She Was The Only Woman He Was

Love Wasn't The Soft, Silky Words The Poets Spoke Of. Love,with It's Twin Edges, Was The One Factor That Weakened So Many Women, That Pushed Them To Compromised Their Own Wants, Their Own Needs For The Needs And Wants Of Another.

People Who Say Not To Speak Ill Of The Dead Are Hypocrites, Because You Can Take It Ot The Bank They're Thinking Ill.

I Didn't Get Fired." "you Didn't Punch Your Boss And Get Fired From The Tribune? That's What I Heard." "i Punched What Could Loosely Be Called A Colleague For Cribbing My Notes On A Story And Since The Editor–who Happened To Be The Asshole's Uncle–took His Word Over Mine, I Quit." "to Write Books. Is It Fun?" "i Guess It Is." "i Bet You Killed The Asshole In The First One You Wrote." "you'd Be Right. Beat Him To Death With A Shovel. Very Satisfying.

I Was Just Trying To Get His Attention!" The Man Protested At The Top Of His Lungs. "if He'da Listened, I Wouldn'ta Had To Bash Him.

My Fondest Wish, I Suppose, Would Be To Die At The Keyboard Right After Finishing A Book, Perhaps With A Little Time Off To Have Some Really Good Sex. It's Not, 'oh, Thank God, This Is Book No. 250. I Can Die Now.'