Uncategorized – SaaS Onboarding Storyteller

Bella’s Very Last Attempt

Regardless of how many mariachi bands Hancho might hire, Bella knew her time with him was nearing its end. In the days that followed, he returned to his grumpy self. The dinners were no longer heavy spreads of flautas, fried plantains, and sangria.

Hancho grilled chicken or steak without seasoning and served it with cold salsa. He cracked bottles of beer and burped between bites. Despite his ever-bulging biceps, the man had lost all attraction for her.

Bella felt like a kept woman. She gave him one last test by hopping on Etsy and buying this gorgeous silk slip dress in burgundy. She wore it at dinner, hoping Hancho’s eyes would finally turn toward her as tears slid down her cheeks.

Listening to Hancho’s endless exercise routines made her sick. What about gazing at her once in a while? Asking about her day?

Bella tried three solid nights to connect with him. She cleared her throat, yet he spoke over her. She let him fondle her nipples while she talked about a new piece of gym equipment, but she might as well have been cloaked in armor.

On her final testing night, Bella broke down in tears. Hancho kissed her on the cheek, skipped to the bedroom, and shut the door. He might as well have buried her in that silk dress, spit on the tomb, and cursed her name for the rest of his life.

Bella had no choice but to form a new plan. One that will be revealed in the next post.

There’s an alluring piece of wardrobe made purely of silk. Should you use that link, I will be offered a few coins strictly for my amusement.

Hancho Steps It Up?

Just when you think you’re about to move in one direction, life has a funny way of asking, “Are you sure?”

Bella was almost certain she was going to leave Hancho. Her bags were packed. The costume was tucked neatly at the bottom. She even bought this gorgeous canteen, thinking she’d be living in the woods for months.

Lo and behold, Hancho came home one evening with a dozen balloons, a Mexican meal from Bella’s favorite restaurant, and a mariachi band. One of Bella’s favorite servers showed up to help. Hancho lit candles, dressed like he was going to a job interview, and waited for Bella to return.

At 7:30 p.m., Bella walked through the door and froze, wondering if she had entered the wrong apartment.

“Come in, come in,” Hancho shouted over the mariachi band.

“What’s this for?” Bella blushed.

“You’ve done so much for me, baby. You took a job so I could spend time at the gym. It’s time I pay you back. Sit down. I have wonderful news.”

Those three-plus hours he spent at the gym every day had caught the owners’ attention. They decided Hancho could be more than a patron. They hired him as a full-time trainer.

“So does that mean you’ll be spending more time at the gym?”

“Not necessarily.” Hancho took a sip of sangria. “I’ll be training with clients. You and I will get home from work around the same time.”

They toasted to Hancho’s new job. They ate, laughed, and giggled as if they were just meeting for the first time. The sangria kept flowing. Four pitchers later, everyone, including the mariachi band, was drunk.

Their server crashed on the couch. The band stumbled out of the apartment and nearly fell down the stairs.

As Bella’s vision spun in circles, she lay in bed listening to Hancho next to her and the server on the couch, both snoring like an entire forest being leveled. Before drifting off to sleep, Bella mumbled, “What the fuck am I doing?”

By the way, if that leather-wrapped canteen I mentioned earlier caught your eye, there’s a link above. If you pick one up, it throws a little change my way. Just promise me you’ll fill it with water, not sangria.

Hancho, Make This Real!

If you run a bakery, wouldn’t it make sense that your customers support you by buying pastries, breads, and other baked goods? If your answer is “no,” then I can’t help you. Not sure who can.

When it came to Bella and her romantic life, she expected Hancho to meet her partway. Not just by offering his gorgeous physique, but at the very least checking in on her.

Here’s a fantasy that often crossed her mind: she’s on her way home from work. Every passerby reeks like rotten eggs. Maybe she smells that way too.

The stairs up to her apartment feel like thirteen miles. She opens the door, and a woman Bella has never seen before has a massage table propped open in the living room.

“Bella, dear,” the woman says. “Hancho will be back any minute, but please hop in the bath.”

She locks fingers with Bella and leads her to the bathtub. The room is dimly lit with lavender-scented candles. Rose petals are tossed here and there. The bathwater is the perfect temperature.

The woman offers Bella a glass of champagne and tells her to take her time. When she’s done with her bath, she should wrap herself in this gorgeous pink robe.

Instrumental flute music plays in the background. Bella’s muscles ease. She almost falls asleep, but then remembers the massage.

She lifts herself out of the bath, dries off, and slips into that wildly soft pink robe. She shuffles to the massage table, lies down, and this time does fall asleep.

Each time she woke from this fantasy, she knew something had to be done. Either Hancho had to step it up, or she’d have to leave.

Above is a link. If you click it and buy that stunning robe, I’ll earn a teeny tiny profit.

Protection

Bella dreamed she had morphed into a butterfly. She flitted among the daisies, sipping their nectar. With her butterfly friends, she drifted up to a branch high in the trees. They shared their day’s collection of nectar, getting slightly intoxicated, until…

Bam!

Hancho slammed the bedroom door. Bella jolted awake, half-expecting him to fling her across the room.

“Damn cats,” Hancho muttered.

“What cats?” Bella’s eyes stung. She needed at least three more hours of sleep.

“Outside. You didn’t hear the commotion?”

Bella shook her head.

Hancho groaned as he undressed. His once-appealing muscular body now reminded her of a medieval knight, except instead of armor, he wore freckled flesh.

“You got work tomorrow,” Hancho hissed. “In the bed now.”

Bella crawled under the covers, but she lay awake. As Hancho’s snores filled the room, she thought about that wool sweater, how it disguised her, but didn’t necessarily keep her safe.

She carried a can of mace, but it didn’t feel like enough. Guns were bulky, and illegal in New York.

Knives though. Or better yet, one simple pocket knife. Perfect. Bella grabbed her phone, searched the internet, and stumbled across this gorgeous one. She didn’t think twice. She made the purchase.

As she drifted back to sleep, she reminded herself that the knife was just in case. Hopefully, she’d never need to use it, other than to open packages, cut twigs (if she ever went camping, which she knew she eventually would), or slice a hunk of bread from a loaf.

There’s an affiliate link above. Should you purchase it, earnings will come my way. More importantly, may you use that knife in the most ethical way possible.

Bella’s First Disappearing Act

If you ever met Bella on the street, you might have a hard time seeing her. It has nothing to do with her physique. She’s gorgeous, slender, with brown eyes that spark a mix of excitement and just a hint of naughtiness.

It’s her clothing that makes her disappear. She leans on black, gray, and white. Sometimes those colors overlap, sometimes they stand alone, but compared to the women in brighter outfits, Bella fades into the background.

She isn’t clueless about fashion. She dresses this way on purpose. Bella hates standing out, and muted colors let her slip by unnoticed.

That choice became her shield. If Hancho came looking, he’d scan the crowds for the blacks, grays, and whites he knew she wore. To test her theory, Bella decided to experiment.

She went on Etsy and found this hand-knit turtleneck in blue and white. Autumn was creeping in, and her lace dresses were useless against the cold. The sweater promised warmth and a new kind of disguise.

When it arrived, she tried it on, pulled her hair into a bun, layered on rouge and mascara, and glued on long lashes. Then she staked out Hancho’s gym.

He walked in and out several times, never once recognizing her. Bella grinned. Success.

She hurried home, washed off the makeup, folded the turtleneck, and slipped back into her old clothes. To Hancho, she was still the muted Bella he knew. But now she carried a secret.

Above is the very turtleneck she wore. If you pick one up, I’ll receive a small token of financial appreciation in return.

Be Gone, You Awful Entities?

There are some days when I just want to disappear. Close off the world to every entry to me. I’d retreat to an area with little to no cell reception. Toss all my belongings into a bag just like this.

There would be only two people who would lay eyes on me: the corner store clerk and the librarian. They would see me as the quiet, bearded man. Yes, in this fantasy, I happily threw away all my razors.

“He just shrugs, grunts, and occasionally grins,” they’d say about me.

I’d read so much that the librarian would be forced to update their collection. Eventually, all the wisdom would mount that I’d feel a need to share it with others.

But since I’m not there, I’ve got Bella to share her stories. It often feels like the universe has handed me a living, breathing, yet slightly needy book. One that’s warm and a damn good cuddler. One that needs food. Shelter. Protection from Hancho.

The DIY entity removal process didn’t work in Bella’s favor. She still awoke in the middle of the night with panic. Trembled hours before Hancho returned home. Fell asleep in a work meeting — can’t blame her for that one.

New York City is outnumbered by shaman types. Lots of them are frauds. Bella researched fifty of them and found one that most resonated with her. It was a grown Jewish man who called himself Shadowfeather. He listened to Bella, tuned into her energy, and then suffered a violent three-minute coughing fit.

Upon regaining composure, Shadowfeather said, “You have zero entities, darling. Whatever work must have cleared you. However, the issue is this Hancho person. Run. He wishes to enmesh himself with you. Weaken you. Hide his manipulative tactics by calling it love.”

Shadowfeather proceeded to list domestic violence shelters, but Bella assured him she didn’t need it. She’d get out fast. He almost didn’t let her leave, then remembered his role: shaman, not Bella’s poppa.

In the next episode, we’ll see how long it took Bella to follow Shadowfeather’s advice.

Above is an affiliate link. Click on it, purchase the lovely bag, and I will earn a few purchasing tokens, otherwise known as money.

What’s Happening With Bella?

“I was getting these icky feelings,” Bella said over coffee. “Where once I couldn’t keep my eyes off Hancho, suddenly he became… repulsive.”

She’d wake in the middle of the night with racing thoughts, chills, and a pounding heart.

Luckily, she had PTO. She couldn’t let Hancho know she was using it, so she’d get dressed for work, head to a coffee shop, and stay there for hours. Hancho’s gym visits stretched from two hours to six. He might as well have worked there. The man loved mingling, pretending to coach innocent patrons.

By the time she returned home, she could fit in a nap on the couch.

On her third day off in a row, she thought about seeing a doctor, until she remembered a New Age magazine article she’d read months before she met Hancho. It was about entity attachments.

Bella went online to dig deeper. Every symptom on the page matched hers.

“There are two routes to find out if you have an entity attachment,” the article said. “One, hire a shaman, healer, or expert. Two, get a solid pendulum, learn to use it, and follow DIY removal protocols.”

Bella wasn’t ready to spend money on a healer, so she searched for a handcrafted pendulum. She skipped the cheap, mass-made ones and found this beautiful piece instead. While it shipped, she studied how to use it.

When it arrived, her suspicions were confirmed she had more than a few entities attached.

Tune in next week to find out how Bella dealt with them…or maybe they dealt with her.

There is an affiliate link above that will help you detect entities, answer your most pressing questions, and, full disclosure, earn me a few nickels. I’d say pennies, but they’ve stopped printing those.

Farewell, Doug

You might be wondering where I’ve been.

Shortly after publishing my last post, I got a call from the New York State Troopers. Doug had collapsed in his front yard and was unresponsive.

He was taken by ambulance to the Ellenville Regional Hospital, where he passed a few hours later. The police couldn’t locate any of Doug’s relatives, but my contact information was scattered all over his house.

“Just in case I forgot your number when I go into the next room,” Doug would have said.

Bella and I were in New York City, sifting through her storage unit when I got the call. Luckily, there was a rolled-up futon behind me as I fell backward in shock. Once I regained composure, we hopped on an Amtrak to Poughkeepsie and headed back to my place.

Doug had written a last will and testament that could put the entire Brandon Sanderson catalog to shame. The last three hundred pages were one long letter to me, detailing every step for his memorial.

“Not a funeral,” Doug wrote. “Those are disgusting. A memorial service.”

The event was to be held on his property. All attendees were required to wear a flannel button-down shirt, blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a wide-brimmed rodeo hat. “Special bonus for those touting a lasso,” he added. He never did specify what the bonus was.

No prayers were to be said. Only happy songs. Crying was allowed, if done in private.

His body was to be placed on a wool mattress, naked, under a single linen sheet. Once the celebration wrapped, the food was eaten, and nothing left unsaid, everyone had to leave… except me. I was to douse the place in liquor, especially Doug’s body, and set the house on fire.

Took some convincing for the High Falls Fire Department. Eventually, the chief agreed, showing up in his truck dressed like a wild Texan, ready to extinguish the flame if necessary.

“Those metal urns,” Doug wrote, “total shit. Once the house collapses, you’re to collect my ashes and put them in a teak vase.” This exact teak vase I’ve linked is the one Doug wanted. “If the seller’s out of stock, contact them. See if they’ll make an exception.”

There were plenty in stock. I ordered one. It arrived in perfect time.

Had Doug made it just three more weeks, he would’ve turned 83. I can’t say I’ll miss those 2 a.m. phone calls, but man, he was a character. May he rest in peace.

Not to be a disgusting pig, but there’s an affiliate link in here. If the vase speaks to you, I might make a wee bit of money. So will the seller. But most importantly, Doug would want you to have it.

Please don’t put ashes in there. Use it for flowers. Doug would want beauty, not bones.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has Hancho’s Father Gone?

The departure of Hancho’s father proved more challenging than Bella expected. She thought Hancho would be happier. More open to love-making. But no. He just sat there, clutching his father’s forgotten item: a jar of whipped tallow cream.

Hancho would unscrew the lid, take a whiff of the gorgeous vanilla bean scent, then close it as Bella came closer.

“Why don’t you put some on,” she advised.

“No. He left in a hurry. He’ll come back for it,” Hancho mumbled.

This went on for weeks. No sign of Hancho’s father. The man never had his cell phone on. It was only for emergencies.

“But what about emotional emergencies?” Hancho screamed, nearly smashing the whipped tallow jar to pieces.

“Calm yourself,” Bella said. “Put down the jar and let’s take a nap in the bedroom.”

For the first time (and last), Hancho took her advice. They lay side by side. Her leg draped over his. She caressed his fingers, then his heart, as he sobbed uncontrollably.

Above is an affiliate link (where I might make a few coins) to the most delicious-smelling, grass-fed beef tallow that’ll make you look and feel ten years younger. Too bad Hancho’s father never remembered to retrieve his jar. At least it’s in capable hands now… err, mine.

Hancho, Part Three

While Bella and Daphne got lost in the frog figurine, night after night, day after day, Hancho had a small awakening. Having his father crash out on the couch had been boring. The man was either munching junk on the sofa or running out to the bodega for a quick 2,000-calorie snack.

It was time to spice things up. Literally.

There was a park several blocks from the apartment with a barbecue grill. Hancho picked up a pound and a half of steak, tossed that in a cooler along with some ice, plastic plates, two steak knives, two forks, bottles of water, several 8-ounce cans of tomato juice, a few lemons, vodka, and a container of this instant Bloody Mary mix (not an affiliate link. Just shouting out a friend’s killer product.)

“Where are you taking me?” his father whined the whole way to the park.

“Don’t worry, pops,” Hancho reassured his father. Hancho knew that each time he told his pops not to worry, it only increased the man’s anxiety.

Finally, at the park, Hancho’s father acted like he’d never seen a place like this. Benches, trees, basketball courts, and several rusted-out public barbeque grills. The man couldn’t get comfortable until Hancho served the Bloody Mary.

“This is kinda nice,” his old man said. “Too bad Bella couldn’t join us.”

“Let’s not talk about her right now,” Hancho said, then took a big gulp of Bloody Mary.

They stayed at the park until the police kicked them out. By then, the two men could barely walk straight. The police officer was kind enough to drive them home. He walked them up to the apartment and handed the two drunkards off to Bella.

Hancho awoke with the most god awful hangover. He had a memory of fighting with Bella, or was that his father? Bella blinked open her eyes. She leaned in to kiss Hancho.

Minutes later, Hancho had a letter in his hands. In his father’s terrible chicken scratch handwriting, he was able to make out the following:

Hancho, it was only a matter of time before it cracked between us. Thank you for the stay. I appreciated the food and the drinks yesterday. I’m out of your hair as you requested. Until next time…or not. Love, Pops

Hancho, Part Two

Hancho’s father never left. Sure, he’d hobble to the bodega every morning for a paper and egg sandwich. Occasionally, he would join a group of men for gambling and arguing over appropriate female attire. Mostly, he sat on the couch like a kind old lump.

Bella tuned the man out and focused exclusively on Hancho. Did he have any idea what a damper his father’s presence had on their budding relationship? These thoughts overwhelmed her, so she’d ponder work instead.

Other than taking lunch with her boss, Bella was quiet. She barely mingled with her co-workers. That is, until the company hired Daphne. She could’ve been Bella’s twin, except for her bright blue eyes.

Daphne was obsessed with frogs. She had frog mugs. Pins made of assorted materials that, when melded together, formed a frog. Daphne would stay late at the office, not because she had work, but because of this solar-powered frog figurine. If you click on the affiliate link, you’ll see a happy frog holding a book, either thinking or perhaps happily interrupted by a loved one. The book only illuminates in a dark setting.

Bella had yet to see the magic of this figurine.

“Can you stay late with me?” Daphne asked Bella. “I’d like to show you something.”

“I can head back to the house, eat with Hancho and his lovely mole of a father… then return after that.”

They nodded in agreement.

At 8:30 p.m., Bella and Daphne stood together, their elbows gliding against one another, staring at the frog figurine.

“It’s so lovely,” Daphne sighed.

Bella said nothing. This is exactly how she pictured Hancho someday. Wisened. Happy. Rested. Eager to interweave fantasy and reality. She fell to her knees as if that frog statue had become some religious icon, then sobbed.

Above is an affiliate link where I will get the most luscious nickels that will fall from the sky and into my pocket.

Hancho, Part One

An office job served Bella well. Her colleagues were kind. Bella’s boss, Mark, was constantly cracking jokes as he treated her to lunch every day. She never thought a 40-hour workweek would feel like a ride at an amusement park.

As she filed away the clients’ folders, she thought of Hancho’s body. How badly she wished to rush home and watch him shower. Impossible, anyhow, with Hancho’s father making a sudden visit.

The man took residence on their couch. Never slept. The TV blared all night. Amazingly, Bella got a full night’s sleep during the man’s stay.

While his father was there, Hancho reduced his time at the gym to 90 minutes. He started saying “Thank you,” “I love you,” and “Please” to Bella. He even caressed her hand one morning, making Bella late for work.

One evening, Bella returned home to a candlelit dinner. Sure, the table was set for three, but even with Hancho’s father there, Bella was the primary focus.

“How was work?” Hancho asked.

“Fun as always.”

Bella looked for signs of jealousy in Hancho but couldn’t find any.

“So glad it was fun, baby.”

Baby?

“You gonna give it to her?” Hancho’s father asked.

“One minute, pop.” Hancho appeared to be drowning in Bella’s appearance. “You know, baby, at work how you can pour yourself a cup of coffee, walk away for a few minutes, but then a few minutes turn into an hour?”

Bella nodded.

“Well, I got you this cup.” Hancho reached out from underneath the table and plopped a 14 oz black cup on the table. “Ember” was written on the front. “It has a ninety-minute battery life. Your coffee will never get cold again.”

“Oh wow.” Bella saw the veins pulsating in Hancho’s arm as he handed her the cup. “So sweet.”

Bella took that cup to work. Used it daily. But with each sip of coffee, she’d think of Hancho and his stupid father. When was that man ever gonna leave? It had been three weeks and it felt like she was supporting two men.

Just a few paragraphs up was an affiliate link. Should you choose to purchase the item, I just might get a few coins tossed my way.

Bella, Part Three

For three solid weeks, Bella and Hancho hobbled around his apartment in silence.

They moved like mute pantomimes, directionless and bruised by something neither would name.

Hancho’s time at the gym doubled, denying Bella the chance to watch the veins bulge in his arms during a bicep curl. So she stayed home, staring out the window, eating beans out of a can.

On the street were happy couples, arm in arm. Some walked dogs. Others pushed baby strollers.

“Will I ever get there with Hancho?” she asked herself.

Before she had a chance to answer, he came bursting through the door with a box.

“This is for you,” he said, sliding it her way. The side of it grazed her left calf.

Inside was a leather briefcase.

What the hell was Bella supposed to do with this?

“It’s very nice,” Bella told him. “But… what’s it for?”

“What’s it for?” Hancho’s face turned red. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. “You’re gonna go to work.”

Then came the expletives. Then the mumbling. Something about how ungrateful she was.

Back in Wisconsin, Bella’s only job was at Dairy Queen. She started in high school and worked there until several days before she left for New York. If she showed up to Dairy Queen with a leather briefcase, everyone would’ve laughed. The manager might’ve pulled her aside and asked if she intended to move up in the company.

As she stared at the briefcase — tilted sideways in its cardboard cradle — Hancho told her to use her time wisely. He gave her two days to find a decent office job.

“And what if I can’t?” Bella asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Hancho replied, gym bag in hand.

He slammed the door behind him. Its vibration sent a chill down her back.

In next week’s post, Hancho’s abusive energy is put on hold while Bella navigates joy in unexpected places.

Oh, and if that briefcase link above gave you a tingle of “maybe I need that,” just know it’s an affiliate link.

If you grab one, I might make a few coins — not enough for a mansion, but maybe enough for Bella to upgrade to a can of organic beans.

Bella, Part Two

As I zipped up the tent, I figured Bella would mumble a quick thank you, and we’d both be out like lights. But the moment my head hit the makeshift pillow, the questions started. Who was she? Would this be Abby’s and my last night on Earth?

I started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Here we are, two strangers, lying side by side—almost as intimate as it gets—yet we know nothing about each other.”

“Would you like to hear my story?”

You’d think the scream that prompted me to “rescue” her would’ve been a sign to say, “Maybe tomorrow?” or “Just a quick version?” But nope—I told her to go ahead.

Bella’s originally from Wisconsin. Estranged from her parents, who used religion as a weapon. Two summers ago, she’d had enough. She hit the road for New York—on foot, no less—wearing these badass motorcycle boots.

She had never been to NYC. Instantly, she fell in love—not just with the city, but with the wrong man. Hancho. A Greek Jew who spent more time in the gym than he did sleeping.

Hancho wore tight shorts and a muscle shirt. Bella fell in love with the veins running down his arms. She wasn’t paying attention to the force behind them.

“Sit here!”

“Get out the fucking way, bitch.”

She’d never encountered a man like Hancho in Wisconsin. Bella did everything to appease him—polished his lifting shoes, ironed his sweaty socks, handed him his 128 oz thermos between sets.

It didn’t take long before Bella lost track of her finances. One day, sent to buy protein bars, her card declined. She panicked. What would she tell Hancho?

She raced back to the gym—where else would he be?—and muttered her confession. For a moment, he looked at her like she’d turned into a rotting corpse. Then he resumed his workout and ignored her for the rest of the day.

There’s only so much of Bella’s story I can tell in one sitting before getting ill. It’s so tragic. Absurd. And it’s to be continued.

Until next week, I hope your eyes stumbled across the affiliate link above. May the boots fit—and may you never trip over your own feet. Bella didn’t. Why should you?

Bella, Part One

It’s the middle of the night. You’re lying in your tent, tossing and turning, searching for that perfect position.

You’re about 50 yards from the trail, yet the sudden scream sounds like it’s coming from inside your tent.

This isn’t a dream. Not a drill.

You know someone’s in terrible danger—but you have no idea what to do.

If you unzip the tent, he/she/it/they might spot you.

Do nothing, and the person…

What would you do?

I’ll tell you what I did.

First, I shut Abby up—her barking was ruining the vibe.

Then the beast in me tore the tent wide open, and I hollered,

“Pull your shit together or I’m gonna beat all your asses.”

Silence.

Not a stir.

I then grabbed this fucker.

Thank god for it—if I’d had any weaker flashlight, I would’ve seen nothing but branches.

Turned it on, and just beyond the light: a woman in her early 30s, dressed in what looked like a large doily.

“You’re not gonna hurt me?” she asked, trembling.

I didn’t dare step forward. She almost looked feral.

“If you attack me, I will.”

“I won’t attack you.” She grinned. “My name’s Bella.”

Bella said she has regular nightmares and was hoping a night out in nature would cure her.

“Could take a while,” I told her.

I hadn’t shared my name—must’ve forgotten.

Just as I thought the conversation was winding down, she asked if she could stay in my tent for the rest of the night.

“With me?”

“If you don’t mind.”

I nodded.

She hobbled over. In we went.

We didn’t sleep, but there was no hanky panky either.

More on Bella—and our journey—next week.

Hopefully the affiliate link above didn’t blind you. It has that power.

Camping Restoration Activated

I’m a bit tired of the day-to-day. This weekend, I’m hopping in my car and heading to an undisclosed location. No electricity. No running water (except a river). A lean-to, if I’m lucky. My phone? Stored in the glove compartment.

If you need to reach me… too bad.

It’s been a hell of a year — full of loss, grief, and drawing firm boundaries with loved ones. And yet, at the same time, the excitement of starting my business. All of it has been swirling together, sometimes creating more confusion than clarity.

I’m ready for this trip. Just me, the car, and my dog Abby. Here’s what I packed:

1. One small towel

2. One change of boxers

3. An extra pair of socks

4. Raingear

5. Canned vegan nutrition (for me)

6. Canine nutrition (for Abby)

7. Can opener

8. Tooth and skin hygiene supplies

9. A lovely survival kit (in case things go sideways).

I wish I had more to say, but my head’s spinning.

May I return with greater clarity and balance.

Magic #9 (isn’t that a song title?) has an affiliate link tucked in there.

Oh, Madeline

At Boston University, I befriended a quiet musician named Fred. We had many deep late-night conversations. Then, one day, he lost his mind and had to return home to Maryland.

Fred and I stayed in contact throughout his recovery. He still possessed his charm, humor, and musical prowess. Adjusting to his newly-medicated life wasn’t easy. He suggested I come visit—he didn’t have many friends anymore.

The trip to Bethesda from Penn Station was painless. Just one quick transfer at Washington Union Station, and I was there. We didn’t go straight to his parents’ house. First, a pit stop at the supermarket. His mother had written a grocery list that looked like it had been scribed in the 15th century. She might’ve used a quill.

Fred nearly tore the list into pieces, but I insisted he hand it over as a souvenir.

“That might be worth money,” I told him. He handed it over. God knows where it is now.

Fred’s mother, Madeline, greeted me like one of her own—two kisses on each cheek, a wrist squeeze, multiple hugs, and a stream of “so happy to see you!”

I bonded with Fred’s entire family. They hated it when I left, always insisting I come back soon.

Every couple of months, I’d return for a three-to-five-day visit. On one trip, Fred got sick suddenly and needed bed rest. His father and sister were out of town. It was just Madeline and me, tending to Fred—chatting until nearly 1 a.m., taking long walks, laughing over silly TV shows.

As the years went on, it wasn’t Fred who kept in touch—it was Madeline. She sent weekly emails updating me on Fred’s mental health.

Fred’s younger sister, Jackie, moved to Chicago to pursue dentistry.

Fred’s parents eventually divorced.

Once the divorce was final, Madeline’s emails came daily.

“When can I see you?”

“I’m coming to New York for a conference—would be nice to stay with you somewhere.”

I thought about checking in with Fred—see how his mother was doing emotionally—but didn’t want to worry him. So yes, I met Madeline in a hotel lobby. We had drinks, laughs—it felt like the old days in Bethesda, minus the fireplace and the howling wind against the windows.

“I’m staying here,” Madeline winked. “The rooms are phenomenal. Wanna check them out?”

Oh god. My biology short-circuited. I did want to check out the room—and much more. But Madeline was Fred’s mother. That would be weird… or would it? It had been years since Fred and I shared a beer. We were well past our college years.

“What the hell,” I found myself saying.

Next thing I knew, we were in her hotel room. Madeline was leaning against a pillar, sipping wine, suddenly dressed in this one-piece, semi-transparent outfit. I’ll never forget that pattern: a hummingbird hovering around each nipple, and a cluster of roses doing their best to obscure what couldn’t be obscured.

It was a sleepless night—sweat, longing, yelps, and a crap ton of alcohol.

After that, contact with Madeline faded. Where her emails had been weekly, I started hearing from her twice a month. Then quarterly. Then just a Happy Birthday message once a year. For the past decade, I don’t know if she still walks this earth.

Fred, wherever you are—please forgive me. You were a great friend with an unforgettable family. Maybe this Mother’s Day weekend, you’ll celebrate with joy and lots of music.

And maybe, just maybe, the affiliate link above reminds you of life’s stranger pleasures. Celebrate them.

I’m On Edge?

Maybe I am.

Sure, being single sucks — but I thought I was fine until last Thursday. I was out in the garden, yanking weeds, whistling Dixie, and a handful of other tunes.

That is, until the honking started.

Relentless.

All coming from Doug’s house.

I pulled off my gardening gloves and headed over.

The moment he saw me, Doug shouted, “Go back home, Mr. Edgy!”

What the hell was he talking about?

I was the one minding my own business.

He was the one sitting in the driver’s seat, blaring his horn at god only knows what.

“You alright, Doug?”

“Am I alright?”

He walked toward me — a momentary break from the honking.

“You’re the one always on edge. Always coming over, complaining about one thing or another.”

“Doug, you’re the one blaring the horn.”

“See what I mean?”

“I was checking on you. Making sure you’re okay.”

“Go home. Doug. Find a hobby. Knitting would be perfect for you.”

I left without a word.

Hopped on Amazon.

Bought this knitting kit.

Two days later, I set up a camping chair on my driveway, adjacent to my car.

Opened the kit and went to town on a winter hat.

Every few minutes, I’d pause from knitting to blare my horn.

Doug, sadly, never came to check on me.

A few other neighbors, however, glanced over with grave concern.

“All’s well!” I called out. “Just working on a new project.”

In between the bundles of yarn — and through these words on the page is an affiliate link.

Dougie Wuggy Road

The man is 82, almost 83, yet acts like a child sometimes. Yes, I’m talking about Doug again. How can I not?

The town board considered renaming the road Dougie Wuggy Road. There are only seven other houses on the block. Why was I the neighbor blessed with receiving Doug’s midnight calls?

His latest? Since returning from his reunion, he’s been complaining about his sheets. They aren’t as comfortable as the ones at the hotel. The sheets at home stick to his leg, producing an uncomfortable insomnia.

“But you’re an insomniac,” I reminded him. “I can show you my phone records.”

“It’s the sheets, I tell you.”

He went on like this for days. Finally, I hopped on Amazon and researched the hell out of the best sheets fit for an insomniac. Found these bed sheets. 100% cotton sateen… luxury… blah blah blah. Expensive, but possibly well worth the cost if I could get my sleep back.

Two days later they arrived. Knocked on his door. Pushed past Doug as if I owned the place.

Ripped the old bed sheets off.

Put on the new ones. So soft. So yummy. So worthwhile testing out, but that would have been odd.

I was one million percent certain this would keep him in bed — if not for eight hours, then twelve.

The first three nights? Not one phone call. I was in the clear…

Until the fourth night. It was 1:15 a.m.

“Got a confession,” he started. “This insomnia has nothing to do with the sheets. At the reunion, I exercised. Walked. We drank tea instead of coffee.”

“So, let me get this right, Doug. You woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that at home your habits are shit and I have to suffer because of that?”

He may have hung up. Possibly I hung up. Maybe I fell asleep mid-sentence.

All I know is, the next morning I was sipping coffee, looking out the window…

And there was Doug. Speed walking down the street.

In this excerpt depicting one of the most bizarre humans I’ve ever met is an affiliate link.

Doug’s Funhouse?

Doug’s Funhouse sounds like the title for an orgy porn. Guarantee you, it’s not.

He’s away on a reunion with old friends…literally. Doug might be the youngest one in attendance.

While he’s away, Doug wants to assure his plants stay alive. Why he asked me to tend to his plants is beyond me. One plant, resembling a young money tree, took a turn for the worse. Its leaves were bright, dark green when Doug first left. Three days later, they’ve browned.

There was a time when I thought I had a green thumb. Tended to a few gardens where cucumbers exploded to the hundreds. But isn’t that what cucumbers do?

Getting back to this funhouse concept, I was tempted initially to tidy his entire home. Everything similar would go into their own separate boxes. As I counted the number of categories of things Doug owned, I would buy Walmart out with all their plastic boxes. I’d still run short and then have to take a trip to Staples. No…thank…you

Organizing another person’s crap is no fun, anyhow. So, I sat on Doug’s massage chair, blasted Lonesome Doves, and pretended to be an eighty-two-year-old kleptomaniac. The vibration of the chair was so fierce, I couldn’t hear a thing..or maybe that was just me moaning?

Moaning from the vibration…not from being a sick pervert.

There’s only so much vibrating a man can do in one day. Just as I was about to head home, I saw it. The words “Soil Tester” was poking out of a pile of mail long before Doug head out on this reunion.

I pulled it out from under the mail. Turned it on and inserted the metal spike into each plant. All sorts of signals went off. I was alerted what needed water, what needed to be placed in sunlight and what would be left as is.

This soil moisture gauge is something else. Almost magical? I’m certain that money tree will turn around in a matter of days.

Honestly, this little device might be the only reason Doug still has a jungle to come home to.

For a second, I almost stuck the gauge up my ass, to see if I needed moisture, sun or if I was all good. Good thing reason stepped in.

There are two affiliate links in this post. Do with it as you will.

Friendship Application

You might be asking, “Who is this Doug character? Is this some kind of gimmick?”

My answer: Neighbor first. True friend second.

I can’t help but ponder friendship during this lonely time.

It started in March 2023, when I got a call from my mother: my father had taken a fall that could leave him a quadriplegic. I flew out to be with my family, and would you guess who called me regularly?

Not a soul.

This was before Doug. Before I was blessed with a stubborn, relentless, yet caring neighbor-turned-friend.

I used to believe that when tragedy strikes, the people in your life step up. I was wrong.

Dealing with my father’s near-full-body paralysis and my family’s emotional chaos, I didn’t have time to analyze who texted.

But I did notice who ghosted. Who disappeared. Who blocked me.

Let me be clear:

I’ve never been a perfect friend.

I love fiercely, but because of my Scorpionic nature, some confused that love with something sexual.

Have I crossed lines? Yes.

Said things I regret? Yes.

Lost my temper in moments of overwhelm? Absolutely.

And I’m sorry. Truly.

But none of my friends before Doug ever showed up with love, with boundaries, with real presence.

No one said, “Here’s how we fix this.”

No one said, “I care enough to confront this.”

Then came Doug.

I met him just before my father passed. And Doug and my father couldn’t be more different.

My father’s favorite position was sitting. Doug can barely tolerate sitting unless it’s in that vibrating spaceship of a massage chair.

My dad wheezed after half a city block. Doug yells at thunderstorms because they interfere with his daily twenty-mile hikes.

Maybe it’s generational. Most of my former friends are under 50 — some in their 30s. But men like Doug (82) or my dad (78)? They’re loyal.

They show up.

When my father died, it was Doug who called every day.

Doug who cooked me meals.

Doug who invited me over to watch a painfully boring Western, just to make sure I wasn’t alone.

Shoutout to one other friend — she spent time, energy, and money to attend my dad’s funeral. Regular contact dropped off after that, and there’s no hard feelings. She’s navigating a full life.

And that’s what made me realize, it’s not about political beliefs. It’s about showing up when it matters.

As for me, I could give two shits if you voted for a racist or a goddamn hobbit boot.

That said, I’ve walked away from people too. Not for who they voted for, but because they couldn’t meet me in my emotional truth. Judgment without curiosity? I don’t do that anymore.

If I love you, I love you.

Everyone else?

You disappeared. You dipped. You stopped showing up.

That’s the truth.

And what has all of this taught me?

How to be a better friend.

How to show up, even when it’s awkward.

How to have hard conversations instead of ghosting people you once said you loved.

God knows how long Doug has left.

But for now, he teaches me what true friendship looks like in the most consistent form I’ve ever known.

So yes — I’m accepting new friendship applications.

Virtual, in-person, wherever the hell I am.

Let’s be real with each other. If I offend you, say something.

I’ll be more hurt if you vanish than if you speak your truth.

And yes, despite how raw this post was…

There’s still an affiliate link in here.

Because story is layered.

So is grief.

And apparently… so is capitalism.

Minimalist At War

If I were an architect, all homes would resemble a high school gymnasium. In my home, I’d remove the basketball hoops and the bleachers. Covering the windows would be a black-curtain that would close at 9:00 pm and then gently open as the sun rises.

There would be four pieces of furniture: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and desk. Everything would be made of wood to match the floor.

Homes in the Hudson Valley are not designed this way. They are rickety. A magnet for horders. They scream “Look at me! I’m unique”.

I pondered all this while vaccuming my bedroom carpeting. If you ever used one, or been around anyone has, you know those machines can be loud. They scare the shit out of domesticated animals.

Once finished I heard my phone vibrating. I’ll give you three guesses who it was…

The postman? No!

Architectual digest offering me a gig? Guess again.

Hulu wondering when I’ll resubscribe? You’re terrible at this game.

Doug! Good old Doug, huffing like he just summited Mount Everest. “Been trying to call you. Please get over here now. The Amazon guy needs help.”

The Amazon guy needs help! Oh my God! Stop everything. I raced over there like it was Doug’s last breath…yeah, right?

Once I finally got there, the Amazon guy, a young, relatively muscular man panted while resting his right arm against a box the size of an average walk-in closet. “This thing’s a monster,” he said.

“What it?” I asked.

“Massage chair,” Doug replied on the other side of the box.

Nothing against Amazon but you’d think they’d send at least two men to deliver such a thing. Between me and the Amazon guy it took us fifteen minutes to get the massage chair inside. No breaks taken.

Inside this monster box, we quickly discovered the chair was in pieces. Required assembly. There was no way I was gonna let an eight-two year old man do this all on his own.

The instructions were straightforward enough. About an hour later it was ready for use.

The massage chair looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Put an eight-two year old man in there vibrating so fast you can hardly see his face, you’d think it would de-age him.

Watching someone on a massage chair looses its appeal after twelve seconds. I nearly left but Doug insisted I give it a go.

While on the chair I amended the list of items that would go in my future-gymnasium style home: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and a desk. All made of wood to match the floor.

Then, sitting of to the side, made of leather (maybe), meteorite (without a doubut), would be this massive massage chair. It would be vibrating non-stop as I would never want to get off it.

I sell my minimalist soul to the affiliate link embeded above somewhere.

The Oysters Attack? Doubt it!

Thursday at 3:30 a.m., my phone rang. Apparently, I’d forgotten to turn it off. Thought it was the alarm, but no—it was Doug.

“Get over,” he insisted, then hung up.

I nearly called him back with a “Fuck off, who are you to call me in the middle of the night?” but then remembered: Doug’s eighty-two. Something in his voice—panic mixed with acidity—alerted me that he was in desperate need.

I threw on my sweats, a torn pair of sneakers, and three minutes later stood at his front door. It was left slightly ajar. Through the crack, I called for him.

“In here,” he mumbled.

Never in all my visits had Doug’s house looked orderly. There was always some pile of crap here or a box that needed to be sifted through over there.

That night, I caught something from him—it seemed he’d invited an organizer over earlier in the day. I almost asked if he was selling the place, but once I found him hunched over the toilet, conversation was limited.

He wore a raincoat and was probably naked underneath, but I didn’t dare ask.

“They served these oysters at the opera and now I can’t get up,” Doug moaned.

He wouldn’t answer a thing about the opera—where it was, who he went with, how he got back, or why he was wearing such a fancy coat while hunched over the toilet.

“Tell me I’m gonna be alright,” was all he said to my inquiries.

I didn’t care to lie, so I said, “My hope? You’ll be fine.” Then I suggested a trip to the ER might be to his advantage.

“No, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Doug stood up, thanked me for coming, and escorted me out.

Here I am, a few days later, shuffling through my house like my knees had been glued shut. I want to cry but worry the aching that’ll come with any trembling. How I managed to compose this entry without reaching for a pain killer is beyond me.

If you dare to see the coat Doug wore, there’s an affiliate link in this post. Click it? Okay. Don’t click it? Also okay.

A Long Fierce Winter

This winter was brutal. Way too much snow for my liking. Not the kind of weather for birdwatching or counting blades of grass one by one.

It was a season for multiple mugs of hot cocoa or chai lattes. Since I’m not much of a Bible (or Torah, more appropriately) kind of guy, I finally took the plunge into Brandon Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive. I’m nearing the end of The Way of Kings and completely hypnotized by it.

Something about the book—and the cold—got me thinking of Doug. Was he warm? How was he getting his meals? Was the hike up the hill to the High Falls Food Co-op too slippery?

Then, finally, a break in the weather. Yesterday, I thawed out my feet, shoved them into boots, and walked to Doug’s. When he didn’t answer twenty seconds after my knock, I pounded harder. I nearly knocked the paint off the door.

The floorboards creaked—proof of life. He flung the door open and barked, “What?” like I’d come to sell him moldy Girl Scout cookies.

“You’re alive,” I said.

“Were you hoping I wasn’t?” he shot back, then waved me in.

We—well, I—attempted to hold a conversation. But something was blaring in the background. “Background” might not be the right word. My voice was in the background. The narrator of Lonesome Dove echoed through the entire house. No wonder Doug hadn’t heard me knocking.

Finding the audiobook’s source was a challenge, buried under his usual piles of junk. A whole chapter might have gone by before I spotted it. I pressed pause, but to Doug, I might as well have detonated a nuclear bomb.

“What are you doing?” he hollered. “I was listening to that.”

“I’m here, Doug. Thought we could chat.”

“I’m not in the mood to chat today,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. Or next weekend. I should be finished with the book by then.”

The sky was overcast, and the thermometer read 62º, but I was shivering. My teeth clanked together, and for a second, I worried Doug had passed something contagious to me.

It turned out that it was just his grumpiness. Which, in turn, fueled a strong urge to destroy. Nearly ten overstuffed wheelbarrows of firewood later, I guess I’m ready for next winter. Ugh.

Doug Marlow

Yay! I made it through the pandemic.

Cleary, so did you.

Guess who else made it? Doug Marlow.

You probably have no idea who the hell that is. I didn’t either until last summer.

Doug is 82 years old, lives a mile down the road, and has his own personal billboard campaign.

Scattered across his yard were signs that read “My yard is bigger than my house! You believe that?”

One afternoon, I stopped by while he was pruning the weeds from his sidewalk. He was hunched over in torn denim shorts, wearing something aquamarine that looked like a cross between a bra and a parasol.

“Couldn’t help but notice your signs.” I said. “All hundred of them.”

Doug perked up like I was offering a moth collection worth six billion dollars.

“If your house was bigger than your yard, it would spill out on to the street,” I told him.

“God darn!” Doug whistled. “Cars would ram into it, wouldn’t they?”

“Sure would.”

He invited me in for some red velvet cheesecake, which he claimed to have made from scratch on his pristine marble countertop.

As we devoured two slices each, his TV tried (and failed) to broadcast some game show–mostly, it just fizzled out in static.

I know nothing about fixing TVs. So, I suggested he shoot a bullet through the screen and call it a day.

That got us both laughing.

And that’s how my friendship with Doug Marlow started.

Cheating On My Novel

I’m currently going through a mild version of writer’s block. “How,” you might ask, “are you going through writer’s block yet composing your first blog post in almost a year?” Reread the first sentence and you’ll see the word mild in there.

It’s only when working on the novel that this mild writer’s block shows up. I’m nearing the novel’s completion yet find myself staring at the blinking cursor. Everything’s been mapped out. I know exactly what comes next. The issue is the wording. I’m scared it’s total shit and that the novel’s future readers will get antsy. Bury the book out of embarrassment. “Can’t see what I’ve been reading these past few weeks. Nope haven’t been reading anything. Eric Sazer? Who the hell’s that?”

On the outset of writing this flash nonfiction essay I saw it serving two parts: as a procrastination tool and a place for me to vent. Watching these words form upon the page, I’m having a bit of fun. If my novel was my wife, this blog is my mistress. This blog and I rented an old Mercedes convertible and together we’re riding through the countryside on Memorial Day weekend. Back at home, the novel’s wiping away all the piss I accidentally dribbled on the bathroom floor.

I love you, novel, but fuck you. You’re driving me nuts. I’m gonna go wild with my blog. I’ll print pages of you out, novel, and use that to wipe my ass. Leave the shit-stained pages in the middle of the woods. Let the squirrels and mice nibble away at the bullshit words printed on the page.

Okay, now I feel like an asshole. What kind of future book salesman am I? One day, it’ll be available at a bookstore near you. On that day when your eyes land upon the spine, will you splurge and invite this novel into your life? Or will you envision the novel causing an epidemic in your home, where immediately upon purchasing it, every book on your shelf would suddenly turn into a massive pile of manure?

I hope that doesn’t happen. As a matter of fact, I will return the Mercedes convertible, kiss my mistress farewell and return home. I’ll lift the novel off the bathroom floor, bathe it. Make passionate love to the novel. Clean my own urine dribbles off the bathroom floor. Then on the day this novel is available for purchase, I’ll make sure it comes with a roll of paper towels, rubber gloves and organic house cleaner. Just in case.

Ya never know, right?

The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part Two

Just like in the dreams when the dreamer struggles to open his eyes, such was the case with Anton. It wasn’t fear that prevented him from seeing what was on the other side of his lids, rather a thick layer of gunk coating his left eye.

While scraping the gunk off, he glanced over at a candle lit table using his perfectly working right eye. There sat Ursula seated in a tan sequin dress. Naughty thoughts filled his mind. If his head wasn’t pounding, he would have leaped off the sofa and tore the woman’s dress off.

His clean left eye revealed more at the candle lit table. Opposite Ursula was the fit man in the towel. He, however, had removed the towel at some point and slipped into business attire. The two held champagne glasses in the air and appeared frozen in suspense.

“Hello,” Anton groaned.

They did not budge.

“Ursula,” he said with greater diction.

Stillness.

“Yuri,” Anton shouted, gazing at the shut door of his brother’s bedroom.

Ursula and the fit man lowered their glasses. They winked at one another. Suddenly, the fit man bolted out of his chair and raced over to Anton.

“So glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Beside a throbbing head and a bit confused, fine. Where’s my brother?”

The fit man exploded with laughter. “You hear that, Ursula?”

“He’s a funny one,” she said, chuckling.

“Your brother, you say?” The fit man asked in jest.

Anton nodded.

“I don’t know.” The fit man looked around the room. “Ursula, have you seen this man’s brother anywhere?”

“Very good question. It seems, Anton, your brother has been a bit hard to find lately.”

“What do you mean?” Anton swung his legs off the sofa, nearly kicking the fit man to the floor. “Where has he been?”

“The only way to find out,” the fit man said, repositioning himself on the sofa, “is to go on a treasure hunt.”

“A treasure hunt!” Ursula guffawed. “Where do you think we’d find him? Under a rock?”

“If not there then inside the cupboard.”

“Come on, you two.” Anton pleaded. “I haven’t seen my brother in a year. I’m very worried about him.

The fit man shifted in his seat.

Ursula cleared her throat and then stood, making her way to the sofa.

Both Ursula and the fit man rubbed Anton’s back.

“Perhaps I knocked you over too hard,” Ursula said.

“Do you require medical assistance?” The fit man asked.

“Medical assistance? No. Why would I need medical assistance?” Anton felt them moving closer. He squeezed his knees together so his legs wouldn’t rub against theirs.

“You did bleed,” Ursula aid.

“You bled heavily, Anton. If mom were here, she’d take you to the emergency room, no questions asked.”

“You’re right if my mom was here, she would have checked me into a hospital a long time ago.”

“Oh God,” Ursula removed her hand from Anton’s back and placed it over her mouth.

“Anton, Mom did check you into a hospital a long time ago. A mental hospital. St. Ives.”

“St. Ives.” Anton frowned. “That’s a prison not a hospital.”

“Right. Hold on one second.” The fit man stood and then motioned for Ursula to join him in a far corner of the room. There he whispered, “I’m getting a weird feeling about this one.”

“Yea. Same here,” Ursula said, flashing a quick grin at Anton.

“You think this one is dangerous?”

“I wouldn’t say dangerous,” she studied Anton who was hunched over on his knees staring at Yuri’s bedroom door. “More clingy.”

“Like he’d never leave?”

“Yea,” Ursula gagged. “Yuck!”

“Yuck indeed. Tell you what,” the fit man said. “How about I take him around the block to find his ‘brother’ and then later, you and I can have a ton of fun?”

“Please hurry up, then,” she moved in for a kiss. It was too quick. She wanted more. As he moved to attend to Anton, Ursula grabbed the fit man’s shoulders and whispered in his ears,”I love you, Yuri.”

Fucking Auto-Correct

The number of times I edited The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part One is absurd! All because of auto-correct. Makes me and my characters appear illiterate.

In the case of any unusual wording for future posts, blame damned auto-correct. I kindly request that you please reach out to me (if you’re in my physical presence) or send a polite email to eric@ericsazer.com to inform me of this unusual error. It’ll be fixed in a heartbeat.

Happy days or nights or something in between!

The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part One

Yuri weighed 1,000 pounds. The man ate all day and night. Never slept. Only snoozed for minutes at a time. The poor man had so many bags under his eyes, one could store artillery inside them.

Clothing Yuri was impossible. The only thing that fit him was a 20 foot sail that his muscly brother, Anton, stole off a boat. The owner of the sailboat filed a report with the police. Surveillance cameras showed Anton lugging the sail into his car and then driving off. Police picked Anton up and threw him into a musty, dimly lit room.

“Ya sold it?” the detective interrogated.

“Of course, I did. Needed the money.”

“And who’d you sell it to?”

“Can’t remember. It was night. Everything I do is at night.”

“Right.” The detective scribbled notes in his legal pad. “Man or woman?”

“Androgynous.”

“Androgynous?”

“Seriously, I couldn’t tell.”

Anton was imprisoned for a year where, for the most part, he paced his cell worrying about his brother’s wellbeing. How in the fuck will Yuri eat? The man had to roll himself to the bathroom and then piss in a sideways facing commode. Their younger sister was around but she was too busy getting fucked at nightclubs. Selfish bitch.

The year in prison was hard on Anton. Inmates knocked him around, busting his lip open a few times. The prison guards dribbled scalding oatmeal on his back. He only made one friend in the prison but that person hung himself in the tenth month of Anton’s sentence.

Once released, Anton hitched a ride back to Yuri’s. He didn’t go up right away. Instead, he paid a visit to a deli. Ordered two turkey sandwiches. Ate one on a park bench. The other was for his brother.

Anton banged on his brother’s door.

“Yuri,” he hollered.

Some nimble being hopped on the hardwood floor and yanked the door open. It was a tanned brunette wearing what looked like a homemade bikini.

“I’m Ursula,” she grinned.

“Ursula, hi. Is my brother here?”

“Oh my gosh,” she climbed his chest and wrapped her thin arms around him. “You’re Anton. Welcome home. Come in.” Ursula lowered herself to the ground and grabbed his hand. “Your brother will be thrilled to see you. He’s in the shower right now.”

“The shower,” his eyebrows furrowed. “How’d you get him in there?”

“You silly,” she slapped him in the gut. “He got himself in there.”

“Wow, that’s unusual…”

“Is it?” She smirked. “How do you get in the shower?”

“Touché.” My god, Anton thought, what a lovely girl. How in hell did she wind up in my brother’s apartment?

“What you got there?” She pointed at the turkey sandwich.

“Oh, it’s for my brother.”

“Only for your brother? Not for me too?”

“Well,” Anton stammered. “I guess you two can share it.”

“May I smell it?” She grabbed the turkey sandwich out his hand and then knocked him to the ground.

Anton went in and out of consciousness.

Paper rustled in his ear.

Then loud grunts.

Snorts.

Blood trickled down his head.

Turkey debris sprayed everywhere.

Deep sighs.

“Let me get you a blanket,” she growled.

Sudden warmth.

A fit man wrapped in a towel hovered over Anton.

“Why hello there, Anton,” the fit man said.

That was the last Anton saw until later that night.

Ugh…do I have to?

It’s 3:50 pm on Monday. I’d rather do anything else than write this blog post. Such as Netflix. God, that sounds wonderful. Lounge on my bed. Rest my head on a pillow. Space out to Ryan Phillipe kicking ass so he can reunite with his wife and daughter in Shooter.

The better, more mature part of me prevented myself from going down that avenue. Mostly due to the fact that I set a goal to walk at least 5,000 steps a day. Each week the step count will increase by 1,000. Today, I’ve only walked 1,341 steps. That’s no good. I got to get out there. Get to 5,000 or more. Please, God, let that happen before the weather worsens.

It’s amazing how far I’d go to not update my blog. So far today, I’ve used two methods of distraction. One, laundry. Two, disassembled the kitchen sink pipes to scrape the moldy gelatinous grime from within. The latter was a must as the water would not go down.

Now I’m parked on a bench outside the Mudd Puddle Coffee Roasters in New Paltz. There’s a slight breeze. Feels like a tornado could be around the corner.

Wow, I’m scrambling for words. I so baldy want to entertain you. I want your praise. I want you to walk away feeling inspired and take action. Yet the words feel flat.

When I work on the novel, it isn’t like this. The characters suck me into their ridiculous lives. I chuckle like a madman as I record their fictional mishaps and fortunes onto the page. There’s a gorgeous confidence when in novel writing mode. Also, I’m not publishing the novel until the whole damned thing is done.

This blog scares the daylights out of me. I tell myself the blog needs to convert the reader into a client. “Oh hire me! Hire me. Hire this half-wit! Hire this nonsense machine who writes children’s books for adults. Hire the fool who can fantasize his way through a job interview but in reality boasts in an off-putting insane manner.”

I admit, that last paragraph was fun to write. It forced me to be real. Maybe there’s greater intimacy between you (the reader) and me. If not, that’s okay. You’ll live. I’ll live. I’ll continue to show up at this blog terrified as shit.

Now, for the love of God (you must think I’m religious mentioning God’s name twice. I’m not. Just spiritual), I must take a walk. Perhaps you do too. Whatever you do with your time, I implore that you make it your best. I’ll be back when I’m back (which will hopefully be next week if I can work up the courage).