I’m the Slut in the Grocery Store

I am your sexy eye candy.

I’m only here for you to stare at, to whistle at, to mumble comments under your breathe like some creepy mustached pervert.

This is obviously what I want.

This is why I came here.

I got up this morning and chose clothing based solely on how I thought you would react.

I was looking for a reaction.

To the guy I met in the grocery store today…is this what you think of me? Because when I walked past you, toting my little shopping basket, you paused in the aisle. Your eyes did an exaggerated roving gesture, full head tilt and all, from my feet to my chest and back down. You never even made eye contact with me.

“Damn that looks good,” you said.

That?

That as in my dress, because you can’t have it. It won’t fit you and it really isn’t your color, dude.

Or that as in my body, because that’s not some thing that you get to just give your approval of, claim like an image you post on Facebook of some car/shirt/pair of shoes/house that you want. My body doesn’t go in that list.

But it’s okay, because I ignored you. I said nothing and kept right on walking.

I went and got the bread I came there for.

Except I met you in the line and you were saying it again.

“That looks good.”

And I ignored you.

And then you said, “Bitch.”

Now, because I ignored you…because I didn’t turn around and give you the green-light to go ahead with your degrading attempt at flirting…I’m a bitch.

slutSo now I’m a bitch who came to the grocery store dressed up simply to tease you into thinking you had a chance, because that’s obviously the only reason I would have for coming to the grocery store and I just knew you’d be here.

I must be a tease as well.

That’s me: the slutty, bitch, dick-tease at the grocery store.

You have said less than ten words to me, but they were powerful enough to put me in my place, to make me feel tiny, insignificant…wrong.

So when I turn and blast you. When I growl out, “Just shut up.” When I practically run to my car and lock the doors and head back home to change my clothing, because I don’t want to go to my children’s school in a dress anymore. When I feel less pretty and wipe off my lipstick, because I worry it makes me look like a slut…

Just know that all you had to say was, “You look nice today.”

And I would have smiled.

And I wouldn’t have been a bitch and you wouldn’t have altered my day in such a negative way.

I would have smiled.

I would have said, “Thank you.”

 Herstory Lesson: Don’t let someone else’s ignorance mess with your identity…or your day.

 

She is Raging

Trigger Warning: This post makes reference to miscarriage, loss, pregnancy. 

RAO_web

I want to sit back and write something witty. I want to grab you on the first line and take you along some story’s path, so we can come out together at the end, holding hands and feeling quite proud of ourselves. I want to have words to give you, sprinkle around your mind like beautiful confetti.

But I don’t have it today.

I’ve got nothing to give.

I think all in all I’ve been handling this well. I mean, by the definition of “well” that everyone around me uses.

“Oh, she’s good.”

“She’s fine.”

“You look well.”

She’s not good. She’s staring at her Facebook and seeing post after post of baby bumps and nurseries and baby showers and count downs and newborn photos. She’s not good, because she’s angry and she’s jealous. It’s not that she isn’t happy for them. It’s not that she doesn’t wish them the best. She just wishes she had what they do. She wants in on that little world again.

She’s not fine. She’s standing in the checkout and people keep opening their mouths.

“How far along are you now?”

“You’re barely even showing.”

“How’s baby doing?”

When are you do?”

And so she has to say that the baby is gone, again and again and again. The words stick in her throat and she’s choking on them, bending over to let them fall out of her mouth with a delicate thud. She’s not fine and she’s sick with speaking of it.

She looks well. She lost what weight she’d gained and she has more energy. The pregnancy had made her so sick. She looks healthy again. There is color in her cheeks and her hair has regained its bounce. She gets dressed a little more often. She paints her face. She crawls into bed with her husband, aching and needy and everything is back to the way it was and her world has settled into a muted thing, because she is well and so she is waiting. Waiting for her body and his to have that tiny moment of collision that will breathe new life into her womb and it terrifies her.

But she’s raging.

She wakes up and groggy eyed checks her email. Entirely too many messages, but it’s the morning routine. And she sees the words:

You haven’t purchased anything off your baby registry. Sign in now to get everything baby needs! 

So the company attached a coupon to ease the burn behind the idea that she is such a bad mother-to-be, she hasn’t even bought anything off her list. She has no crib, no carseat, no newborn diapers. She has no bouncing chairs, no teething rings, no footed pajamas. She has no formula, no Tylenol, no soft and fleecy blankets.

But she has rage at seeing it.

She has pain that sparks behind her eyes and they’d call them tears, but they burn hot streaks down her face and she thinks she could set the entire world on fire with her emotions overflowing.

She is raging.

And her husband comes home and kisses her on the head. He asks, “What’s wrong?” And she tells him, “Nothing.” 

And she pushes the rage back long enough to kiss him. To make him his breakfast. To prepare herself for getting the children up. It’s a matter of survival now and she can’t be the woman she’s supposed to be with everything snapping apart. She shoves it down, like a pill stuck in her throat. She buries it deep.

Congrats on the new baby! He’s beautiful.

The nursery looks wonderful. You all got a lot of work done.

Good luck at the hospital. You and baby are in my thoughts. 

Look at that bump! Any day now. . .

Click this button to unsubscribe from future BabiesRUs promotions. 

Click.

Herstory Lesson: “You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.” – Ernest Hemingway

I May Need Bail Money

The husband bought me tickets to go see In This Moment and Butcher Babies.

The concert is tomorrow night.

The husband is carrying around a box of tissues like my son carries around Boo Bear.

The husband’s gravelly morning voice has been here all day.

The husband is about to go to the doctor.

download

Source

The husband never goes to the doctor.

That means that because some guy at his job didn’t want to miss work and instead came and sat in the little box with all the other guys for twelve hours straight, spewing his germs everywhere and infecting multiple people (like my husband), I will not be attending the concert.

I’m about to go straight Liam Neeson on that disease-ridden asshat.

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Source

If I post later asking for donations…I found him.

The Telling

Last, but not least…Here is the reader’s choice from my latest book, The Telling.

Submissive

I like a dominant man in my life. I like someone who is in control. I like to think I’m in control, pretend it, brag about it, lie for it. I like that I know, that he knows, that I know I’m not really in control.

We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to.

The perfect line. The perfect pitch. He’s already made the decision, but poses it in such a way that I can make-believe it is mine. I like to take what doesn’t belong to me.

He’s a steamroller in my life and I like to be laid out flat. I like his hands on my chest, pushing me down whenever my back turns to the span of a bridge. His hands on my thighs, forcing me flat, flat, flat. Yes. Yes, I like that.

He makes me crow like a rooster and I want the world to know I’ve seen the sunlight. It’s like daybreak bursting to life inside me and for a split second I’m lit up brighter than a Christmas tree in Times Square. My body becomes a beacon, a calling card, a flash bang grenade and it draws more, more, more. I want a sunrise that keeps coming, up and down like a yo-yo on fire.

I like when everyone can hear my sunrise, my daybreak, my rooster call.

I’m vocal about it.

I’m in charge of it, or so I pretend.

Want it now? Click the picture to go to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!

Want it now? Click the picture to go to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!

We still have one day of the contest left! Get over to http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman and LIKE my page to be entered for a chance to win a copy of one of my books! Your choice!

History of a Woman

Like I started the other day, I am sharing the reader’s choice from my second book, History of a Woman. Enjoy!

The Check

The check came once a week and on it, in the tiny, informal script she could see the statistics. She saw the demographics, the signatures, the dates, the times, the dollar signs and the cents. The sense. Pay to the order of the single mother, the broken hearted, the lost and struggling. Pay to the order of that bitch who walked out, that gold-digger, that useless leech.

Twenty dollars and thirty-two cents. Thirty-six dollars and seventeen cents. That was the breakdown. That was division at work. That was the price tag, per child, per absent father, per paycheck, as order by the court.

So her son was worth $20. 32 a week. He was worth one pair of sneakers, plus tax. He was worth a family dinner from KFC. He was worth two Wal-Mart brand t-shirts and a pair of jeans with the little buttons inside to adjust the waist so they wouldn’t fall off his thin hips. He was worth one pack of the good brand of nighttime pull-ups and a fruity flavored Tummy Yummy.

$36.17. She was worth fifteen dollars and eighty-five cents more than her brother. And why was that? Because she is the older of the two? Because she came first? Because she was left behind first? That extra fifteen dollars and eighty-five cents makes her worth ice-cream at school for an entire month. She is worth two of those scarves from Target that she wants, because all the other little girls are wearing them. Thirty-six seventeen means she is worth one new dress and stockings to match. She’s worth a movie date with her mom and maybe, just maybe, she’s worth popcorn with extra butter.

She stares at the names and the dates and the amounts. She pulls out her calculator, because she’s logical, because she’s sane, because she knows there must be some algorithm in play that dictates the price attached to another human being’s name, date of birth, and social security number. Somewhere inside her children’s DNA is the bar code that is engraved with all this information. That’s why she couldn’t find it. That’s why the numbers never came out right.

One month is $81.28 and $144.68. That’s school supplies for both, new book-bags and lunch boxes, and for her daughter, that means she’s worth a new pair of dress shoes where her toes won’t hang over the edge.

One year makes them worth $975.36 and $1,736.16. He is four, so that means he’s worth $3,901.44. She’s six, so it’s $10,416.96. Right? That makes sense, she figured. I mean, by the time they are grown, their price-tags will be immense. They will be worth so much…so very, very much.

And that was the game. It was all a gamble. They had set the bet and she had called. Not only had she called, but she’d raised. She’d raised and raised and raised. She met each of their bets and doubled and tripled them. She’d paid in her part, and not only with money, but with her time. With her kisses, her late night wake-up calls, her trips to the family doctor, her white hairs, her once a month new toothbrushes, her story times.

So when those men would show back up, she’d be able to look them in the eye. She’d be able to say, “Hey, I figured it out.” She knew her child’s worth and she’d raised the bet. “It’s on you now. Call or fold.”

Want it now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!

Want it now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!

Remember the contest is still going on until December 15th! Visit http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman and LIKE my page for your chance to win a copy of one of my books! Your choice!

Wake Up a Woman

I recently asked some of my readers what their favorite story or poem was from each of my books. After figuring out which was the most popular, I decided to post that choice here.

But that’s not all, because that would be relatively boring.

Not really…but this part is more exciting!

I’m doing another contest!

CONTEST CONTEST CONTEST

Yep. You could win a copy of one of my books…I’ll even let you choose. All you have to do is find me on Facebook (http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman) and LIKE my page. Yep. That’s it. I’ll gather all the new names and on December 15th will draw a winner. That’s only a few days! So get on Facebook and click that Like button!

Now, for the reader’s choice from my first book, Wake Up a Woman:

This is an Uprising

I need your attention

for just a moment,

a minute,

an ounce of your time

and you better give it

’cause I’ll only say this once.

I need you to know

that I’m okay.

I’m alright.

I’ve settled my accounts

and I know who I am,

and I’ve accepted that.

I have a firm grip

on my identity,

and what you think of me

is just as true

as what I think of me,

and that’s alright.

You hear me?

It’s alright,

’cause I can handle

the way you describe me to your mother.

I’m an artist,

a student,

a tutor,

a writer.

I actually read for fun.

I’m a Goddess of the Household Duties:

the Queen of the Laundry,

the Ruler of the Dishes,

I can make bread,

fry bacon,

boil eggs,

and bake a cake,

all the while

showing my dominance

over the hills of coffee grounds.

And I’m alright

with the way you talk about me

to all your friends.

“She’s a freak in bed,

got an amazing ass,

and gives the best head.

Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like my,

my sweet,

my baby,

my doll,

my love?”

And all those other sweet,

choke-on-the-sugar

words you spill in my ear at night.

I’m a “cunt,

a bitch,

a whore,

and a slut,”

whenever you’re pissed,

and that’s alright.

I’ll be that,

as long as you get to be

a “douchebag,

an asshole,

a dickhead,

and a bastard.”

I’m the Master of Imagination

and I make one hell of a Mother.

So, you promise your own

a herd of screaming,

wailing,

red-faced babies,

and that’s alright

’cause I’ve done it before and

I’ll do it again.

Ain’t nothing to it!

I’m a taxi driver,

a short order cook,

a night owl,

an instant human,

just add coffee,

an amazing

baby-making machine.

I’m a cow with a pump

hooked to my chest

and I’m feeding the world.

I’m a woman,

a daughter,

a sister,

a mother.

I’m a friend,

and enemy,

a lover,

an ex –

I’m a woman,

so at times

I’m PMS personified.

I’ve got every limb I need

to kick your ass

and might just have

the strength to do it!

I have been stepped on,

stepped around,

and I’m stepping it up.

I’ve been trampled,

I’ve been beaten,

bruised,

and scarred.

I’ve been raped

and forced,

pushed

and pulled.

I’ve fallen down

and got back up.

Sometimes, I just laid there

and took it.

I’m weak and frail,

but I’m not porcelain.

I’m girly in ribbons and bows,

but I got a pair of nuts

to make Chuck Norris jealous.

Are you listening to me?

I’m telling you I’m alright.

I’m okay.

I can look in the mirror

and know every day

just who I am

and who you think I am,

and that’s alright too.

I am unknown,

uncaring,

unaffected,

unemotional,

and in charge.

I’m the leader of this pack,

the glue that holds the family together,

and I’m only out in the open

screaming at the top of my lungs

when it gets to be too much,

too often.

I don’t drink

’cause I’ve got a low tolerance

and one of them would have me

on a tabletop somewhere,

losing clothes

like I’m losing hair.

I dance like a white chick,

all elbows and knees.

I sing like a wounded cat

and play drums on my steering wheel.

I’m a woman so I can’t drive,

can’t parallel park

and can’t reverse.

I’m run into

and away from

and around

mailboxes,

ditches,

people,

responsibilities.

I like language

and can’t master my own,

but I’m a true professional

at the Art of Sarcasm.

I say, “I’m fine”

when I’m not,

and “nothing’s wrong”

when everything is.

And “whatever” is the equivalent

to a nuclear warhead

landing on your face.

Do you understand me?

‘Cause I’m a woman

and I want you to listen

as much as I want to talk.

I’m me.

I’m alright with that.

I’m okay.

I’m stoic.

I can look in the mirror

and I know who I am.

I’ve been stabbed

and poked

a million times

by needles of every shape

and size.

I treat my body like a canvas

and here I am,

a work of art.

I dye my hair

like I change my underwear.

So you can take

a new girlfriend to bed,

red,

brown,

blonde,

black,

blue,

purple.

Doesn’t matter,

I’ll be what you want.

It’s amazing

what a little

Revlon,

Maybelline,

L’Oreal,

Vicadin,

Exlax,

cocktail can do to a woman.

I am Cosmo,

Maxim,

Playboy,

and Good Housekeeping.

I wear skinny jeans

on my fat days.

I wear pantyhose

to streamline

a beeline

straight to my boobs.

I wear a bra

’cause some man said I should,

even though

I got nothing to put in it.

So I’m thankful for Victoria

and her Secret

gave me something to expose.

I’m a model,

a calendar girl,

a rockstar,

in my mirror with a hairbrush

and I’m belting out the tunes

of punk rock,

oldies,

metal,

and the classics.

I’m a country girl

with an affinity

for hip-hop.

I am tuneless,

tasteless,

careless,

and passionate.

Are you still here?

Hang on,

’cause I’ve only just begun.

I’ve just got going,

just got started,

and I’m not there yet.

I’m equipped with high tech

plug-ins.

I’ve got a vagina,

a pussy,

a cunt,

a hole,

and it’s been stabbed,

and poked,

prodded,

and stretched.

It’s bled,

and pushed out life.

I’ve got an attraction

and you can’t deny it.

It’s dress and silk in the day,

and leather and lace at night,

And I don’t get it,

I’m confused,

but I roll with it.

‘Cause you want it,

and I can handle it.

I do.

I’ve seen myself do it.

I am uptight,

upbeat,

upchucking,

and this is an uprising.

This is an acceptance,

of who I am,

and who you make me.

And that’s alright.

It’s okay.

I’m telling you I can handle it.

I’m allowing,

alluring,

and an illusion.

I am me.

I am woman.

And I’m alright.

Want a copy now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE.

Want a copy now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE.

Cloud Nine Floats in Hell

The husband got home yesterday and decided to trek his sleepy behind with me to Walmart to grab a new blanket. Why? Because there is no heat in our room and it’s about negative degrees in there and we needed a new blanket.

And yes…there could probably be heat if I had somewhere to put all the books that are lined up against the heater, but I’m out of shelves. Don’t judge me. Not this morning.

So we get a new blanket and it’s all super, super fluffy. I mean, this thing is huge, red, and has what looks like polar bear fur on the inside of it. I’m thinking, “Woot! Never gonna freeze again!” We get home and put this thing on the bed. This is the kind of blanket that you want to strip naked and crawl under, burrito roll yourself, and not come out for 8-12 hours or until its time to feed again. Which is exactly what my husband did…I had to get up and actually do stuff during the day.

He leaves for work, nighttime rolls around, and I’m thinking, “Yay! My turn with the blanket!”

My expectation. This is what I wanted dammit.

My expectation. This is what I wanted dammit.

I curled up and it felt amazing. I just snuggled deep, rolled around a few times, until all that fuzzy-ness was surrounding my entire body. I think I may have fallen in love a little bit. I mean, I am relatively positive the people at Better Homes and Gardens may have sold theirs and someone else’s soul to get the secret ingredient in baby soft skin, just so they could one up it with this blanket.

This is no exaggeration.

Two in the morning. I have to pee. I’m pregnant. I drink like an ungodly amount of water anymore. I try to get out of the blanket.

It’s like fighting with a cloud. A passive, clinging to me, not about to go anywhere, cloud.

I finally get it off, run to the bathroom like my son when he’s waited to long, hand on crotch, whispering the “I gotta go” mantra. I get out, drink another eight ounces of water, because I’m pregnant and logic is irrelevant when one is pregnant.

I get back into bed and I can feel this blanket. I can feel every fiber along my skin. Where I liked it at first, I don’t now. It’s uncomfortable. I can tell exactly where each piece of this thing is touching me and I’m getting freaked out by it.

Three o’clock, I realize I’m sweating. I mean, the sheet is damp beneath me and I get that panicky, Omg I peed the bed, worry for a moment before I realize that my hair is like glued to my forehead.

I return to my blanket battle, get out, change into something cooler…go to the bathroom again and drink more water.

Four o’clock I have to pee again. Repeat all the above steps from the last time.

I lay there, watching the clock, tossing and turning and thinking the Hell must be covered with these blankets just to keep all the damn heat in. It’s like sleeping with the husband, who stays a constant 9,000 degrees, except suddenly he’s so big that he covers my entire body.

I’m not okay with this.

The alarm finally goes off at six something and I try to turn it off, but I’m stuck.

 

I finally get out of bed like this. I may have ever roared a little bit.

The husband got back not long after I woke up.

The Husband:   How did you sleep?

Me:   Fuck that blanket.

 

 

The Cat Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

…and Mama’s following pretty close behind.

Our cat really is losing its shit. I mean, the thing has attacked both of my children. It’s eaten away a whole patch of skin at its neck and is like, “Let’s start on the belly next.” It spends the entire day racing through the house and sliding off my dining room table in a hood slide that would make the Dukes jealous. Not sure what’s wrong with her, but she’s one attack cat moment away from becoming a fur rug…patchy fur rug, but a rug nonetheless.

I was so stoked for this weekend. Stoked. Yes, I said…stoked. My parents were leaving for a vacation, the Husband got a three day weekend (Miracle!) and Saturday was poised to be a quiet day with just he and I doing our thing.

The kids with my Aunt.

The Uncle with his brother.

Just the Husband and I.

-Sigh-

So whatever happened to me Friday when he got home that made me literally have an out of body experience, I’ll never know. I just punched him…in the stomach.

Calm down.

It wasn’t hard.

But I was mad. Like, really angry. FOR NO DAMN REASON.

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I could see myself, yelling at him and his flabbergasted, confused face. I could see it, but I just. Couldn’t. Shut. Up.

Then he yelled back.

Fantastic idea, babe.

Now, I’m in tears, and he’s like, “Crap, I broke it. It’s leaking again.”

So I get a hug and I get this:

The Husband:   The guys at work warned me you’d be all psychotic and stuff…with the hormones.

Me:   -Pure raging anger in my voice.-  What?

hormones

Good save.

The rest of the weekend went off without a hitch. Everyone got to the places they were supposed to go. The Husband and I went on a Buy Maternity Clothes Date…whoopee.

He got the new Batman game, which is awesome, but that came with yet another gigantic sculpture to find room for somewhere in our tiny room. Gigantic. But it’s the Joker, so I’m not super mad, it just covers my entire jewelry box.

I don’t need jewelry, obviously.

I’m fabulous just as I am.

Yeah…we’re going to look at it that way. That works.

Pride and Envy – I’m Two for Seven Today

There’s nothing like watching some TV show to get a rude awakening into deeper emotions. Last night, in yet another of my late-night-can’t-sleep-watch-Netflix episodes, I stumbled upon Master Chef Junior. I had no idea Ramsey was doing this show.

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And let’s get it straight. I like Ramsey. He’s a sonuvabitch, and I like him.

But I didn’t like this show. I mean, here are a bunch of 8-13 year olds that can cook. And not just cook, but create edible food art on a plate. They know words like remoulade and actually know how to make it.

I didn’t even hear Ramsey yell at anyone.

I thought, holy crap, my kids are not that young compared to these guys. They’ve never even used the stove.

Am I doing something wrong?

Is this normal kid behavior?

Should they be preparing four course meals on the regular?

Where did I screw up?

We’re going to blame all this on whatever hormones are going through my body that made me instantly slip into I’m-a-bad-mom mode. I’m not a bad mom.

And my kids? My kids are better than this.

My daughter is learning the correct names of the bones in the human body. Not for school. Not for some science project. Simply because she wants to. And you know why? Because she is curious by nature. She likes to ask questions. She loves the word “why”. This is one of my most favorite things about her.

human_skeleton1

My son? Oh…he basically wrote an entire story. He didn’t necessarily write it, but he stood there and told it to me while I wrote it. It inspired a slightly more completed piece, one that I’m working on now for him. But he created a story with a beginning, middle, and end. It had a main character, a mission, plenty of pitfalls and things to spoil the main guy’s efforts, and additional characters to help him along. All of this based on his stuffed bear: Boo Bear. You know why? Because he is imaginative. It may border on complete dishonesty at times, but I love him for it. I love the way his imagination takes over.

This is Boo Bear.

This is Boo Bear.

My kids are awesome. Screw that TV show.

I’m proud of my children for who they are, not what they can do.

I’m just envious of that kid who made the chocolate lava cake. I could really get into a chocolate lava cake right about now.

Unfinished Business and Other Ghoulish Problems

If I died today, and the whole ghosts-have-unfinished-business-which-is-why-they-stick-around thing is true, I’d spend longer here on earth as a ghost than I have thus far as a living, breathing person.

Just saying.

Let’s do an inventory, shall we?

Twenty-one…21…unfinished manuscripts. TWENTY-ONE!

Two boxes, five stacks, and one purse full of paperwork that needs to be sorted into the filing cabinet.

Four wall-length shelves, two under-the-bed bins, and six totes in the attic full of books I have not yet read and want to.

Five years worth of photo albums to work on for my son.

Another five years for my daughter (I did at least start on her’s).

My wedding album, as of yet, still incomplete.

My brother’s Star Wars painting.

Seven other unfinished canvases.

48 recipes on my onetsp.com recipe holder that I have not yet tried and want to.

Oh, and I’m still not pregnant.

 

Can ghosts get pregnant? -Shrugs- Either way, I’m going to be one seriously busy ghost. I mean, I’ve got stuff to do. Things to finish…someday. I’ve always been a starter. It’s the finishing part that screws me up every time.

Needless to say, I can’t become a ghost yet. I’d have absolutely no time to haunt anyone, and really, what is the fun of being a ghost with no time for the fun stuff, like scaring the crap out of people that annoyed you when you were living?

WHAT ABOUT YOU? If you checked out today and got to be a ghosty, what would your unfinished business be?

 

*I’m not normally this morbid. I swear. Well, sometimes.