Hey.

You stopped in because there is obviously something you feel you need to know about me.

I wonder.

Who really knows THAT much about anyone?

Once upon a time and all that yada yada, I grew up in the privileged village of Forest Hills, New York. You may have heard of it. Affectionately termed "Jew Central". Yes. I am one of THEM. I lived there during my first 13 years of life. The formative years. Had my mother only known, I can only presume she would have moved us out to Long Island ("Lawn-Guy Land") a hell of a lot sooner, while both of our mentalities were still intact.

I was a wild teenager. Not much irony there. I am certain that I aged my mother dramatically. However, a great hairdresser and primo chiropractor kept her looking sound. Her therapist may have another opinion.

I certainly do, but that's another book for another library.

Somehow, I managed to straighten myself out before I hit college. I have had and am presently having a very successful college experience. I suppose I should have done better while my parents were footing the bill all those years ago, but I do appreciate my education a LOT more now that I am paying for it.

I did the "married with children" thing. Twice. Both experiences were/are pretty interesting. I will refrain from comment on either, as my situation has more twists, turns and collisions than the Northern State Parkway during Rush Hour on Christmas Eve.

It's a New York thing.

No. I am not in New York now. Not for lack of want, mind you. I live in North Central Florida. Please note for the record my unmitigated lack of enthusiasm for this pathetic State. I do not see the rationalization in a young adult living here. This State is for the nearly dead. Or, those wishing to die. Senior citizens drive here at appallingly slow speeds and still manage to kill each other. The teens are given their licenses at 15. Whoever said New York was the scariest place in the world to drive has obviously never driven U.S. 19 during the early bird Senior Hour at Stacey's Buffet. Oddly enough, the buffet hour coincides with the dismissal of the local High Schools.

Coincidence? I think not.

I have two fabulous children. Yes. I am biased. It would be pretty moronic of either of us to think differently. I have a daughter who is a preteen version of The Nanny. She whines. I have a continuous congregation of purebred dogs outside my bay windows at all times. I imagine she hits some pretty distinctive pitches. It is those times I am grateful to be nearly deaf. Don't feel sorry for me. It's actually a gift to be able to tell someone you don't WANT to hear that you can't hear them, even when you have.

Okay, I admit. Sometimes, it is frustrating.

Anyhow, my daughter is a pretty terrific kid. You know the kind. The one that everyone wants to have stay over cause she cooks and cleans for them. Meantime, I can't get this SAME child to so much as discover a hanger. I don't mind it though. She makes me look good to the general public. Like I had a clue what I was doing while raising her.

Then, there is my son.

My three year old son is Damien incarnate. He even has fangs. Would come to you as little surprise to know this baby was born on Halloween. I am assured that under those sweet wispy curls lingers three little tiny "sixes". He is a hellion. He is all "mom". That is probably the only thing saving his tiny ass right now. I know that genetically, he cannot help being warped. I'm his mother.

'nuff said.

He is a good boy. Don't misunderstand. He is just mischievious *nice word for "hell on wheels"* He often makes me feel like I was hit by a truck. The same truck that had the audacity to pop it into reverse and roll back on over me a few times.

I consider him my full time job.

I don't work. I am a full time nursing student with three other degrees. I am a professional professional. I enjoy education. I love to learn. I ravage books like Valentino does lovers. End to end, cover to cover. Each delicious page slowly turned, suckled. Drawing each sweet word inward. My pleasure heightened with each subsequent chapter.

Whew. Damn. I love to read.

I am an internet freak.

A self professed junkie with no desire to hit the ol' methodone. I enjoy being online. I have deep meaningful relationships with people I can shut off. This would surprise everyone but my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Cohen.

She always knew I didn't play nice with others.

I am a writer. A poetess. I am an artist of the written word. I draw inspiration from the great Maya Angelou and the erotic and always provocative Erica Jong. Writing has saved my life on more than one occassion. I am very anti-therapy. Pretty ironic for someone who is majoring in psychology. I know I would make a fascinating case study for some poor grad student. It is in times of dire desperation that I have turned to the written word for solace and comfort.

I have yet to be disappointed.

As you peruse my pages, You will stumble upon some of my work. You will also probably look to have me committed. I write a lot about blood, gore, beatings, malignant relations between men and women, and I am obsessed with sex. I love to write poetry about orgasms. To me, an orgasm is about as close as you can get to insanity without having to be corrected with medication. You make faces. Your make noises. You twitch.

Sounds pretty psychotic to me.

Yet, I find something beyond the act itself to be inspiring. It is that which I write about. A heightened sense of self. A oneness with yourself. You don't necessarily need a partner with you to experience that. It is something you can discover on your own, and your lovers shall only benefit from your self actualizations.

Just wash your hands before touching the keyboard.

For those of you who came here to obtain my stats, I apologize. After 3 years online, 2 actively chatting, I have decided that none of you really need to know what my stats are. I have a photo album page floating about in the Lair that will give you a pretty accurate look at me. Feel free to download them, print them out and then write me a little email on the blatantly lascivious things you did while they were in your possession. I can always use another whacko in my life.

I collect them you know.

For those of you who INSIST on stats, I will divulge being female, being in my early 30's and having bodacious tata's that are heinously small compared to the size of my intellect.

You figure it out.

the above statement fills the daily recommended allowance gratuitous
sex quotient required on female homepages to maintain the unwarranted
interests of cyberstalkers and various other freaks.


I could continue blathering on incessantly. I am sure you could think of nothing more intriguing than to sit here and listen to me all day long. However, it is at this time I will have to discourage that notion and suggest that you move on to other places within the Lair. They are not ALL this dark, in background or content for that matter.

What can I say? I prefer the macabre.

Enjoy your stay in the Lair. Feel free to come back and abuse me anytime. My therapist swears it will keep my humble.

My therapist is a manic depressive because of me.

Bye.



_________________ UPDATE 12/29/01 _______________

I am here only because Geocities has threatened me that if I don't make some little touchups here and there and prove to them that people are actually using their sites, that they are going to remove my little piece of the cyberworld. Hell, I've had this site here since 1996. Removing me would be like the removal of the White House. I am a National Icon, Dammit. A legend in my own mind, if you will. Anyway, I don't have anything to say to any of you. My son is three years older. So is my daughter. So am I. Other than that, time moves on...and so do we.
You still here?
It's over.
Go home.
Go.







_________________ UPDATE 01/15/04 _______________

Okay. So nothing really ever ends, does it? It just reformats itself into a new beginning. I really have nothing more to say at this point. I am three years older than the last post. So are my kids. Notice that I seem to do this every three years or so? Patterns. Interesting in their predictability once they are figured out, no? Oh yeah. I'm married again. I seem to do that every three years too. I might just keep this one. He's pretty damn sexy, I have to admit. Who knows. Ask me again in two more years. Alright. Be gone with you. Scat. Shoo. Leave. Poof.



"I'm tough, ambitious, and I know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, okay."
~Madonna

The Lair, please.