Dear Bitch,
No I will not stop blogging nice things about you. Do you know why? Moxie. Your guts that's why. Because you write your way vulnerable, bite into what's wrong and taste it, cryoutloud and seize on shag carpets in a fit of mortal so-human justice when Those People with their Armor-Alled posts come to this place and try to outshine our worn tattered leather souls.
Their shiny-protected-stronger-than-tortise-shell bullshit, in that know-it-all way they have, are no match for you. They will not show their wounds, their open oozing lesions because those wounds cannot be monetized. Because they may scare the Audience away by being who they are. And then what? No money no honey. Then what? No fans no plans. Oh dear!
Pretenders.
You stood there and said Hey Now, Waitaminute, when few other women would. Shelley did. Ronni did. Marianne did. Toby did. Even harder for the men to do: misyoongenentoitousetists!
Have you stopped beating your fucking CAT YET? WELL HAVE YOU?
Did you laugh? You-R-Evil.
That is why.
Why do you think? I know you know the scary places, not the scary places where people might come in your house or yard or workplace and off you, but THOSE scary places where you are your own intruder.
You heal my inner boogie man. What? You want I should go away? No way, sister.
Kiss me. I'm crazy.
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