I Need to Punch Something

Any volunteers?

Wanna volunteer someone you know?

I’m actually a pretty easy-going person, although I read what I post on social media sometimes and think others must assume I walk around pissed all the time. Joke’s on you! I sit a lot.

But last week was more difficult than usual, and it highlighted a pattern I’ve been seeing. At first I thought it had to do with some extraneous events that have been happening–the irritating things one has to spend time on when you’d rather be watching the Amanda Knox story on Netflix because that is some messed up crap!

My husband and I have built up a pretty good philosophy on how to handle difficult situations: do our best to handle what we feel we can change and then acknowledge that it is out of our hands. That last part is the best because I can go back to watching the Amanda Knox story.

This is much better than what I found when Googling, “hyena chasing.”

However, last week some things–and people–got under my skin more than usual. They were in the wrong, and I wanted to make sure they knew they were. I went after them like a hyena nipping at their butt while they scurried away. No, you don’t get to get out of this. What you said was hateful, and words are powerful things. Can’t you see how Trump has done this to our country? You’re adding to the problem but not actually doing anything to help the situation. You don’t even recycle! That’s the speech in my head, and I still think it not a bad one to have. But when it eats at me and takes mind-time away from other things I want to be doing, then I’ve got to shut. it. down.

And that’s when I noticed the trend. Due to some physical issues, I could not exercise last week. Not working out helped the pain recover, but it made

Oh, lordy. My neck. My neck.

me unbalanced. If I don’t work out, my body doesn’t release those endorphins that make me like people. It doesn’t burn off the cortisol which contributes to anxiety, and it doesn’t make me feel strong. When I don’t feel strong, I feel vulnerable. That’s what makes me ripe for someone to poke me, it leave a bruise, and me feel I have to punch back.

Two days back at it, and I feel so much better.

A note to myself: It’s election season. If you’ve got legs, use them. Arms, lift something heavier than you thought you could. A smart mouth, let it rest. A mouth trying to communicate or educate–use only after the gym.


Buffalo>West Palm Beach>Nashville>Melbourne, Aus>Chiang Mai, Thailand>Greensboro>Jacksonville>Murfreesboro>Franklin

There’s a freaking girl in a Little Mermaid nightie at the coffee shop. Tiny sneakers, carrying– and intermittently dropping–a picture book. Her mom is imgresall braggy with her attitude of being relaxed and happy, nothing like I was when the girls were young. Push it in my face, woman. Oh, and you looked like you took a jog this morning. Gold medal for you—minus the Zika.

My littlest–the one who wore her Little Mermaid nightgown until it looked like seaweed–just walked into her new high school. I’m sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by fog-cloaked hills. The NEW is like whiplash. New town, new apartment, new high school, new college student leaving for UT, new puppy, new husband (har har).

It’s all the fault of this little lady with rheumy eyes who sat and talked with me last year when I was at a speaking engagement. It was the Women’s Club, one of those tea and cookie organizations that started around the Civil War for women to gather and have the vapors. But Girl Power swept over it and now there’s tea, cookies, and empowerment.

Anyhoo, the lady was my escort like Katie Holmes’ Scientology shadower. imgres-3
She got me said cookies and tea and introduced me to other elderly women. Making chit-chat, I asked her how she got involved in the club. I was waiting for her to say something that would “sell” the org to me.

“I’ve always been a joiner. I knew I needed something when my son left for college.”

Shit. I’m not a joiner. I’m a starter. People are actually meeting regularly in groups I started and left. I burn down arts boards. I would shut down United Way if I was a part of it. It’s only been the last few years that I’ve recognized it and tried to sit on my hands when the feeling comes over me to join or start something. I’m very insular regardless of being quite outspoken. I’m the lady hanging out of a 1950’s Brooklyn window yelling at loud kids. I’m warning the Bill and Melinda Gates Organization to watch their backs because I’d love to be part of it (then get frustrated at the red tape, argue with Melinda in the bathroom, then burn down the building).

So change it is. And I love change–inside and outside. I find the challenge comforting, reminding me I’m using my years well.  I don’t want to be someone who has spent 100% of her time thinking and doing for her children, then they leave and she’s lost (much like these 3 ladies next to me at the coffee shop. They are filling their empty lives with gossip, though).

I’m even thinking of getting a new hairstyle—an undercut. It will spell out the words, “Quiet, Please.”



The World is Being a Butt

The world is taking away my funny.

I’m having a hard time posting things that aren’t real. Real stuff like that black man shot by the PoPo this morning in Miami, even though he was holding up his arms. No one’s looking at what happened in Syria this week. Why? Well, they ain’t pretty French people, I guess. There’s never photos of Syrians looking stylish and carrying a baguette. Syria’s PR firm is the WORST! (that was a joke, but all the pretty countries really do have marketing agencies)

I’m trying to avoid posting about this stuff because I assume people know, and they don’t want to see it on their feed. But, in actuality, I KNOW people don’t know. They’re not aware, man, and that kills me. And, yes, Trump has TONS to do with it.

Zuckerberg’s actual closet. Google it.

And I really have no decent tops to wear. I’m like Mark Zuckerberg who wears the same
thing everyday so he doesn’t get decision fatigue except I spend 15 minutes deciding which of my 3 tops have the least amount of holes.

And I don’t know which dog is peeing in the laundry room. Right near the washing machine so it tricks me into thinking the washer leaks.

Current #1 suspect.

And because I’m opening my time up to private writing coaching, I needed to change some of my website and writing Facebook images. There was nothing that fit the stupid aspect ratios except pictures of quill pens or coffee cups sitting on doilies. Close friends know how this destroys my soul.

hands-1373363__180Fortunately pics like this pop up and I can find respite in spending ten minutes thinking, “Look at those hairy arms! Why would someone think this is a good stock photo? You know what people always have hairy arms? Male anesthesiologists. It’s uncanny.”

And they want Hillary shot. I hate Bush and think he should go to jail, but don’t want him shot. Of course, I don’t own guns, so maybe shooting is just not in my wheelhouse of possibilities. I own a lot of miss-matched socks, but I wouldn’t even think of throwing them at him.

And our house needs to sell. Like, it needs to sell. The youngest needs to start school in another county, so we really need things to work out financially. I’ve toyed with saying we are adopting and need to raise money because: 1. People always tell you what great people you are 2. You can make bank. Because we’re moving to the next county, no one would ever know. I could just post Shutterstock images of a baby and photoshop different outfits on him.


I’m struggling. 2016 has been brutal, literally. We can ignore it and skip along, only seeing our own circumstances—and possibly staying sane. Or we (I) can speak up, read, sign petitions, call legislators, and generally be so appalled at the news that we risk it forever changing our DNA .

Thank god all my close friends are part of the latter group. It’s a tougher, and more depressing, road, but it’s a damn virtuous one. And don’t worry, I don’t want to feel better. All that self care seems pretty pretentious right now.

Back to my funny being gone. Watching the show Difficult People has helped. 

Viva la Netflix.



White Girls Don’t Trust the Cops Either

In 1991, I was living in Nashville. Like any other week, I spent my time at my apartment, work, or church. Or the car, driving back and forth from those. On a Sunday night after staying out late with friends from church, I drove down Briley Parkway in Nashville. It was basically deserted, and because I was spooked at being alone on the road, I started speeding. Then the cop lights. I pulled over on the shoulder. The cop was alone, a young guy. I was 23; I’d say he was early 30s. He was friendly. Told me I was speeding. He took my license and told me he’d have to call it in. Then he told me I had to get out of the car. Yeah, I thought that was weird, but…he was a cop.

“It’ll only take a minute. Come on over and sit in my car.”

“I’ll just wait.”

“I’ve got the heat on in my car. It’ll be more comfortable.”

“I’ll just sit in my car.”

“I can’t let you back in your car until I check your ID. Just come on…”

I didn’t have a cell phone or any way to contact anyone. My mind raced through all the issues–nothing will happen. He’s just flirty. What if I don’t go? Would he going to give me a higher ticket? I was broke.

All I knew for sure is that I didn’t like the way he looked. Women understand this safety sense. They also understand the immediate reaction forced into us by society that we’re being ridiculous. Nothing will happen.

Then another cop arrived. He pulled up beside us and the two joked and caught up. The new cop changed the atmosphere immediately. Nothing climactic happened. In fact, it was wonderfully anti-climatic. The newly-arrived cop just sat his car there in the slow lane, looking on, killing time. There were no more invites to get into my cop’s car. In fact, his whole demeanor changed from flirty (slimy) to professional, telling me to wait in my car.

What was happening there? I don’t know, but I know it wasn’t protocol. Nor were the two times I was pulled over when I was out on dates with a college—both times when I was dating a guy who is black. They made him get out of the car, and they asked me if I was there of my own free will.

Screen Shot 2016-07-13 at 10.43.53 AM

I’ve been assisted many times by friendly and professional cops. But, I never remember much about those incidents.

I’ve been impressed with the reactions of the Dallas Chief of Police after the heinous shooting of 5 cops.


And I’ve been thrilled by the actions of the Nashville police since Ferguson re-ignited the need for police reform by decommissioning officers who made terribly racist comments online.


I wish I trusted cops.

I wish they didn’t speed around, making turns without signaling, cutting drivers off—all without their sirens on.

I wish I wasn’t angered when they walk around with a posture that announces they are tough and to be feared.

We were taught to respect teachers, clergy, and cops. Now I tell my girls NEVER to be alone with any of those. And if they are, turn on the phone camera.

Shaming people for feeling this way does nothing. Demanding institutional reform does. What is a better way of showing respect to these professions than putting pressure on them so they transform into something worthy of trust?







Social Anxiety: Building an Online Platform for the Reticent Writer

imgres-4Although many of you know I thought Linkedin was pronounced Link-a-din for quite awhile, I feel I’m settling into online platform-building.

I’ve been pretty reticent to use social media to promote myself. If you follow writers on Twitter, the constant selling of their books is pretty disgusting. And, they’ve shown it doesn’t even work. Yet every agent and publisher emphasizes they’re looking for writers with a platform. How the hell do you walk the line of having people follow you on social media without making yourself puke?

My friend Hannah Harlow is the Assistant Director of Marketing at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, Trade Publishing. We’ve gone back and forth about this platform thing. Seeing that she works in book publishing and marketing, and my main task for today is to paint the upstairs bathroom, I’ve broken down and listened to her.

“Having a platform proves to publishers that you are committed and you are part of a

Hannah, drinking and tweeting.

community—and that makes their jobs easier. It’s not just about having a fanbase to sell to. It’s about having connections for networking and for spreading the word. It’s about having an audience that has test-driven your writing and given the thumbs up. Publishers
are constantly looking for ways to decrease risk and having a strong platform helps them do that.”

Yet, I couldn’t get over the hump of feeling slimy about selling myself (my soul, too). I needed to find a way to get past that feeling.

Fortunately for me, I like talking. Just randomly. To anyone. I’m basically an old man. So, for the last year or so, I’ve experimented with social media and marketing–except I’ve done it in a way that doesn’t make me feel shitty. By talking. Randomly.

Am I “branding” myself? It doesn’t feel like it. As for consistency–not there yet, but I have found some online tools that make me LOOK like I have that trait.

Then there’s focus. I can say that I am totally focussed (when I take my Ritalin). But what “focus” means in building a platform is targeting in on one thing you can be known for. This was very, very difficult for me. I’m a delicate rose with many petals. I have ideas out the ying yang and I want to implement them all. Perhaps focus is not my issue as much as restraint.

Even if it was muddled, I noticed that my focus was already there–laced throughout my personal Facebook posts and tweets. People read what I post (yes, I can tell how many giphypeople read me even though they don’t publicly acknowledge it) because they are curious about what will come out of my mouth next. So am I, frankly. And that is part of my platform. 

You don’t have to change who you are to have a platform. The first question to ask yourself is to look over what you post about already. Whether you’re snarky, inspirational, into new bands or health recipes, you can wrap that into your platform. (More on that later. This is segment one of a 879 part series.)

I hope to put together a physical workshop on Social Media Platforms soon, as well as something accessible online. 

I’d love if you would answer this poll. Also, any questions about platforms and social media can go in that cute comment box. 

I was a feminist before it was cool, then uncool, then cool, th…

If you didn’t go to a Christian college, you might not know about pop-up Bible studies.

Think about the times you went to hang with your friends and drink or smoke or just shoot the shit, now discard that sinny stuff, hold hands and pray about things. That happened on any given night on the campus of my undergraduate college. 

Cropping out date who is now a minister.

One night, I dragged my roommate to one of them. I was sort-of enthralled with the girl leading it because she was older than me, had great hair, and had a devil-may-care look about her. And we took that devil-may-care stuff seriously, as we knew he did care and was watching our every move–sending in temptation around every corner. Vigilance, girls, vigilance!

This study went like most of the others–sit on the floor in a circle, share a bit, read from the Bible, pray. When women gathered for Bible study it usually focussed on being a godly woman. There are all these workbooks you can do, there’s a whole list of qualities of how we should act in Proverbs 31, and there were even pink Bibles with commentary in them from well-known Christian women like Amy Grant and Billy Graham’s wife. I know because I had one.51cPshGOB5L._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_

We prayed that God would help form us into vessels for him, preparing us for…dammit…our husbands. There it was again. EVERY female Bible study and retreat and seminar linked our faith to being prepared for men. 

“Why don’t we deepen our faith in God just…for us? Just for the sake of it? If a man comes along, great, but if not…”

And this is when all heaven broke loose. In that prayer circle and in my brain. Long story short, my poor roommate had to listen to me rant on our walk back to the dorm.

“That’s it. I’m swearing off men. I can’t keep thinking of them as the goal to my faith. I’m going to take a break. No men. NO MEN.”

And up pulls a bus. Right there on the side of the road. The hazard lights flash on. A guy bounds down the steps. “Hi, ladies. Can you tell us how to get to Juno?”

We were on the intracoastal and Juno is hella far from where this bus was. They’d passed it by an hour or so. 

images-1“We’re the Chippendales and we have a show to get to.”

To which my roommate quickly disappeared into the bus. I followed her in and told the driver directions while a bus, of what looked like gay europeans, flirted their pants off with us.

No one could tell my 19-year-old self that that was a coincidence.

Guest Blogger Jessica Barrett — Six Steps to Decluttering for Those in Denial


As I try and pack up house full of craptastic odds and ends, simplification is my goal. I asked friend, freelance writer, and sometimes writing partner to help me out. Her article is under this pile of student essays I’ve kept from 2007. Just a minute.  — KA

I love to declutter as much as any neat freak does. There’s some sort of strange elation that comes with unburdening ourselves from piles and stacks and over-stuffed drawers. Ridding our lives of unwanted and unused things sometimes helps us rid our minds of unwanted memories, unnecessary worry.

My love for decluttering has taken me to many a blog and several books on the topic. The most recent publication to grab my attention was Marie Kondo’s The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up, wherein she explains the KonMari method of ridding yourself of things which do not “bring you joy”. (I’m still trying to figure out how to declutter ab workouts.)

For being such a huge fan of decluttering and minimalism, one might assume I’ve got my house in order, and only own what I truly need.

I wish that were true.

Where There is One There Are Many

While I’ve done fairly well with most of my home, and my shopping habits are healthy, I can still be somewhat of a pack rat when it comes to anything related to entertaining. For example, I have 3 of the exact same serving platter, and I don’t even know how many platters in total (way too many I can assure you), because what if I need to throw a very large party for approximately 200 friends some time very soon? Never mind that my house wouldn’t fit even 50 people. I’m not even cool enough to throw a party that big, nor could I get a doctor to write a large enough Xanax prescription for me to handle it.

And yet the serving platters. And serving bowls. And myriad boxes of wine glasses. And flower vases. I’m not sure what I think I’m preparing for. I’m sure hanging on to these things has something to do with issues I have with getting rid of things that are perfectly lovely and in great condition.

I Propose a Compromise

Marie Kondo and organizing/decluttering folks like her have completely valid points. I love their tips, tricks, and ideas. I’m sure they have just the right number of serving platters. But there are some of us who will probably always get to about 90% and be okay with that.

I feel no guilt or shame for the fact that I fail as it relates to decluttering serving pieces. I also don’t feel like those folks who are “collectors” should feel badly either. You like collecting figurines or model cars or cats (okay – wait, not cats, that’s weird, stop doing that), knock yourself out. There’s a big difference between a tasteful collection, and actual hoarding.

However, we should probably know the difference between collecting, holding on to a few extra things “just in case” (the Queen might seriously come to my big party in Murfreesboro, TN one day), and “you’ve lost your da*n mind”.

So, for those of us fine with topping out at 90%, here is a suggested compromise…

Steps to Decluttering for Those in Denial  

  1. Hold each item in your hands, if it “brings you joy”, keep it. If you can’t tell, don’t worry, I don’t actually think anyone believes that method works. I would use the “is it useless, broken, out-of-date, ugly” method and see if that doesn’t help you decide what to get rid of.
  2. Take a look at what has been in your house for years that you’re just not getting any use out of anymore, but are in great condition. You may have things like books or tools that you could give away.
  3. Get real about your clothes. There are surely things you’ve stopped noticing are even hanging in your closet. Try taking everything out of your closet and looking at it with fresh eyes. What is stained, torn, faded, ill-fitting, out-of-style, or uncomfortable? Pull off the Band-Aid and get rid of them. However, do you still have some things that fit a thinner you? I personally say, forget what you’ve heard and keep them! I know, it’s total denial, but I LOVE denial. I can be a lot younger and thinner in my mind when I hold on to a tiny size four skirt I couldn’t dream of squeezing into on my best day. It hangs there saying, “you can do it, one day you can put down that cookie dough and wear me again”, and I need to believe it’s true.
  4. Print material can be the bane of your existence if you’re not careful. My husband has a great theory: Read it, and then throw it away. That way, you don’t have piles of magazines just sitting around collecting dust. I think his theory is probably really good. Does it work? I have no idea. I still have magazines from over six months ago waiting to be read. I can’t wait to find out about “How to Make 2016 Your Year”.
  5. Have a place for everything. Trust me on this one, it really does work. In the case of those of you with children, it may not seem like it does. But after nagging and yelling 1,500 times, and finally threatening to throw their things in the trash, this little tip works like a charm.Barrett
  6. Look at the volume of what you own that is the same category. For example, do you have several serving platters necessary only for a very large party you will never be hosting? You’re a fine human, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.


I hope that your journey through decluttering brings a renewing to your space and your mind. Any amount of work you do is better than not doing it at all. And for those of you fine with 90%, don’t feel bad. We’re doing fine. I’m sure the Queen will say so when she visits each of us.

IMG_4354-web  Jessica Barrett is freelance writer, mother, wife, semi-enthusiastic runner, and blogger. Her focus is simplification. Visit her blog Mrs. Jones Could Use a Beer for more about her philosophy of “Stop Competing. Stop Comparing. Quit Keeping Up.”

Writing News. Get yer writing news.

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Every time I speak with writers, novice or experienced, they ask questions I either have the answers to or can easily find. It’s not about personal knowledge; it’s about resources. My mailbox is constantly filled with local and global writing-related news. Frankly, I’m naturally interested in publishing news, marketing info, craft techniques, writer conferences and residencies. Even though I don’t take advantage of even half the information myself, I have it just sitting there—in my brain or my inbox.

I’ve decided to bundle these resources–links, book recommendations, and information on writer events (usually online) into a newsletter. I foresee it arriving in mailboxes once or twice a month. No schedule. If I find out last minute about an online event, I might send out a short notice about it.

The newsletter will be right to the point. Topics will include links to sites where agents are actively looking for clients, articles on how to format work and write a query letter, motivational websites or books, new books about the craft of writing, insider info on the publishing world, where to find cool, bookish merchandise, etc.


Just sign up with your email HERE





The New Archie Would Never Date Me

imgres-5         Archie comic books were my life growing up. After graduating from Highlights magazines, it was Archie–tucked in before the years of Teen Beat. Those candy-colored high schoolers taught me quirky facts like what a car gasket was and that a cute way to spell shop was shoppe. Archie comics were also my first introduction to romantic relationships.

         There was Archie, this goofy-looking redhead, being fought over by the homegrown Betty and the affluent Veronica. Betty made me think of bushels of corn and Daisy Duke shorts. Veronica was the first Mean Girl, her hair so black and shiny it reflected blue. These hot girls actually got in fistfights over the kid who in real life would be dodging spitballs. When Archie strolled the halls of Riverdale High, girls at their lockers would have their eyes turn into throbbing hearts.


   Although I hung tight to Archie comics, my body was growing and soon I’d be buying posters of every guy with feathered hair–even putting a picture of the Fonze in a locket my grandmother gave me. If I were to choose a guy out of the pages of the comics, I’d choose the better looking “cad,” Reggie. Damn, that hair.

         The unattainable Parker Stevenson and Andy Gibbs of the world were on my wall, but hidden in my psyche was Archie. He represented everything that culture said wasn’t cool. His car, Betsey, broke down every few issues. Usually the gasket. His only close guy friend, Jughead, was a doofus who swam in the local swimming hole with his crown on.

         Archie didn’t play sports, but he could take the stage at school with his friends and play “Honey, Aw…Sugar, Sugar.” Other than that, he was sort of dense, yet the babes were all over him. It made no logical sense to a thirteen year old. But soon it will. Released last summer, a new reworking of Archie hit stands.

         Drawn by Fiona Staples and stories by Mark Waid, the new look is modern, attempting to snag new readership of the more sophisticated comic readers who have been presented with strong characters, especially by Marvel, in the last decade. A week after the release, I hit my small city’s comic book store. They had sold out of their 24 copies. Two stores later, I found one one. If the old Archie was one of the Brady boys, who didn’t have typical heartthrob looks but an innocence and humor that made girls tune in, then the new Archie is the boy band One Direction—slick bad boys who know a good hair product when they see one.

         This new Archie is buff, and dare I say, hot. His hair’s more pumpkin than orange, gelled up in a front swoop. His freckles aren’t circles but stippled dots. Even Jughead is transformed, now a sunken-eyed, deep brooding guy who might just be wearing guyliner.

         The first issue begins anew, introducing the characters. Archie says, “I’m not exactly the most interesting guy in town.” The writers know that’s not true and we do too. With his new coffee-shop guitar-playing sexuality, he’s sure to mess with the heads of girls like those who fell for the fictional Edward in Twilight.

         Archie comics has always had more of a female readership, so the creators are obviously catering to them. But with Amy Poehler, Serena Williams, and Lena Dunham helping shift tides, I thought we were headed towards an era where looks were secondary to talent and personality. Maybe this is the Magic Mike, Fifty Shades of Grey feminism that says, “We want eye candy, too.” Perhaps the reworked Archie is capitalizing on the delayed realization that, for females, fantasies are wrapped up in story.

         The old Archie confounded me. How did the mushy-muscled kid get those girls with just the strength of his personality? He burrowed in my mind as I moved on to Shawn Cassidy, working my way up to John Taylor from Duran Duran, culminating at the apex with Brad Pitt. They were guys I loved to look at, but I never knew their inner lives except what People magazine would dole out to me. They never pulled their pockets inside out to show how broke they were. They never fell and tripped in mud while the popular kids stood near, pointing and laughing.

         The confusion about how someone without Hollywood looks could attract glamorous girls didn’t eat away at me, it just remained there as one of the foundational curiosities of my youth. I didn’t have to figure it out. While my gurgling hormones pointed me towards jawlines and muscles, Archie kept his place as a steadfast that friend who I felt relaxed around.

         How will this new Archie affect readers? The art’s great, the stories modern and compelling. But will he travel with the readers through college and marriage and kids? Will mothers push the Summer Spectaculars into the hands of their daughters? With a new CW show of the franchise in the works, I think he’s going to go the way of the rotary phone and rabbit-eared televisions—a conversation that begins, “In my day…” Just another separation between generations.

         At twelve I never understood how a goofy, ginger got the girls, but now in my forties, I get it. I hope my daughters still get that lesson from somewhere.



Hot Jesus

A little story about Easter Past. It could’ve been Christmas, actually. I’m not sure. I do remember Jesus was there. And he was most definitely not a baby. Babe? Yes.


My parents and drove an hour South to a church in Fort Lauderdale that was putting on a pageant. We knew someone who had written some of the music, so we got to be in front row.

This church was one of the firsts to bring livestock in. Maybe it was a goat, or camel. Not sure, but I remember everyone gasping and being impressed. We were transported to the golden times where things smelled bad. And just like Christmas, the music started out with depressing songs–the world suffers in darkness y’all. Then the ending songs are all triumphant, and the horn players end up looking thrilled that they have something to do.

I don’t know what churches are thinking, but when they have someone playing Jesus, they always pick the hottest guy. They know damn well no one wants to dedicate their hearts to an ugo.

This Jesus was beyond hot. And since I was on the front row…we had moments. He saw me. I saw him. His long hair and my MTV Vee-jay hair spoke each other’s language. And, yeah, I guess it was Easter because he was shirtless. But then again, baby Jesus would have been shirtless. But he would not have had abs.

After the final song and the call to get saved and the retreat of the animals (which after 30 minutes were much less impressive because we all had to breathe through our mouths), the “cast” walked among us. When I stood up so I could walk past Jesus, who was talking to people (fans?), but still glancing at me, I felt a pop. It was not my heart.

Continue reading “Hot Jesus”