When asked about how I feel being a pariah, a low-life writer with the 30 worst-selling books on amazon to his credit, I always practice deflection, as Facebook likes evaporate and sales dry up and patrons turn away, "At least I'm not that asshole Randy Bracken. The putz still hasn't put out his first book..."
Posted on October 24, 2019 by randybracken
“Jem, I knew you come back! I love me flowers!” said the tiny cute one as she pointed to the vase of flowers he had sent the week before and he dropped his pack by the front door.
Bad City then asked Cute City if she was ready for her first ballet recital and she swiveled her hips, pointed a finger to heaven while the other hand rested on her hip—perched as she was on the arm of her soon-to-be stepfather’s new couch—and sang, “You got it, Baby!”
The little tyke then ran and got her stair-stepper for brushing her teeth and washing her hands in the big people sink, set it in the middle of the living room floor and said, “Let’s play elephant ride!” as she mounted the stair to nowhere and clapped her hands.
Bad City then groaned as he got on all fours and ambled over to the cute mahout’s stage and her grandmother groused, “You fool, you’d do anything she said,” reached into his pocket, took his wallet and said, “I’ll order some pizza for the elephant.”
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