And what’s in a name?

When I have time and can get my thoughts together, I’ll tell you the story of a woman who lives next door to me.

I call her Boozy McDrinkerton.  D calls her Drinkie McBoozed.

She probably has a little Scotch in her. 

And a little beer.

And a little Vodka.

She can stay drunk for days at a time, can entertain scores of men over what seems like mere weeks, and much to her surprise can’t hold down a job. She’s two years younger than me, looks fifteen years older, and believes we should get along because we’re both Sags.

We don’t. I don’t like manipulative drunks.  I don’t like anyone who hangs around because she needs smokes or booze or someone to hold her hair while she complains about her life being in the toilet. 

It’s a long, sad tale and I want to get the details just right. You often hear of people who aren’t long for this world and you may wonder why someone else didn’t step in sooner. It’s because some people can’t be saved.  Forget the faniciful spec fic tales of time travelers swooping in to be kind-hearted to the town drunk only to discover later at the end of the tale that they’ve fostered William Shakespeare.  It doesn’t work that way.

Please keep in mind that if you are in need of saving, I am not the person to come to.  My circle of friends is fairly tight as it is and I don’t collect strays.  As friendly and smiley as I can be, deep down inside, I really do not care, especially when you prove time and time again that the life you’re living is being wasted because the exciting stuff isn’t happeneing fast enough.

But anyway … later.

And then I’ll tell you about my weekend at Wizard World Chicago in the company of my writing partner, RJ.  We could have gotten into more trouble,  but we were pressed for time.

This job thing is keeping me from being all talkey on the interbutt.

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