Writing is transcendental. It is a form of expression, a form of art that you can take anywhere. That you can do anywhere. It poses the deepest questions in the universe. It generates emotion. It elicits empathy, promotes learning, creates an intellect you simply cannot get from any other medium. For me, it is air.

I strode toward Mr. Coffee with lust in my eyes. We'd had a thing for quite some time now Mr. Coffee and I.

I often question my sanity. Occasionally, it replies.

I pointed in the general vicinity of my left ovary, "This is Beam Me Up." Then to my right. "And this is Scotty." Garret chuckled and buried his face in his hands. He asked.

I lowered the gun but didn’t holster it. Not just yet. She could turn out to be psychotic. Or a door-to-door salesperson.

Surely my macking on some guy in an insane asylum wouldn't hurt him. He'd been living with his stalker, for heaven's sake.

I was never really certain why he scared the bejesus out of me. Nothing scared me growing up. I’ve been playing with dead people since the day I was born, so it’s good thing, yet the Big Bad scared me. Which brings me to the reason I called.” “Which was to give me nightmares for the rest of my life?” “Oh, no, that’s just a plus. Why was I so scared of him?” “Hon, for one thing he was this powerful, massive, black smokelike being.” “So, you’re saying I’m a racist?