Too Many Books

I've been feeling a little guilty lately. I think I'm sort of obsessed with my own blog. Seriously, I adore coming home for lunch in the middle of my workday. My plan is always to sit down and write. It's the perfect time to work. There are no distractions (other than the hungry rumble in my tummy) or reasons that I shouldn't be able to churn out a good amount of words before I head back to the world of checking account deposits and cash-in tickets. However, I find that when I come home for lunch, all I want to do is blog. My reader is full as a good girl's Christmas stocking, and then there's my own post -- just waiting to be written. Something alarmingly witty, for sure. Something that will generate the multiple comments I will hungrily read from my cell phone when I sneak out for a cigarette break at 4:00. So, I avoid the writing -- you know, of the fiction variety. I sit here, instead watching the text fill the blank screen of a New Po...

For those of you who read my TMI post yesterday , I have a confession to make: it was truth or scare in disguise. The entire story is true except the last paragraph. Though I was the waitress of the family in question, years after the camp events described, I did not contaminate their food with any of my bodily juices. Confessing that the end of the story is untrue is not very fun. In fact, I feel my ego deflating a bit as I type this now. I wish I was that person -- someone able to perform acts of sweet revenge. But, in my six years (plus) as a waitress, I never once messed with anyone's food. I mean, I may have peed once mid-shift and neglected to wash my hands, but let's be honest -- who hasn't done that a time or two? I'm crestfallen. Yesterday marks the first time I have fabricated a story for TMI Thursday. (It's way more fun to tell the truth.) I feel there is a penance to pay -- that I must redeem myself for the untruth that was told. I th...