Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the tag “writing”

Willy (Wonka) Envy

Look but don't touch!

You can look but you can’t touch!

I had to admit it to My Man.

Like Charlie standing outside the sweet shop without money to buy a Wonka Bar, I was envious.

My Man had gotten The Golden Ticket of blogging. He had been Freshly Pressed.



I think this is what it was like for My Man to get Freshly Pressed.

My Man was excited, and rightly so. This was something he had been striving for since beginning blogging.

I admire him, because unlike me, he actually has blogging goals. I just kind of post an eclectic mess, in an extremely random fashion, thinking that maybe one day I’ll hit some sort of blogging payola.

My Man on the other hand, strives for a certain number of subscribers and views, and usually posts a certain number of days a week. He’s dedicated to his craft.

I’m just hanging around like Veruca, screaming every once in awhile like a spoiled brat, and licking the damn wallpaper.


That means immediately!!

That means immediately!!

And not only did I have to admit to My Man that the little green monster of envy had bitten my fat bottom when he was FP’d, I also had to admit to being visited by that damn thing called jealousy.

You know why? My Man has groupies.

I mean with a blog like his it’s to be expected. Every naughty little Catholic school girl for miles flocks to worship at his altar, led there by the search term, “What would Jesus Christ do?”. Wait. Maybe it was the search term, “What would Johnny Cash do?”. I always get that mixed up.

But Man In Black groupies, or “Sisters” with bad habits, either way, they adore him. They want to prostrate themselves and profess their undying devotion to his particular brand of religion. They’re willing to flagellate themselves in order to wash his feet, and kiss his ring, and open their mouths for him to place his “communion wafers” so delicately on their salivating tongues.

Me, purple with jealousy, because of all the Mary Magdalene's standing around my man.

Me, purple with jealousy, because of all the Mary Magdalene’s in training, standing around my man.

Bless him, I think, as I make the sign of the cross while kicking bitches out of the way to get to him, My Man is understanding of my envy of his Freshly Pressed status. As writers we all want to be acknowledged in that Golden Ticket way, and he doesn’t think I’m a slimy Slugworth to admit my envy of that status.

The jealousy he gets, but tells me it is quite unnecessary, as I am the only fat bottom girl who will lick his lolly.

And I’ve learned, that regardless of the female masses who adore him, at the end of the day, and the beginning, and in the middle, he’s My Man. He’s my Everlasting Gobstopper. He’s the one who every day, makes me feel like I’ve stolen a sip of a Fizzy Lifting Drink and that I can achieve new heights just because he’s there holding my hand.

***This is written all in good fun, as My Man is quite aware I am extremely proud of him, and adore his wicked sense of humor, his sexy brain, and also the python in his pants. He’s very talented, and I only hope I will have the pleasure of riding his coattails, and maybe a part of his anatomy, into a life filled with fame and fortune! And he is always there, supporting my writing, and as my muse. Some day, hopefully we will collaborate on a writing project, because we’re a dynamic duo and will kick some literary ass!

The Bad Bard

Poetry. Used to write tons of it. I don’t know if any of it was worth two shits, but I poured my heart out in verse in spiral notebooks.  It’s been years since I’ve written a poem, but Jason, over at Jasonwrites.com, has inspired my muse.  Also, a sense of sadness has come over me this afternoon and I can’t seem to shake it.  I am quite aware I am probably being overdramatic and worrisome, but it has to do with the new guy not contacting me all day.  But that’s best left to another entry regarding my insanity.  So, here goes!

Who are you,

and where did you come from?

Do I know you,

are you like all the others who have come before?

The ones who have






and then just left. . .

Left me here


To pick up all the


Can I



there is one good man

who is


I have ever desired?

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