A demon was asking me what I wanted. My eyes flicked to Al, and he shrugged. “What do you want?” he said softly.

I suddenly realized that a bunch of my friends needed babysitters and vowed to start screening my calls.

Puppy presents on the rug. This sucked.

This is about Ku’Sox, isn’t it,” I said, more of a statement than a question. He made a sighing groan, and I knew it was. “Then you’ve met,” he said, his thoughts clearly on the day-walking demon. “Funny, you don’t look dead.” His hand touched my chin, shifting it so he could see where I’d been pixed, the blisters itchy and red. “I’m surprised you survived the little designer dump. I nearly didn’t.

Actually, I am kind of busy right now,” I drawled as I settled back into the chair and closed my eyes. “You have to make melanin while the sun shines.

that was humanity's problem right there. they are brain damaged from the early sun

I wish I could say I write 9-5. It's usually more like 8-6, every day but the weekends.