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More religion: Religious faith seems to be a kind of affection. One of the more thought-provoking (read that with shades of “annoying”) people I ever talked to on the subject of religion was D— the Iowan. When I met him, he had been recently divorced: his wife had announced to him, out of the blue, […]

Posted some pictures of Rachael eating cereal.

I am…Stinky Rhinobiscuit! This is a site that will give you your designated new name according to the rules of Professor Poopypants, the villain of a children’s book, Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants. (I haven’t read the books yet.) I have to admit that I take a buttload of online tests.

The apartments directly above us have always contained an interesting collection of sounds. For example, there is the coincedental pisser. I swear he (or she) leaps up to take a leak every time he (or she) hears the click as I lower the ring. He (or she) is an irregular flusher. Next there is the

I got more in-depth comments from Lee yesterday for Feather. Good ones. From what I understand, he felt the story was well-written for its purpose, but that the purpose itself needed to be questioned. There were lots of things that I was trying make the reader think, but I don’t yet have much that I’m

I’m not any other religion, either.

In honor of Sunday: here are two reasons why I’m not a Christian. First, I don’t believe. It’s not that I disbelieve, it’s that I don’t know. I have no faith in it. That’s the big reason. Second, I only know two people personally that I would consider to be living out Christian principles with

Goal of the day: think. Projects up next: “The Name of the Feather,” to be edited. “The Best of All Possible Beauregards,” still in first-draft stage. “Death by Chocolate,” in dire need of a rewrite. Plan: reread Feather. Try to imagine, if Lee can’t help me on this one, an imaginary audience for the story.

Hate. I have an image of the kind of hate you get after a breakup or a divorce as a small piece of dead or dying love that’s used to innoculate yourself against reinfection. Sad. The way infatuation can turn into love, this kind of brief hate can turn so deep that you can’t remember

Goal accomplished. “Customer Service” now In the Mail, and under my own name. I’m not sure what I’m going to do about online submissions. I’ll see when I get there. I don’t really write all that much erotica. Erotica Readers (and Writers) Association is a good site — it’s where I found out about the