NOCTURNAL RITES + Darian Hastings = A Modern Heroine?

Darian Hastings's world is a never-ending midnight stroll into darkness. 

She's a predator.

She's intelligent. She's cunning. And she can most certainly be lethal.

Generally, we meet heroines who start off as broken ladies. Maybe they're outrageously hostile. Maybe they're utterly fragile. And in the end (we hope), they champion on and become the strong, fierce women we want.

Darian is none of those things. She's a woman afflicted with the same sickness as her late mother--Heliophobia (fear of the sun, or any bright light). No, she's not a vampire. But she is a woman who has grown up in a very isolated environment because of her affliction. Bella Luna, her home, is her very own kingdom. And the passerby who visit understand this without question.

Bobby Keller didn't get this memo, though. And the first few encounters Bobby and Darian share are...odd.  Bobby is just looking for safety; Darian requires help in sustaining life at Bella Luna. It should be an easy partnership -- except for Darian's growing physical needs and Bobby's painful fear that he'll never leave Bella Luna alive.

What I love about this relationship is that it's not the overly masculine hero meeting the broken but plucky heroine.

In Nocturnal Rites, Darian is the aggressor. Bobby is the broken counterpart. It's a hard dynamic for Bobby to accept, while it's nothing for Darian since she's lived most of her life in isolation -- and on her own terms. Her power is undeniable and unshakable...until she starts to see Bobby as a shattered piece of the past. And it's a single quiet moment that sets into motion a plan to save Bobby -- which may come at a high cost to Bella Luna.  

(Stay tuned for more release info for Nocturnal Rites! This is Book 2 for the Furious Love Series! Check out Book 1 HERE.)

#romance #mystery #lust #darkness 

UPCOMING: Nocturnal Rites (Furious Love, Book 2)

Book 1 of my new contemporary erotica series, Furious Love, has been out since May. If you haven't snagged a copy of Spousal Privilege, you can download it here for 99 cents!

Book 2 is Bobby's story (Rose's brother). ***SPOILER ALERT FOR THOSE WHO HAVEN'T READ SP***

When we last left Bobby, he was on the run from the cops. Book 2 picks up in the gloomy estate known as Bella Luna. Bobby's got 2 years before the statute of limitations is up for his case -- which means he has to keep out of sight.

His attorney proposes the seemingly perfect hideaway for Bobby...as a live-in companion at Bella Luna for Darian Hastings. Darian, a wealthy but mysterious young woman who fears daylight, has lived nearly her entire life alone at the dark estate.

Bobby takes the offer, thinking babysitting a lonely woman will be an easy way to wait out the next 2 years...but what Bobby doesn't know is that he is actually expected to service both the emotional and physical needs of Darian.

Immediately after his arrival -- and subsequent imprisonment at Bella Luna -- Bobby realizes Darian is a very dangerous predator. And her insatiable appetite is only multiplied as Bobby begins to play into her ravenous games of lust. The cost of freedom may be too high as Bobby must decide if he can tame his wild captor before she destroys him.

Stay tuned for more details on Book 2: Nocturnal Rites. 

**I do not own rights to graphics.**

#contemporary #erotica #furiouslove #nocturnalrites #lightbondage #alphafemale

MORE: Female Villains

If Morticia Addams and Lily Munster got into a fight, who would win?

Duh, Morticia.

But, as I move on to the next chapter of the Furious Love series, I'm posed an interesting question: Are female villains ACTUALLY villains?

...Or, are they simply super empowered women who (because of their strength) intimidate both their male and female peers?

It's sort of like the Catwoman analogy. Sure, she was a jewel thief, among other things...but she was also incredibly intelligent, strong, and confident. Did having those very traits make her destined for villainy, or were those traits acquired long after?

From comic books to about every show on the CW, the "bad" girls are always the smart and cunning entity...while the "heroines" seem very two-dimensional. Their moral compass is firmly grounded, and their wills are unshakable. "Bad" girls are flexible (pun intended).

Of course, there are exceptions here and there. Like Buffy.

Maybe it all comes down to damage. Because, let's face, we all react and change to trauma in different ways. Maybe the moral compass and road to villainy are very closely entwined. And a single circumstance can close one road and open another... Regardless, the fascination with these female villains is timeless, and with good reason. They're enigmas that refuse to be bottled up and categorized neatly.

#femalevillains #furiouslove #nextup #bobbysturn

(I do not own rights to GIFS/photos; images courtesy of Google,)

Female Villains: The Classics

I saw a great meme on FB the other day. It was this one:

I like this a lot -- I think it encompasses why we are drawn to anti-heroes a lot of the time, rather than write them off. Gregory Maguire's Wicked gave the Wicked Witch of the West a soul, a name, and a soundboard. Suddenly, she wasn't just this wretched, evil green-lady out to get everyone's best friend, Dorothy.

She was Elphaba--an extremely misunderstood woman forever thrust into the category of villain.

It hardly seems fair considering everything she endured. Then again, many women who showed confidence, power, and strength were demonized in early literature.

Look at Lady Macbeth, who tried so hard to play in a man's world and ended up losing her sanity instead. She's literary poison in that she's not the damsel. She's not the heroine. Her death is at the hands of all-consuming guilt...because her female conscience can't cope with her role in a man's world.

That's enough lecture...but I do wish someone like Maguire would tackle why Lady Macbeth ended up with her husband...what was her past before married life? And please, for the love of God, someone give her a name. Though, I suppose Susan Fraser King's book comes closest.

But I also have my own angle...

In my head, her name is something sweet like Laura or Melinda. She's a young daughter of a widowed midwife. One evening, Laura's mother is called to the home of a Lord--I'll call him Lord Kiltry. His unwed daughter is giving birth. He gives Laura's mother a grim task: deliver the child and kill it, lest his daughter be ruined and his family name tarnished.

In exchange for performing this gruesome task, Laura's mother will be given money and land... The problem is once the child is born, the poor midwife can't do it. She can't take the life of the child. Hiding away, Laura witnesses Lord Kiltry killing her mother, and then the child.

This haunts Laura until adulthood. And it also teaches her a lesson: men can be ruthless and act without remorse. This lesson guides her as she meets her future husband--a man with even more ambition than Lord Kiltry. It also teaches her that women cannot afford to be weak. And in order for her to rise above her mother's fate, she must succeed where her mother has failed (<--there's the infanticide spin anyway).

What's fascinating about these classic villains is that they're so attractive simply because they're women doing bad things. OR, they're women acting like ruthless men. Either way, they're equal parts disturbing and beautiful. And it's a shame that their true origins had to be written or imagined long after they materialized on stage or on page.

There are modern versions of them today--some in soap operas (oh, yes, I'll go there), in Disney (you're not safe either), and, really, nearly everywhere. And I'll hit some of them next week.

Until then...HAVE A SAFE WEEKEND!

PS: oh, yeah, this book is also live.

++++++++

*Images courtesy of Google. I do not own rights.*

Coming soon: Cheap Summer Smut!

Shamelessly, I love sexy books. I love them. BUT, like so many folks, I'm short on time. ...Which is maybe why I only write these cheap little novelettes.

The good news is my first book (Spousal Privilege!) in this new Furious Love series will be released soon, and after collaborating with another cover designer, I'm leaning toward cover #2.

What do you think?! I'm a little in love... It's less racy than the first, but I think it gets the point across that this isn't Grandma Edna's read.

And, not so shamelessly, here's another preview:

She woke up startled and shaky. She didn’t want to remember that night anymore. She didn’t even want to remember her sister. Or their father. Or anything happy that ever meant anything to her. It was too much.

            But that didn’t matter anyway. Because the fear she had awoken with turned to emptiness. Shallow, hollow, and without life.

            She looked around. She had fallen asleep by the pool. Because Jacob was angry with her and had shut himself away in Bobby’s room.

            Slowly, she stood up. The moon was full. The sky was starlit. It should have felt peaceful. Instead, she just felt tired and alone. She stepped through the sliding doors into the kitchen. The house was quiet. She wondered if Jacob had left her. Only upstairs, she could hear movement.

            Jacob was in the first bedroom—the white and orange one. It was the guest bedroom, void of any pictures of her family. He glanced at her, then carried on with whatever he was doing.

            “Hit me.”

            He stopped and looked at her. “What?”

            She stepped towards him—until she was literally in his face. “Hit me.” She said forcefully. His eyes were searching her face. She figured he was still furious. Hell, he had every right to be furious. “Please, Jacob. Hit me.”

            He cocked his eyebrow at her, then shook his head.

            So she dug her hands into his arms. “I want to feel something real.”

            Something surged through him. She saw it. Suddenly he grabbed her face and kissed her. Not a hesitant, cautious kiss, but a scorching, needy one.

~~~~~~~~~~~

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SPOUSAL PRIVILEGE: A PREVIEW!

Later this spring/summer, my debut book will go live!

Here's a preview of SPOUSAL PRIVILEGE:

After her fingerprints are found at a grisly crime scene, former law student Rose Keller finds herself married to her brother’s irresistible best friend. Depressed and alone in the aftermath of murder, Rose discovers that her new husband isn’t just a matter of legal necessity…but the answer to a growing emptiness inside of her.

Businessman Jacob Trent believes he and Rose have been unfairly set up to take the fall for a murder they did not commit. Their only way out? A quickie marriage—and a marriage of trust—which may be the only thing that can keep them both out of jail.

There’s just two problems: the growing desire between himself and the voluptuous Rose…and the ominous feeling that he’s only getting one shade of truth from his new bride.

~~~

A taste:

She put her hand over his mouth. Because she couldn’t stand another word of his guilt. Not when he wasn’t guilty—at least, not to the degree she was. So she pushed herself closer to the edge of the pool. “Stop thinking.” She said her words quietly, and just as much to herself as to him. “I can’t stop hurting, Jacob. But if I had a moment where this reality didn’t exist…wouldn’t you give anything for that release?” 

~~~

Stay tuned for the release date!

#2016bookrelease #contemporaryromance #saucy #summerreads 

Springtime = Manhunting

My juicy first book is under the thumb of my trusty editor right now.

Meanwhile, it's FINALLY spring! The air is slowly turning from frigid to cool...and the best part?

More man meat hitting the streets. I bought a Fitbit on Amazon so that when I take a walk, it appears there's a genuine purpose there...not just man-stalking.

But let's face cold facts. Man-stalking is my cardio. And this damn Fitbit is just a conversation starter.

Oh well.

I'll keep you posted on #SpousalPrivilege's fancy release date. Hopefully the spicy cover will be done mid-week. Weeee!

Happy manhunting season (man-bun optional)!

*****

#thesaltyspinster
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Realistically Sized Alpha Heroines and Why We Need Them

This isn't a post about skinny shaming -- not at all. But it is a post about female empowerment in books. Particularly for those females that don't fit into the societal role of "physical perfection" (which, let's face it, is purely an illusion). No matter the size, the most confident woman shows it the most in her attitude. Confidence has no size -- and it shouldn't.

Normally, love stories show a strong (or at least semi-strong) heroine finding love and her true self while partnering up with an alpha male. And it's the alpha male who usually shows her how beautiful she is.

Well, I chose to write something different.

Because why can't the heroine be the alpha character? Better still, why can't a confident, plus-sized lady sizzle with her own sexuality and seduce the hot as hell male? Is that so off-the-wall to imagine? After all, society is riddled with rules that we so often contradict or prove utterly fallible (because so much of it is bullshit anyway).

Confidence. Ambition. Attitude. Kindness. If we spent more time emphasizing these 4 traits to our daughters, maybe we'd be less concerned about what we look like and more concerned about building one another up. Because the thing about a confident and secure woman is no matter what size she is, she's not going to be rattled by someone trying to bring her down. She's gonna toss a pity pill down to their level and strut on with her life.

Maybe that's why I love writing stories with alpha heroines -- specifically realistically sized alpha heroines. What does "realistically sized" mean? The current US average size for women is 12-14. The average size of a runway model is 0-4 (but generally more in the 0-2 range). What that tells me is that in my non-runway model life, more women are my size (the 12-14 range) than a 0-2. Hey, skinny girls, no hate intended. Again, the goal here is to promote self-love and empowerment. Don't ever change yourself. Just love yourself.

The heroines I write about will tend to fall in that average range size -- 12 to 14 -- if not bigger. Because every woman has the right to feel good about herself and build herself up -- not fall into a pit of despair because someone's idiotic ideology thinks she needs to lose (or gain) a few.

This week, I'm wrapping up my first Megan Sharpe book. It's a short novelette about two people thrown together because of an unimaginable circumstance.

Rose, the non-size 2 heroine, finds herself married to her brother's best friend. It hardly starts out as a romantic attachment, but definitely an arrangement to keep them both out of danger. But the closer Rose gets to new husband Jacob, the more she finds herself wanting him...despite how precarious their future looks. And Jacob quickly learns he's no match for Rose's seduction. His surrender is inevitable. The fact that Rose is a size 16 is the least important detail about her. Her boldness, her confidence, and her passion is what ignites this love affair. And while Jacob is certainly not a weak man, he falls hard for this woman...despite the fact that she may not have fit the physical mold he's accustomed to chasing. Bottom line: Rose is a beautiful, sexy woman and she knows it. She doesn't need Jacob or society to tell her those facts. She doesn't need to remake herself in order to get a happy ending.

None of us do.

~~~~~

More details on #SpousalPrivilege coming soon! 

(Let me be clear -- this is an adult story. With very graphic adult moments. I don't shy away from any woman's right to be as passionate as she wants. No one should.)

#bbw #romance #hea #alphafemale

A Salty Spinster Holiday Special: Surviving Christmas...When You're the Single Gal

So, like many other ladies in the same pool, Christmas with the family is not really something to celebrate so much as something to survive.

Because that's what it is: a one-day or night event surrounded by people you have literally nothing in common with. I call these people family. And once a year, I'm forced to go through an obstacle course of highs and lows. And it's a bloodbath.

To be truthful, I'm sure many of them feel the same way about me--there's no common ground, no common anything, sans the same last name. And we're all probably secretly embarrassed of each other.

That being said, here's my 5-point single gal's perception of Christmas with (a sometimes insufferable) family:

1) YOUR KIDS ARE NOT THAT CUTE.
Sure, they giggle, They squeal. They are tiny. That doesn't mean they aren't tiny monsters. My cousin Regina's kids, for example, have a strange ass fixation. I mean, three Christmases in a row, my ass is grabbed over a hundred times by tiny, sticky hands. Because apparently children are natural molesters. And sticky.

I look to my cousin for assistance; she smiles and shrugs her shoulders at my horror.

"It's good for you to experience this," she says condescendingly. "You're getting older and may never have a family of your own."

Cue the second bottle of wine I open.

2) THE PISS BATTLE
All my cousins are insanely successful. They all have fancy job titles, fancy salaries, and the fact that I'm in my 30s and still living in an apartment is probably adjacent to living in a Third World to them.

But what's even more amazing is how they each try to one-up the other.

"We just had the most breathtaking vacation in Morocco," my cousin Regina purrs (while sipping a Pinot Noir that probably cost more than a week's worth of groceries). "You haven't vacationed until you've experienced Casablanca in person."

"Oh, that's nothing," says my equally well-traveled cousin Lyle. "A week in Tuscany and we never ate so well. We had a full-time maid and butler in our house. It was amazing. Nothing will ever top it."

Do you ever notice that when people are one-upping one another, they smile wider and wider? I think that's symbolic of an angry middle finger of envy and fury. I'll gladly stick to my cable and cocoa for now.

3) THE DRINK POLICE
On average, I'll consume about 2.5 bottles of wine at this hellish holiday event. And about every hour, my pushy aunt will sidle up nearby and mutter (just loud enough for me to hear), "That's my greatest fear--an alcoholic child."

I don't let this get me down. Her Botox-sheened face basically knocks any credibility that she ever had into dust. I just drink on knowing that I'm getting ever closer to that glorious cab ride home.

4) AN ORGANIC VEGAN COOKIE ISN'T JUST AN ORGANIC VEGAN COOKIE
Year after year, one of Regina's daughters will whine incessantly for a cookie before dinner, which her mother and father both vehemently deny her.

"Cookies lead to obesity," Regina lectures.

"Even one cookie?" I ask while popping open the third bottle of wine.

"It starts with a single cookie," she says ominously.

I don't understand this. Regina and her polished hubs both sport glorious spray tans and wrinkle-less foreheads, courtesy of said-Botox. The type of cookie served is an organic, vegan shit-puck anyway. Isn't that basically a vegetable?

PS: I'm pretty sure any cookie is less toxic than Botox...

And 5) MIXING MONEY AND JESUS
A small group of the earlier mentioned cute children will say the Lord's prayer before dinner is served. Respectfully, I even put my wine glass down and bow my head, like everyone else. And for one moment, silence quells all the tension that's been building up for the last half hour (yes, it's only been a half hour).

Then, as soon as that whispered amen is completed, my uncle will launch into his latest money-making scheme. Most of the time, it sounds like a Ponzi scheme, but he's managed to stay out of jail so far. Then his son will talk about his newest job promotion and how busy and rich is he. Why, he's so busy with his success he almost couldn't make it to dinner! Bless him.

Let's cut the shit--talking about money during Christmas dinner is like inviting Herod to your baby's baptism. It's just inappropriate.

Mercifully, the evening will settle down, and we'll all begin our not-so-tearful goodbyes.

I'll hope that next year will be better, but in my heart I know better. Each year, it's a marathon to make it to January--the magical month where my self-esteem returns, along with logical expectations.

Lost order is restored...until Valentine's Day.

Chapter One: The Scorned

My best friend is a former supermodel. No, seriously. Fee (Felicia) was born in Sweden, grew up in Maine, modeled all over Europe, then settled in the Midwest when her modeling jobs started drying up.

Those jobs started drying up when she hit twenty-eight. Now, five years later, she runs a spa and is a single mom to a three-year-old who can't stand me. Her name is Gia.

Gia hides when I show up. She looks at me as if I'm a second away from murdering her. Our other friends have great ways of reaching small children. And in their presence, Gia is fun-loving, free, and adorable. The two times Fee has asked me to babysit, Gia hides under her bed, convinced that I'm Satan.

I'm hoping that by high school I can buy her love with underage drinks and tattoos.

Fee and I bond over our lackluster love lives. Her child is a product of a one-night stand with a gay cabaret dancer after her ten-year relationship ended. And yes, the circumstances are funny now. Fred and Fee are also two of the best parents any kid could ask for.

From my own romantic front, I fell in love with an unattainable man when I was just eighteen. He had a girlfriend. Looking back at it now, there were warning signs everywhere. But I was too young, too naive, and too romantic to see them.

It wasn't a situation like you see in soap operas where the horny teenager tries to break the happy couple apart. It was nothing like that. It was simply me, after observing too many painful couple fights at barbecues (and only seeing HIS suffering), deciding to grab a pen and sheet of stationary and write down all those grandiose feelings of love.

This man was a good decade older than me, but I was never a very good judge with that sort of thing.

And so there was the letter to the one I thought was my soulmate. I used words like "heartquake" and "fever-bliss" (which, regretfully, does sound like a fever blister). It was my own inner Shakespeare, and I was canvassing a future for both of us through words. The catalyst was it was all pouring out of my heart.

That he barely knew my name never entered my mind as an obstacle.

Hey, all of us have been there. All of us. I just don't know that too many of us are dumb enough to put everything on the line -- dignity, respect, decorum, and dreams -- but I did.

And what happened wasn't what you see in the PG-13 movies. What happened was he glanced at my letter, roared with laughter, then through it in the fire pit. My eighteen-year-old heart was shattered. My views of love in what I already knew could be a cold, lonely world were shattered.

Why did it work in the movies? Why did Molly Ringwald get Jake Ryan in the end?

It doesn't happen like that in real life.

And despite the deep scar that encounter left, I went on to college. I grew up a little. I dated someone I began to care about deeply. The problem was he was still pining for his ex-girlfriend. I just didn't want to see it.

Do you remember the definition of insanity? You know -- the whole repeating the same action over and over again and expecting a different result? ...Let me introduce myself.

He and I came to a crossroads. I asked him to choose. I poured out my heart again.

I lost again.

This isn't a pity party post. It's a realization post. We're indoctrinated at a young age (girls, anyway) to believe in magic, in dreams, in love... But those are stories. And some stories should probably stop being told. I don't mean about the not dreaming, but about risking all for everything. All for that illusion of love.

After all, why was I in a mindset that only a man was worth risking every ounce of who I am? Shouldn't that energy be put into something else?

Fee is convinced I'm the eternal 'scorned' woman. But Fee was always a realist. When little girls are put on this earth and taught to dream, someone ought to also teach them how to save themselves.

After all, "evil queens are the princesses who were never saved."

The Salty Spinster: Prologue

Thirty-three is kind of a ridiculous age. It’s not really old, but you can’t really pass for “kidlike” anymore. When I turned thirty, there was a surge of those familiar questions. What’s my life plan? What’s my baby plan? What’s my ‘label?’ Plans and labels became much more important than jobs and money.

Three years later, the surge has definitely diminished. But something ugly has taken its place. Nobody really asks questions anymore. Instead, I’m compared to various other family members like a piece of rubber shoved into a fragile crack.

There are many cracks in my family.

Cousin Jude has one of those generic four-year college degrees that apparently makes you an expert on everything. I didn’t know that was an option, or maybe I would have rethought that English major.

Cousin Jude, according to my entire family, is a saint. She has a part-time job at her dentist-husband’s office where she files her nails and watches Saved by the Bell reruns all day. She has two kids under ten who always look sick to me. Always.

Last Christmas, when I was drunk enough, I asked Jude why her girls looked so miserable all the time. She said the girls had been exhibiting an unacceptable amount of hyperactivity, so she and her equally saintly husband put them all on a strict no-sugar, no-gluten, vegetarian diet.

“Oh, so they’re starving to death?” I asked in my innocently drunken way.

Cousin Jude’s eyeballs bulged out of their sockets so far that I thought they’d reach out and smack my cheeks. My eyes have never done that. But I also eat meat regularly.

“My girls are perfect!” She shot back, half-snarling. “When they are grown, they won’t struggle with self-control, like some of us.” Her eyes glazed over to the empty wine bottle next to me. I shrugged, but she wasn’t done with me quite yet. “And they’ll be able to sustain a normal, happy relationship and not be so pathetically tragic.”

Tragic.

There was the new word.

  

I was tragic…in her eyes.

When I was in my twenties, I lived off both Bridget Jones movies. In the first one, there’s a particularly uncomfortable scene where Bridget is asked at a dinner party why so many women in their 30s are still single. Her response is horrifically painful: “I suppose it’s because our bodies are covered in scales…” –it’s a scene I couldn’t quite grasp until Cousin Jude’s remarks.

My response to her, though, was not quite Bridget-worthy.

Instead of saying a single word, I got up and left. I walked three miles home. I cried most of the way.

Despite how far we independent women think we’ve come, some remarks go too far. Some words hurt. And while my commentary about her daughters might have been a tad out of line, surely she knows she’s ridiculous? Right? RIGHT?!

I didn’t talk to Jude for several months after that. Not until we ran into each other at the supermarket.

She was behind me in line, and I was plenty happy to keep ignoring her, but one of her girls recognized me.

The cashier ringing up my groceries started talking to the girls. She told them how beautiful they were, how good they were, and how she wished she had had two sweet little girls instead of two little boys.

Cousin Jude was cooing with all the compliments. I was watching the cashier mostly not pay attention to how she was bagging my items. A carton of eggs was placed in one bag. A large bag of apples was placed on top.

“Excuse me,” I say quietly, “could you please put the apples in a different bag?”

The cashier looked at me as if I just pulled a gun on her. “What?”

I point to the bag. “My eggs are getting crushed.”

“Not crushed…maybe just dried up.” Jude chimes in.

The cashier laughs, grabs the bag of apples, places them into another bag, and probably figured I wasn’t bright enough to catch her rolling her eyes at me.

But in a heartbeat, her attention was back on Jude’s girls.

This time, though, I couldn’t quite be silent. This time, I couldn’t quite be as cute or charming as Bridget Jones either.

This time…the spinster came out.

“You are rude!” I belted out at the cashier. The lady stared at me, wide-eyed and surprised.

“Chill out. You’re acting like a psychopath.” Jude’s voice…I could barely process her words… Because why—why?—after listening to insufferable remarks—why was I labeled a psychopath by pointing out one person’s rude behavior?

Normally, I’d wait until I was at least in my car and then cry out all the anger. But something happened. The spinster was out. She was outraged. She was far too pissed for tears.

So she took an egg out of the carton. She held it in front of two little girls and their mother. And she declared: “Eggs are baby chickens who never had a chance at life! Eat it!”

The egg hit the ground. Bright yellow yolk splattered Jude’s shoe. The girls stepped behind their mother cautiously…because throwing a baby chicken egg was surely just a breath away from throwing a child.

Then I fled—I was out the door and running to my car. What I had done…it had to have been a felony. The cops would be after me soon.

After all, what kind of woman throws eggs on the floor in front of two starving children? I mean, seriously. I’m officially the spinster in Steel Magnolias—the Shirley MacLaine character who everyone’s afraid of.

That’s me. Ouiser.

Children cry when they see me. Cashiers call police. Eggs are in witness protection. No one is safe.

Except that for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a voice again. Even if it was the voice of madness.

It occurs to me that we are not all destined to be those princesses in the castles. The regal, magnificent ones who always look perfect—and always seem to know the perfect answer to every situation.

It occurs to me that we are not all destined to be those damsels in distress either.

Or the ultra-mod feminists who manage to juggle motherhood with their career.

Or the self-sacrificing stay-at-home moms who point the middle finger up every day in favor of beating to their own drum.

No. Not all of us fit into a mold.

Some of us are born to be bad guys. WELCOME TO MY VIRGIN JOURNEY FROM NICE GIRL TO SUPER-VILLAIN...HERE I GO. 

(note to self: make up drug addiction to get out of future family obligations...)