any more than I can phantom the large vein that has to decided to rupture in my arm for no apparent reason than to provide comfort to those pesky dots and shiny tinsel.

It’s truly humiliating and I dare say, I’ll be buying a good cover for those monsterous little spots. I have already begun the process of coloring everything in the bathroom a good shade of black, including my scalp, forehead and tinsel. Band-aids work wonders, but what’s next hemorrhoids? Or toenail fungus? A lumpy back or stooped walk? Will I grown as I inch from my bed with aches in all my joints?? And yet, my brain is smarter than it ever was, improving daily with more and more knowledge.

It’s a real sham, this aging business. It’s for the birds, or someone else, but I’d rather keep my hair tinsel free if you don’t mind me.

Damn it, is that a whisker??

Thank you for reading my folly. ❤️

How stupid could I be

Sometimes the lyrics just get stuck in your head one time or another and it’s always strange how at the most inopportune times they re-emerge to remind you of something…..

Night, lift up the shades
Let in the brilliant light of morning
But steady me now
For I am weak and starving for mercy

Sleep has left me alone
To carry the weight of unraveling where we went wrong
It’s all I can do to hang on
To keep me from falling into old familiar shoes

How stupid could I be
A simpleton can see
That you’re not good for me
But you’re the only one I see

Love has made me a fool
It set me on fire and watched as I floundered
Unable to speak
Except to cry out and wait for your answer

But you come around in your time
Speaking of fabulous places, create an oasis
Dries up as soon as you’re gone
You leave me here burning in this desert without you

How stupid could I be
A simpleton can see
That you’re not good for me
But you’re the only one I see

Everything changes
Everything falls apart
Can’t stand to feel myself losing control
But deep in my senses I know

How stupid could I be
A simpleton can see
That you’re not good for me
But you’re the only one I see

How stupid could I be
A simpleton can see
That you’re not good for me
But you’re the only one I see

Obispo Chronicles

Hobos.

By definition, Hobo is a homeless person, tramp or transient. Although, I’ve never heard anyone in a nane calling fight use hobo in place of tramp. However, I might remember that definition about the Hobo word. And, try it out one day if I just so happen to run into a situation where I might need to throw out “You trashy Tramp” and incert “You trashy Hobo”.

In light of a Hobo, I’ve made several observations this week, which brings me to this very thoughtful conclusion. There are several types of Hobo varieties. Don’t be alarmed.

Today, for example was a young Hobo giving himself a sobriety test across the crosswalk. Clearly, a good samaritan. He took it upon himself, to check his ability to drive his shopping cart in a safe manner without having to be pulled over or ticketed. We call him the go getter.

Then you have the out right crazy, that’s the one who is either male or female and chooses to randomly talk gibberish to no one, or anyone, but seemingly no one in particular. They are often dirtier, smell and stay to themselves. Usually they are seen with a deck of cards for some rumy or solitaire.

Next in line, The day jobber. This is the man or woman, but women particularly like this one best, unless of course it’s a dude with a cute dog. They sit at intersections, stop signs, red light and under passes with signs announcing some mean to their end, covid, divorce, lost job, traveling needs gas. They usually appear clean, and have shoes of a decent nature, indicating their day job Hobo is paying off.

In this demographic, there are mostly white or Caucasian hobos. I have seen no Asian, Hispanic or Black hobos. And, although they exist I’m sure the Asian hobo is as rare as a unicorn. But, then again, I don’t actually know.

Back to the variety. The mid class hobo. This is the one who has been lucky enough to score a shopping cart in which he or she can shove their rolling house down sidewalks and dead center in the street to only wave a fist if you politely honk for him to move because he has forgotten the roadway isn’t a good place to stop and trim your toes nails.

The upper Hobo not only has a shopping cart but the luxury of a county issue blue or green tent. He or she keeps it tucked inside the shopping cart for easy travel or has set up under an over pass, near some orange trees in case of a light snack later. This hobo is very territorial and doesn’t particularly want lesser hobos entering their “gated” community.

Sad sap. This is the hobo that puts on the most pathetic face, the one where they appear beaten down by the hand of God and shunned from ever entering heaven. They hope to guilt you for their sad shunning and foil a 5 spot out of you before that light turns green. The typically have a card board sign with an equally pathetic message proclaiming some horrible circumstance in which they have been given the worst possible outcome in the history of the world. They vary from a little dirty to ąlot dirty and even clean. It’s a crap shoot.

Trash master. This hobo is the one who pretends to be a city worker with a walking stick and garbage bag. He or she, mostly he, picks up trash while giving merry salutations to drivers whilst picking up trash and cleaning for some unknown reason. They usually wear suspenders and have a shopping cart or wagon hidden near by.

All of these hobos are ones I have witnessed personally and in multiple settings so that I could make a pattern in their behavior enough to formulate this post. These are not figments of my imagination but real hobos. I have not posted pictures as not to invade privacy but if in the future I should have the permission of thus said Hobo, I shall post a photo for viewing.

There are many more hobos and some in a genre all their own but I do find them fascinating, especially the good samaritan type. I equally like to be a good samaritan and give them the obligatory guilt money just in case it’s Jesus undercover or they actually need the money for food or some good weed. Either way, I do my part whilst observing.

I hope you enjoyed reading about Hobos and will join me in the future for further things of interest.

Thank you for reading ❤️

California Triangle

The California Triangle is much like the burmuda triangle. It’s not as glamorous of course, but nevertheless it’s real. It sits on a fairly quiet street, behind a shopping plaza and across from an embassy suites. It’s a place where strange burrowing squirrels along with a few lone cats, call home.

In essence, it appears to be nothing more than a triangle of grass at the back of a parking lot. But, it’s much more than that. You see, It calls to hobos of all kinds. They love to frequent the lone tree in the back corner as a motel of their own, pitching tents like real campers.

Random cars, often of the Japanese car make, as an example, Mazda and Honda, enjoy spinning circles into donuts in front of the triangle as if they are there for its entertainment purposes. a

In the wee hours of the night, teenagers dressed in t-shirts, scarves and sweat pants ride down the sidewalk on their skateboards outfitted with headlights as if they are drawn there by some unseen force.

Police officers visit in the morning, often parking against the shrubs to smoke cigarettes as if no one can see them. Late night drug smugglers or people trading large, brown bags of brachs candy (not sure which) edge against the shrubs to do their dirty deeds. Sometimes they gluttonously cram things from those paper bags into their mouths greedily.

Transients, typically traveling in threes equally enjoy the green by coping a squat for a midnight piss, all the while cars buzz down the freeway behind them. Fortunately for the drivers the hobo ass is obscured from the massive shubery separating the triangle from normal civilized life on the other side.

It’s a baffling occurrence, but nevertheless happens on a daily and if your lucky, you can catch bizarre men and women, park their cars to sit for hours as if in a complete trance. It’s as if they are unable to move or go about their day. I can’t be for sure but I think they may possibly be deadlocked into some mind blowing orgy only they can see. Although I haven’t tried it myself.

People, usually men in large trucks, a few suvs and one mini van love to bring their big, massive dog to the triangle just so to defecate on its luxuriously green patch of triangular bliss. They almost never pick up the doo, but instead opt to talk on the phone pretending they didn’t see the massive hound dropping tootsie rolls on the naked ground below their tiny starfish.

The triangle even calls to winery tour buses, beckoning them to frequently do drive bys on a dead end street, making it more suitable to a Nascar track than a road to nowhere. Where the people go or if there were even any on the bus is anyone’s guess.

This triangle is as diabolical as a scorned ex wife hell bent on eating her child support as if it was all just for her. It’s as sinister as a walmart shopping cart in a covid pandemic and as evil as a hearty bowel movement to find an empty roll of toilet paper in a public restroom.

It’s mystifying and intriguing, but yet not enough to lure me out with an attempt to explore its magnetic pull, any closer than my third floor micro balcony. It’s safer here and for some reason casts an invisible shroud over me so that not a single soul notices my presence.

These are the oddities in which I find folly and solace. These are the moments of my life.

Thank you for reading my satire ❤️

Real talk. Non Fiction.

On a serious note.

I typically try to find humor in even my worst experiences because somehow that makes it easier to digest. But, it doesn’t mean that there isn’t a lasting affect or a serious situation just because I made light of it. Matter of fact, I never discuss this or talk about it openly. I do talk, but that’s only when asked or I feel the need to say something in order to help someone else. I don’t like classifying myself as a “survivor” or any other title. I’m not special by any means that made me “Survive”. In a sense, I don’t think I did survive. But let me get to the root of this.

I’m the… (I really hate saying this) survivor of mental and emotional abuse or more commonly known as NPD. I didn’t know I was suffering from abuse when I was subjected to it. I only knew I thought I was in hell, dying or going crazy. It took 15 years of solid therapy, twice a week. I still have my struggles, but ultimately I have overcome a great deal of it. My husband of roughly 4 years, has been the biggest thing in my life to finally heal that wound. He gave me the stability, strength and courage I needed. By doing that, he allowed me to have a safe place to live, free of fear.

The part I never expected was where I began to re-emerge into the girl I had once been. I did not know that I had tucked her away to protect her from the most heinous stuff, but I had. Therapy could never have done what he did. His love for me, alone, was the driving force to healing. However, because of that it allows me a bit more ability to talk about it. I don’t ever what it to be the only thing that defines me. For some, their tragedies become how they help others, and its an amazing thing, because those people are saints in every way. I certainly wouldn’t want to take away from them and their journeys, but for me I choose to just be me.

No ropes, chains or signs. No titles or signifying marks, just me. I want to be the person outwardly that I should have always been, without abuse scrawled across me like graffiti. It’s always difficult to remember, especially when I discuss it detail even though I have overcome it. Some things you just don’t forget and it’s hard to not cry about it. It doesn’t hurt the way it did. Instead of pain or fear, it makes me feel such sadness for the time I lost. It makes me have a great sadness for that young girl I was and the one who suffered for most of my adult life. It saddens me, and I cry for my daughters who had a very broken mommy as they grew up. It saddens me because I can not change it no matter how hard I try.

What I can do, is move forward without looking backwards. I can be this person I am destined to be and a whole mom to my adult daughters. And although it’s not the same as when they were young, this is what we get now. We can make it through just about anything because we made it through hell and back. That part, I know is true.

I was fortunate to not have been the victim of domestic violence. I was not hit, beaten or physically tortured and I won’t say I think that’s better because I honestly don’t know that suffering, but there were times I wished my abuser had hit me instead of the psychological warfare I was hit with every minute of the day for 10 plus years. It’s hard to fathom when it’s happening to you what’s going on, because it’s so foreign.

I didn’t grow up in an abusive home, I didn’t know anyone who had been abused this way, which made it difficult to recognize. It’s not like anyone knew what it was until it was way too late and by then I was out of the relationship. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done.

I still have PTSD. I don’t think it ever goes away fully. I have chronic anxiety and I take medication that has helped with that for some years now. Had I not found this particular medication, I don’t think I would be capable of functioning. The anxiety had gotten so bad I could barely leave my home for a few years. I missed school functions, movies, birthdays and outtings with friends because the anxiety had crippled me completely.

Trust me when I say, I hated myself for the invalid I had become. I had often viewed other people like I had become as weak, pathetic and lazy. I knew that wasn’t the truth and I couldn’t make the anxiety stop if I had wanted to because God knows I tried. I had horrible panic attacks that made me think I was suffocating to bouts of fatigue so bad I could barely get up to dress myself.

In the worst part of my abuse, I developed an eating disorder so badly that I have permanent liver damage, including damage to my digestive track, colon and bowels. Anorexia was a severe, and near dead problem for me that lasted a course of 15 to 18 years. To this day, ( I’m a healthy weight now), I still struggle with forms of body dismorphia. I am however, the most happy and comfortable I’ve ever been in my entire life. Peace is nice, when you’ve never had it. Happiness and joy is too.

I remember vividly, a few years ago before I married my current husband, praying to God that I before I died I just wanted to know what it happiness felt like. I didn’t know and the thought of not knowing what actual joy felt like inside me, made me devastated to no end.

Thankfully, I have been given that gift again, and, I can remember that feeling from when I was a very young girl. It’s truly something. It’s life changing when you are filled with joy and happiness that isn’t manufactured but real. There are few words for it and none that describe it best, because a feeling isn’t always tangible, but this feeling is the one that healed. This feeling inside me now is the one that truly set me apart from who I was, and I am.

Emotional abuse is more than just abuse of the mind, it’s an attack on your spirt, your soul and everything you’re made of. It tears you apart, layer by layer until it devours you whole. It changes you in a way that you won’t even recognize your own self when you take a good long look at that face staring back at you in the mirror. It’s the worst punishment, a human being can inflict on another that doesn’t cause death or blood to flow. And it’s 190 % real. It’s not lip service and when someone complains about things in a relationship with any person, friend, spouse, parent, listen. They may actually need you to see, what they themselves can not.

I have known women who have suffered as I have and were by far less fortunate. If they didn’t wreck their lives in an irreversible way, they ended it. It’s warfare of the worst kind.

I decided to share this much because I think it’s important to atleast say out loud, these things happened, they are very real and they can be life altering.

People who have NPD, narcissistic personality disorder and BPD, borderline personality disorder are abusers through mental illness. They need professional help. If you know someone who may fall into those categories, look them up, especially covert and overt narcissism, seek help for them. Check on the people closest to them. Most likely they will be in denial, but don’t give up. I would have been grateful to have been pulled from that sooner than later.

Thank you for reading ❤️

Throne room of a Queen

Careful how you play your cards with a Queen in your hand.

The Queen approached the throne and took her rightful seat. She looked upon the creature before her as if just the sight of it had put something sour in her mouth. The creature knealt before her, glaring at the Queen with a stone like face and pinched eyes.

The Queen waved a hand at the creature, “I shall warn you once, if I lose my temper, off with your head”

The creature growled at her feet, pawing at the ground while white foam began to form at the corner of its mouth.

The Queen chuckled, she was rather amused by this display of rabidry. She spoke to her guardsmen without ever turning to look at him, “Gaurd, what exactly is this little delightful thing?”

The guardsmen leaned to her ear keeping a watchful eyes upon the growling creature, shrugging “Your Majesty, I do not know. I was summoned earlier as it followed the King in earlier this morning. He was mumbling something about the roses.”

The Queens eyes perked up, “The Roses?” she asked in mirth. “What on earth happened to his delightful roses?” she quizzed. When no one offered a reply, she looked back upon the creature at her feet, eyeing it sternly “And what of this do you know little beast ?”

The creature only growled between its teeth, shaking its head like a dog with itchy ears. The Queen tossed her hands up, “Well, now that was quite pointless, wasn’t it?” she said exaggerated.

The Queen snapped her fingers bringing her equerry running, “Your. Majesty, how may I be of service!?”

She leaned an elbow on her throne, eyeing the creature as she so delicately touched her chin, ” What do you suppose we do with it? Should we let it roam on the lawn?”

The equerry shrieked “OH heavens no! With all due respect, your Majesty, but we can not allow such a thing to be seen by everyone visiting the kingdom. Why, this would be most embarrassing, don’t you think?”

The Queen smiled ruefully, “I have always admired your charm, I do believe you’re correct, I shall think of a place but I am most curious of what happened to those roses.”

The head gardener stepped out from behind the crowd that gathered behind the creature, “Your Majesty, if I may approach?”

The Queen looked even more amused by this turn of events, “Yes of course, please do.” she said summoning the Gardner with a subtle wave.

The Gardner formally bowed, “Your Majesty, this… Um.. Well this thing here, it was caught painting the Kings white roses, red.” he told her fidgeting nervously.

The Queen’s raised an eyebow, “Is that so?” she said now putting her attention to the creature. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

“The creature glared before it spat out,” I DIDN’T DO IT” in a hiss.

The Gardner gasped, clutching his chest, clearly taken by the debauchery, “Your Majesty, do not be lead astray, I caught that little thing red handed”

The Queen laughed, “Red handed eh? Is that in the literal sense or in a manner of speaking?” The Gardner thought a minute, “Oh, well… Yes actually. Both.”

“Ah” she said “So you caught this creature taking the beauty of those white roses by painting them with fake color, paint you say?”

The Gardner bowed graciously, “I did your Majesty, as well as my wife. She say it too.”

A small woman wearing gardening attire stepped out from the crowd just behind her husband, she curtsied quickly, “Your Majesty, I’m the Gardners wife. And I too saw it do this.”

The Queen looked them over and then smiled sweetly, “Thank you both. You may step down Gardner.” she said putting up a finger “And, upon my gratitude for catching this vermin, you may have the rest of the day off. I pray you shall take your wife for a lovely holiday this afternoon? “

The Gardner looked stuck, “Oh. Why yes your Majesty. Yes I will. Thank you.” he bowed as he quietly backed down the steps so not to turn his back upon the Queen. Everyone knew such things often cost a person their head.

The Queen looked at the creature, “So you speak lies little creature, after you defaced my husbands roses! How do you awnser this?”

The creature glared with all the hatred at the Queen as if it might not awnser when finally, “I told you, I didn’t do it, and YOU can’t prove it.!” it hissed, taking a hand out slashing the air as if it’s claws could touch her.

“Well, now. You have quite the position little thing beneath me, but I might remind you that I do sit above you and for that matter you shall remain as you as. I shall give you one more chance to confess your crime and ask of my forgiveness.” said the Queen calmly.”

With that, the creature lunged towards the Queen in a growl, as if it wanted to rear her throat out. The Queen watched without ever moving in fear as the creature was no match for the Gaurdsmen. The Gaurd held the creature out in front of the Queen like a puppy.

Gasps, sighs of exasperation and sea of shocked faces watched as the Queen stood unblinking before the dangling creature, “Kill it” she said.

The creature looked on in horror never thinking the Queen would do such a thing. Just in that moment the King joined his Queen at her side. The creature looked even more terrified than before.

The King looked over the creature, evaluating it as it hung there by the Gaurdsmen hand, “Your Royal Highness, my darling wife, it dies look rather pathetic and I have purchased new roses to fill the void, perhaps we banish this one out the garden gate.”

The Queen looked to her husband adoringly, “Yes. That’s a lovely idea.” she told him.” turning her attention to the Gaurd ” Banish it. ” she ordered. The Gaurdsmen turned heel, taking the creature with him.

The Queen and King took their seats next to one another as they symbolically clasp hands in display of unity. The Queen waved a child up as she listened to her offer her business idea for selling roses with inquiries for the Queen and Kings help. Both the Queen and King, loved hard working people who wanted to earn their way, and decided with ease that they would give the young girl all the money she desired to start her business. Everyone cheered for the girl and as this day went further, every person who showed kindness, love, respect and acceptance got exactly what they were seeking.

But, the one thing they all knew about their loving Queen, she can tolerate ąlot of things, but if you take a run at her, “OFF WITH YOUR HEAD! “

Thank you for reading ❤️

Black Widow Oblivion

This is another fictional story from The black widow series. Enjoy. All characters are just figments of my imagination. Any or all resemblance to an individual is merely coincidence.

She (the black widow) sat hours in her easy chair, oblivious to the world around her, including her children. She furiously stretched her mind into the massive organ it is by spending countless hours crushing candy as if it were her only reason to live. She spent every waking moment doing as little as possible just so she could crush those striped candies into a big win.

Without a care in the world the widow crushed candy all the while ignoring her husband as if he never existed, whilst her children were raiding the pantry for every sugary, carb loaded treat they could find. Laundry was piled into mountainous heaps in the garage as if the washer itself had violently vomited them across the floor. Which isn’t surprising since the clothes often smelled so putrid and so sour it would make you gag if you smelled them, thinking they were clean.

The widow was typically in a real maddening hurry and had no choice, but to run over the laundry with her car. She never had a problem rolling over those stacks of dirty jeans, t- shirts, towels and underwear like speed bumps in the car line at school. She couldn’t be bothered with that stufg, she was just too tired. She wasn’t even going to be able to cook because she was so tired. Besides, she really needed to get to her easy chair and crush candy.

She spent so much time engrossed in candy bombs that she never saw the beautiful bombs chasing around her very ignored husband by her back. They snickered and laughed, asking him why he was even with her. They loved coming to her parties where she tired to sell some kind of plastic bowl or scented waxy shit because the widow loved to drink. And, when she did… They would go on the hunt for that sexy husband of hers that she didn’t even know she had. She would sit on her sofa, pounding beer from a bottle, laughing about menial things no one really wanted to talk to her about. That gave the perfect little out for a friend to slip out to the garage.

The widows friend spotted the highly attractive husband in the garage. He had been hiding from the cats in the house when one, bad, little kitty escaped. She pawed and nipped hoping he would play. The kitty friend told him the widow never had to know, meowing like a cat in heat.

To be frank here, this sort of thing happened quite often. But, as fate would have it, the widow wouldn’t have noticed. She couldn’t have because, she was so very very busy. Busy making ass imprints on the sofa with her dildo, that is….

It was obvious she didn’t want her husband like the babysitter did. And, she couldn’t possibly want him like those women at church who loved their fitness training. They frequently invited him over for some cross training, if ya know what I mean…

The widow sure loved the energizer bunny, while her closest, and dearest friend was still fantasizing about the time she had her way wity the widows husband. Of course, the dear friend never told the Widow, but then again, she never told the widow she had once warned her husband before their marriage not to marry her because she was a user.

Which of course, all of that said was true. The woman couldn’t do a thing on her own, she needed him to do everything for her or slave her children out. She couldn’t clean the house and she couldn’t cook, and she certainly couldn’t do laundry anymore than she could clean her ass. She was busy you know and that was a chronic problem, but then again so was her month long periods too.

Behind her back people whispered. She thought she had snowed them all including the congregation at her church, but her husband had been two steps ahead the whole time. He never let an opportunity go without sharing to the Pastor and other deacons about her “personal issues”.. Like the one where she puts her ass print on the sofa…

Unbeknownst to her, he forwarded her emails she sent him, photos of food rot crusted in the fridge, laundry stacked in the garage and filth everywhere she never cleaned. He recorded her cussing like a sailor and let the pastor hear what she really sounded like when no one was listening. He even sent the church, the most damning email of all, where she admitted to all her egregious acts.

One day, her husband decided that he had never loved her and put her to the curb. He had only felt sorry for her little snot nose toddler she had when he met her and against his better judgment stayed for the rug rat. But, that rug rat had grown up and it was time. He hadn’t found her attractive for years and years. He couldn’t stand her voice anymore than he could stand her, so… he left.

She thought she had won. She gloated around town like she had just taken him to the cleaners, except he didn’t want anything she got. Andvthe best part was he had the last laugh. He had bested her in her own playground.

Every week she went to church after he left, and told the poor abandoned wife tale, they placated her and then snickered all over again. They laughed and made fun of her knowing she was the liar and fake that she was. They knew, because her husband made sure to let everyone know the truth, just before he divorced her. In fact, she may never have known what all those sideways glances were actually for and probably wouldn’t have wanted know either.

She had been made a fool in her own backyard. If it couldn’t get any worse for her, it did when her son began telling the world about her drunken escapades with men from dating apps. She thought no one knew, but everyone knew. Her place of employment knew, her church, her neighbors and even her so called friends.

The black widow had been stripped of her power and dethroned. Her crown was stripped and she had to sell the big house, trade in the mom mobile and take the demotion in front of the entire world and God.

We are all laughing now.

Thank you for reading ❤️

Black Widow Poison Eater

The slight itch grew, although mild for a second, became a frenzied clawing motion just shy of mind numbing. She never thought the itch could get worse, but it had. The itch moved into her skin as if it were apart of it, biting and nawing itself raw. Delusional with it’s interference, she could barely think straight, let alone do anything. Her mind was always focused on the unyielding burn in her flesh. It never ceased to stop because it was always there. Occasionally, she would get occupied enough to forget it’s annoyance, but just when she did it emerged back with a vengeance. It stirred her thoughts and chased her everywhere she went.

Of course, the itch was only an itch that is, until she allowed it to fester into a disease. It took over her ever waking thoughts like a plague and haunted her dreams. It pulled at her brain every time she dressed herself or looked in the mirror. She let it naw at her to the point she couldn’t even do the simplist of tasks without it ravaging her thoughts like poison.

What she would never understand is that the disease was derived from nothing short of poison. Easily fed she lapped it up like a gluttonous pig, eating it by the spoonfuls.

She couldn’t help herself, because with every bite she took the more addicted to it she became. She craved it like a drug, wanting it over anything else in the world. She tried to tell herself she didn’t like it and that it was awful and vile, but the truth was she couldn’t get enough.

She ate and ate until it bloated her head and ate at her blackened soul. She let it devour her without ever knowing it had been feeding on her, hollowimg her out like a pumpkin.

She couldn’t hide it and when other people saw her infection, turning away, she found a million low hanging excuses to justify why “she” wasn’t at fault. It was always someone else’s problem and never hers because she thought she was perfect in every way. She had only had bad things happen to her not the other way around where she was the one being abusive and cruel to those around her. She never even saw how her little chickens were carbon copies of herself, incapable of love because they had never been taught how to love.

But, that of course wasn’t her fault. It was someone else’s fault. It wasn’t, her fault, she had only but a couple of friends, never keeping any for long periods of time. It was their fault. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t get or keep a boyfriend, there wete things wrong with them, not her.

She didn’t even understand why the surroundings of her choosing were sub par. If you guessed it was somone else’s fault, you would be correct. You see, narcissistic people ways find the right poison the fastest. The gravitate to it out of their own need to be important. They need attention and a stroked ego. They want to find every fault in someone else so to justify why they are somehow better and when that isn’t enough they will attempt to attack someone they have no business attacking.

In fact, they think the poison is made just for them and it is. They just don’t understand the true nature of it. It’s like feeding candy to a baby. Every good witch can spot it early on and begin working her magic. It’s quite easy and takes little or no effort. To be precise, it’s like weaving a blanket. You begin with the first stitch, looping each thread into another, building it one square at a time until after a while you have sown a beautiful quilt ready for the taking.

Poison is the easiest to give and in a sense it’s her own greediness that gets her the most. Ultimately, she will hang herself right in front of everyone, showing the world the ugliness she truly is. But, by then the damage is done, irreversible actually.

If you come close, I’ll whisper to you what the poison is, but… Shhh you mustn’t tell. It’s a secret you know.

Are you listening… Words. The poison is words. That’s it.

All you have to do is feed a person a bundle of words they can search for and when they gobble them like a starving dog you won’t have to do another thing. The words do it all for you.

Character is defined by who you are when no one is looking. When your heart is pure, words have no affect. Those magical words, can’t hurt you, mostly because you already know who you are. And so does everyone else. You’re loved by many and people that barely know you love you immediately. That’s when you know your immune to the poison.

If your heart is blackened and you look to take without ever giving an ounce, expect what isn’t deserved and couldn’t show love or empathy without killing yourself first, then get ready to be eaten alive.

Thank you for reading ❤️