For now, I shall only exist in the Land of the Internet, self-absorbedly bashing at the keyboard with my elbows while no-one listens.
But let's pretend that someone is listening. I shall (I don't know if I'm supposed to use shall, there. No letters, please, imaginary reader of this blogo-thingie. I know I'm pretending to be a writer, but as you shall soon learn, I have no idea about everything) call you Bertha, imaginary reader.
I was going to call you Jared or Daryavesh or some other handsome imaginary boyfriend type name, but as I am the wife of a real person (or AM I???), and because I don't want you to be too frightened just yet, I think it's best to stick with Bertha.
No-one could ever mistake a Bertha for someone you should end up in a loony bin for, eating crayons and crying about the oceans of time that someone who looks like Scott Cohen crossed for you.
But where was I? Ah yes, dearest Bertha. I was talking about Scott Cohen. And of course I could go on a large ramble here about His Eminence, but perhaps it would be better in this first post on my blogabamadoodad to warn you in advance about all the things you will probably hear a lot of, around these parts:
- Scott Cohen. He is handsome. He was Wolf in The Tenth Kingdom. He is tied up in my airing cupboard. Etc.
- Feet, which I find uncommonly amusing.
- Oceans of time. Handsome dudes cross them, you know.
- The Eighties. They honestly happened. I know- I can't believe it, either.
- My Demon Lover. The Greatest Film Of All Time.
- Probably some melodramatic feminist type stuff.
- Drooling and slathering over man-beef. Does this drool clash with the feminist stuff, you might ask. You might, but I also might think you're made of fools. Feminists don't grow manhole covers over their vaginas, no matter what The Daily Mail tells you.
- Discussions of Important Things, like Why Women Like To Write About Brothers Having Sex, and If The Moon Was Made Of Spare Ribs, Would You Eat It?
- Probable ravings about some TV show/film/book/manbeef I'm right into at the moment. If I seem to be foaming at the mouth, please do not call medical professionals. I will likely be onto something new tomorrow, like golf. Only never golf.
- Sex. Sex sex sexy sekzy swexy sex. Smexy smoodididoodle sex. I am, after all, a sex writer. That's correct, ladies and gentleman! I write porn! Large swathes of unadulterated, blazing, dripping, gushing porn! Cover your grandma's eyes! Put the kids away! Run, run away from crazy porn lady!
- Paeans. Mostly to manbeef. Some just to cool people.
- Things about superheroes.
- Things about the 19th century.
- Things that make you worry for my sanity.
- Oh, and some stuff about my tremulous and tentative writing """"career"""", that is just starting to find its footing like a new fawn with bits probably missing off it. One that has been shunned by the other fawns. One that fears it will never do deer things like all the other deers do because it is made of crap and feet. Etc.
There's other stuff, too, gentle Bertha, but I shall spare you for now. Until next time, and also after I've learnt how to do internet stuff like put pictures in places of anthologies I'm in and also pictures maybe of naked men, and the like,
Farewell.
All my love now and forever,
The Mighty Charlotte Stein
P.S. The Mighty is ironic. In case you were thinking of aiming a Death Ray at me.
