I would be a poor host if I didn’t gather up SOME semblance of content now that the site has been vaguely restored (I have not the skill nor the remaining friends to replace the glorious image based header menu), yet while I am decidedly unwealthy AND not a host of any sort, content I shall provide.

Content in the piss poor excuse for life updates that is, the thing I am eternally surprised people either give a shit about, or seek as a reassurance theirs isn’t quite as misshapen.

Many things have transpired since we last spoke children, many things.

What of novelling?

Usu was published as a drastic push of the down key will show you, and I’ve not been idle hands since. My third novel has long since been finished, my publisher however…….MIA. To make things grander still, the publisher submission dance I’ve been doing for 2 years regarding the third novel has reached the point where I don’t actually have any publishers open to submissions left to be rejected by. Following said rejections, I’ve started to waver on my confidence in the (twice as long as Usu) work or my ability at all for that matter. Private sharing has given mixed reception. Old editor hated it and then grew to like it after slaving away at my typos, Swedish modblogger felt middling about the whole affair, about 3-4 trusted people just never got back to me about it and the one person who truly, genuinely loved it with all her heart………killed herself a week after reading it. Rimshot? Needless to say friends lavishing praise wouldn’t change a publisher’s opinion in the slightest, but they might make me feel somewhat less shit about using two years of my life on something I still feel is very special, even if only one other person also thought so thus far.

I dabble in a fourth work half-heartedly at the moment. That may improve if my living friends actually start pulling through and let me know if I made a pile of shit or a glorious beacon of faecal majesty, or I might just finish it out of spite anyway. Did you notice an underlying theme there? That’s write!

What’s with all the deathy-weathy whatnots?


A damned good question! In the last two years I’ve had two of my closest friends kill themselves. Dante, the chap who thought of this site’s name and Blue, the only reason I was ever brave enough to write in the first place. Dante wasn’t talking to me because of silly reasons I had long since declared silly, but I still worried about him often, bragged about him to strangers and sent him the self-absorbed gift of a signed novel copy. I had figured he’d get over it eventually and talk to me normally one day. Yeah that didn’t work out.

Blue hits even harder, and while it’s shitty to compare such things, it needs to be said. Blue was someone I knew from Modblog. Who gave shits about me…when I didn’t even give shits about me. Blue was a glue for a small group of us who considered her family, and given her family history, I think she considered us family too. Me, Janna, Mika and Luk all connected with Blue, and through her each other. Hell, I braved THE OUTSIDE to stay with Blue and Janna for a week. Partially because perving at Janna (A Swedish redhead out of everyone’s league) was unavoidable bait, but mostly because spending time with them was………actually important.

Fuck, conditions were hellish. I always had respect for Blue, but her life was harder than she would ever let on. Purely solar power, a half destroyed bathroom, borehole water and the kindness of neighbours feeding her (and us) most nights. But I was even more fucking proud of her when I saw all that. She was fighting mental health woes from childhood and back, a loveloss that burned eternal (on that we often compared notes), failed treatments that went as far as shock therapy and conditions of dire times. Yet she was so strong. She took on the burdens of others and rarely ever spoke of her own. Instead being a rock for the few I mentioned above, without even asking for a pebble to herself.

So now me and another friend are super weird and still send her messages on Whatsapp. A sort of therapy I call it, until I see those grey ticks go blue in a few years and shit gets real.

We expected it, just not as soon as it was. It’s particularly weird when a suicide leaves you with a confused mishmash of anger and understanding.

But what of your failed social life stories we all so adore?

More of those than you can count dear paragraph of morbidity skipping reader! They range from a lass claiming to be in love with someone else after the first date……..only to appear boosted on the same dating app later that day, to a very intelligent and otherwise impressive one INSISTING SHE DROWN MY SPHYNXES IN A RIVER. Needless to say as crazy cat lady myself that……….is where even I draw a line.

Then there’s a half-date at someone’s shared apartment where I ended up having more conversation with the extremely aggressive gay best friend, was almost forced to sleep over and was allowed to touch a traditional Native-American scalping knife as a goodbye gift before being very passively ghosted for the next several months.

More?! Along with my illness(es) my teeth have been internally destroyed (no saliva means bad shit yo) to the point of a full replacement. Whilst I’m undergoing the shitty top half now (and am in sexy dentures), when I was on the bottom phase I did warn one charming girl in question that I may lisp a little but was determined to give things a shot. Irony struck when she had a speech issue to point of mouth frothing. Actual mouth frothing. But I do not judge as you know (or have low standards) and was primed and ready for the……..ghosting that followed!

Ultimately a problem I’m having more and more is that I am (however shitty you may declare) a writer. An author. A wordyperson. This is my domain, my strength, my weapon. I’ve almost become completely dull to the amount of times women have been “falling for me” or “obsessed” before meeting me in person, simply because I know my written words are the better part of me. My personality is no different, and dare I say I’m even more dramatic and eccentric in person, but I’ve had far too many smitten with the “idea of me” than the “reality”. Oh did I sneak a final paragraph of minor existential crisis on you there? Worry not! I plan to continue my rejection train, especially since there is so much entertainment in my eternal folly.



Suggesting a publisher, asking for a rough manuscript because you are a vague fan and have no faith in my future and even supplying me with self-immolating essentials are all welcome things.


Because I’m a comment-fearing sissy manly man, you’d do that in an email. The UFAQS hold the secret.

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Time Drabble

Importing sucks ass. You’ve noticed that I’m sure. Maybe 1/100 images actually work (largely because Ubuntu has some sort lingering hatred towards allowing wordpress – and basic file permissions – to function) and about 0/10000 links do.


Of course I seem to have time warped to when the world was still a happy place for most of us (2015), briefly before we entered the darkest timeline. A timeline where my domain was held hostage (until they realised how worthless it is!), some questionable people gained supreme power and two dear friends commited suicide consecutively. Proper whine on all that later, maybe.


Self-Promotional-Bullshit Syndrome


You know I had an entry for this, a glorious, humourus and adequately estranged one at that, but along with everything else being annihilated on the website (more on that later kids!) it seems I was wise enough to make that the one entry I didn’t initially save as a file. So you, yours and sometimes someone else’s are left to deal with an unusual mashup post instead.

First and most important, was the declaration of celebratory celebrations at Usu – my beloved life’s work until whatever I manage next – has *finally* reached public publication and world-wide retail release! Granted your chances of finding it in American bookstores are higher than those near me (something I take pride in) but both physical and digital copies are being sold in online stores pretty much everywhere at this point, and the reviews are soul-crushingly glowing. Few. Micro-biotic in their….fewity…..but glowing enough to make up for any sort of penile dysfunction related depression that fact may or may not cause when it one day comes time for a woman to have bad/drunk enough judgement to see me trow dropped and all.

My luck being mine of course has caused some irksome compliments, such as ALMOST being nominated for a Hugo award (well, almost considered to be nominated to be fair) but disqualified because of the publication date dance. This also happens to be the only dance I’ll go near with out being electrically prodded.

Wait wait, you want to buy the book?! Of course you do savvy public reader who is in no way influenced by my attempts at manipulation! Physically (and the physical copy is gorgeous – no small thanks to my editor, mysterious copy editor, foreign printererer or Swedish cover art couple)  you could:

Amazon (US)

Amazon (UK)

Loot (ZA)

Exclusives (ZA)


(Asking your local bookstore to order it in is ALSO a valid option, as I’ve cowered behind bookshelves as people did just that)

And if the digital desire makes you perspire:





But look there’s more! Remember how I said more on the post loss later? Well you’ve come to that bitter, childish almost ranty section through sheer diligence and scroll wheel mastery at long last my fair poppets. I suppose the simplest explanation would be low-level extortion, or an attempt at it least of all. See my glorious webhost iPage (Fuck iPage) decided randomly to destroy my database, theme files and cordon off my website because of supposedly “malicious files”. Oh but it gets much much better! IF and only IF I paid them an additional sum every month they would “unlock” the secret of not destroying my files without permission, dictating what I could or could not host on the site and allowing me to actually back things up properly. I of course did not take particularly kindly to their……………….bravado………..and was simply ignored with a “If I was you I would get an anti-virus for your pc lol” as the classy climax. This all had the extreme fortune of occuring just after my most recent post, and SEVERAL quality improvements I made on a few sections of the website.




QUITE a bit of the site may still be broken, I’m having to manually fix every single page (several hundred) as for some delightful reason importing even my 2013 archives decided to append “11” to the end of every image link, an 11 that is about as appropriate as sleeping with someone that age.



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Almost But No Qatar

Long-time readers (ha!) may know that the only thing more consistent than my ability to inconsistently update this blog is my ability to briefly mention doing so in the opening paragraph, somehow insulting my genitals and quickly moving on to larger topics.
The HORRENDOUS/GLORIOUS title pun sway you not, I have no interest in sport politics or sport in general (BIG SURPRISE) perhaps leaning back to my last memory of soccerballfoot being of me, a mere 7 years birthspawned, kicked in the face and breaking what a paramedic would doubt is my nose.

But let’s get to the exciting bits that don’t involve childhood trauma or sexual inadequacy, few as those may be. A rather terrifying amount of things have occurred since we last exchanged letters by the lighthouse and you insisted on that weird thing with the goats. More romantic failures than I’m able to keep count of at this point, relatively par for the course by now.
One example was an ex-wife of a serial killer (but now now don’t you judge or I’ll put you right outside with the fucking Thatcher skulls) who was rather….amazingly well adjusted all things considered. So well that I had my first SECOND DATE in half a decade! A second date that sadly involved me being forced to watch the authorial vomit turned film of 50 Shades, a err “couples chair” for the duration of the only proof authors worse than me can get published and a surprise snog attack from her at the goodnight point. All well and dandy right? BUT NAY MORTALS NAY! 3 days nearing 4, I received a delightful rejection text of “We’re rushing things let’s just be friends k lol”. It was an attempt to let me down easy no doubt, although not a very good one.
BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE! Mere month past another mysterious lass manifested, agreed to meet me and got rather blasted on six glasses of wine and…some sort of ice glass trick I’m not cool enough to understand. Hiccup attacks struck her, I assured I was not ashamed or embarrassed, she had to run but not before a drunken snog attack in the middle of a packed restaurant, followed by a “I CAN’T SEE ANY GUYS” let down message but one day later.
Of course this all points to my FLAWLESS taste in women, but perhaps the bitching of a 28 year old virgin should enter a lull around this line.
IN OTHER NEWS THAT ISN’T REALLY NEWS: My lair was EXTENSIVELY upgraded recently, allowing far more room for human waste disposal and general dominance over me by a population of nudist cats. Slightly more exciting is Usu – my beloved first mass market novel you’ll ignore – is launching on June 23rd. I do get more royalties from digital sales, but I’d still encourage people to waste their income on the physical copies because I’m a sentimental bitch like that.
The pre-release reviews are……………….few for now, but extremely flattering. For those actually curious it should hit most US retail stores, international stores that listen to my publisher’s distributer and of course the last resort of Amazon. I am ironically still waiting for MY copies of the book to arrive. No doubt lost in terrible local mail service, but either way I plan on assaulting local book stores and re-arranging it into slightly less shitty placements, which you of course will do as well.
I spent the past few weeks trying to track down the “inspiration” for Usu, which your floundering grasp of English no doubt suggests is a person, if only because I just said so. A person, a tragedy, an event fully chronicled if you actually explored the site for once but we’re all lazy shits so I’ll digress from digressing. Attempts to track her down were not because I think things can ever work out there, or hold any hope of closing that old wound. Rather because I promised myself I’d write Usu /for her/ 10 years ago almost to the day, and what value of it if the person who needed to read it most never did? Yet my search was fruitless, something I expected given the privacy centric individual. Names, email addresses, even cell numbers and my own abilities to find and creep out women through single photographs (I shouldn’t confess quite how many times I’ve done that however) all fell to silence. Yet perhaps one day the book will still reach who it was originally intended for, I’ve an odd feeling about that – or meningitis. Probably the latter.
Usu became much more than “just that”. Don’t think I wrote some personalised inside joke drivel, those 10 years were spent crafting a world that, while inspired by a personal tragedy, is a creature all of its own. Each night after sniffing my lucky panties goodnight, I would piece together fragments of something stirring inside me. Stitching together wound and word. Ultimately creating something I’m actually proud of for once. Also the YEAR OF EDITING by people completely not me helped quite a bit I suspect, so much so I’m paradoxically grateful to my publisher and editors. It’s surely just business isn’t it? Yet they’ve clearly taken a chance on me, and believe in the story as much as I do.

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