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So there I was sitting in a writing group, mindin’ my own business when someone suggested I should have a blog.  I appreciated the vote of confidence but was taken aback. Surprised because everyone in the group recognizes me, for the pompous, provocative, narcissistic ass I am.  Rather than facing the realization of their subordinate role, they conjure nonsensical images of being my equal. Well, being one that likes to strike while the iron’s hot, a year or so later, I asked my grandson to create one for me and he did.  A year after that and subsequent to reading one of my particularly stirring tales, a member of the group asked me how my blog was going. With confidence and firm resolve, I bolted out of the coffee shop and three months later started working with my grandson on it.  Well, we put some of my stories in it with a fresh and sparkling introduction from me. There I sat, an accomplished author, basking in my success and proud of my determined resolution to complete the task.


My grandson Alex, ever the rabble rouser asked me if I had any intention of anyone other than grandma and himself reading the blog.  Good Lord, I’m only human. Who does he think goes out to the porch every day for the mail. That beer in the refrigerator isn’t gonna drink itself.  


Up late one evening, I decided there couldn’t be much to it, so I decided to go to Facebook for the solution.  I have been admonished not to use any costly electronics after dark, including the computer or Iphone. The more mesmerized I become with the  computer or phone screen, the greater my  propensity to purchase ‘must have’ Cleveland Indian and Brown t-shirts, jerseys, sweatshirts and coffee/beer mugs.  But, I digress. I decided, unfortunately without adult supervision, to send a message to some people, including the web site to gain access to my trove of literary genius.  I found a place that indicated ‘group’ in the messaging area. Why send individual notes when I can reach a crowd, with one zap of my mouse?  This is where adult supervision comes in handy.   I went down the messaging list and zapped only my closest friends, as it should be and stopped at thirty-seven pals, still not knowing where in hell to type my message.  Unbeknownst to me, I sent notice to thirty-seven unsuspecting people, including the United Kingdom, Australia, Canada and a treehouse in Botswana where a graduate student of social ecology resides, they were now in a group.  Continuing the search for a place to type my message, the very gates of hell burst open.


Little heads rolled to the bottom of my computer screen, indicating a response from pals.  I panicked, what the hell should I do? “Adult supervision be damned, my ass,” I needed one.  “Just curious, what group am I in,” was the  nicest response I received. “Get me outta this group,”  “I’ll kill you,” “where’s the fifty bucks I loaned you in 1987?”  I found the method of messaging and sent them my website with a scant explanation.  The worst was yet to occur. After enough time elapsed, that a story(ies) could have been read, my heart was pierced with arrows of derision.  I received sleeping, emoticons. Standing on my front porch, I contemplate jumping, albeit only three feet to the ground, please appreciate the theater.

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