I killed someone today.  And nobody will ever even know.  Well, just one person, but she won’t tell.  Let me see if I am brave enough to recount it for you.

Mean Girl:  You’re going to turn fifty in two weeks and you think NOW, all of a sudden out of the blue, you can try to make something of yourself with writing?

Me:  It’s not totally out of the blue.  I’ve tried my hand at writing before, you know.  But something always roadblocked me.

Mean Girl:  Something?  Typical.  Gotta have that scapegoat, doncha?

Me:   Well I know it seems like an excuse, but there were kids and divorces and deaths in the family and health issues – – mental health issues you know.  Can you keep that part to yourself, please?

Mean Girl: Hah!  Your children are so easy, it’s not even funny. What do you know of kiddy turmoil?  Good grades, no drinking, no drugs, nothing! And you were a stay-at-home mom, for God’s sake.

Me:  But there’s six.

Mean Girl:  Boo hoo – – try being a working mom AND raising kids.  Try being a widowed wife, working mom AND raising kids.  Try being a widowed wife, working mom, raising kids AND being diagnosed with breast cancer.  Try being…

Me:  I get it.  I see what you mean.  But don’t forget the mental health issues.  Those were hard.

Mean Girl:  Ohhh, right.  All that silly depression.  And your lovely, (most entertaining) thoughts of suicide.

Me:  There is such thing as a mid-life crisis, you know.  It’s legit.

Mean Girl:  You’re just fat, lazy, stupid, and dumb.

Me:  Stupid and dumb = same thing.

Mean Girl:   Google it, you idiot.  The fact that you don’t know the difference just proves how stupid you actually are.  Besides, that part needed emphasis.

Me:  You’re right.

Mean Girl:  Yep, reach for those chocolate chip cookies right about now.  Time to get even fatter.

Me:  I’m not.  I’m going to write instead.

Mean Girl:  Cough, cough.  Oh….My mistake.  I meant that jar of peanut butter.  And when you say “you’re going to write,” you’re using the term loosely.

Me:  That’s really unfair.  Certain people do enjoy my kind of writing.  My humor is . . .

Mean Girl:  So redundantly boring.  Insipid wordplay, cutsey-cheesy-corny titles, unrealistic, inane plots, ridiculous top-ten lists.  But it doesn’t even matter.  Who reads blogs anyhow?  It’s a totally moot point.

Me:  Well, I do have a few more followers these days.

Mean Girl:  Will wonders never cease?!  You know what? Just shove ten cookies in your mouth and call it a day.  Tomorrow you can start fresh.

Me:  Yeah, okay.  I bought some Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies – – they were for the kids.

Mean Girl:  LOL.  Seriously ?  And you’re fooling whom with that “it’s for the kids” crap?  I know.  They know.  We all know.  So eat them, already.

Me:  I could try taking a risk with my writing, blog about something different than my typical humor. Something meaningful to me in a more serious light?

Mean Girl:  I don’t think so, babe.  Even if you dared – – you’ve still got that old-age thing going on.  When are ya gonna do something about that?

Me:  What can I do about it?  Cosmetic surgery?

Mean Girl:  Nah, you’re way beyond that.  But here’s an idea that would kill two birds – – pun intended.  (I know how you love them puns.)  Kill yourself.  And then maybe, if you get lucky, some well-meaning friend or relative will talk up your writing and some of it will get more known, given higher regard. You know the whole “Unrecognized artists who only become famous after their tragic death” thing.  Google it.  It’s real, not an urban legend.

Me:  Yeah?

Mean Girl:  Yeah.  Sound good?  Or too chicken to even go that route?

Me:  Shut up.

Mean Girl:  Come again?  What’d you say?

Me:  Shut up.  Shut the hell up.

Mean Girl:  Oh, it’s getting interesting now.  A  big-talking loser.

Me:   You’re the loser.  What are you, like 15 years old?  Like the Mean Girl from middle school.

Mean Girl:  I WAS born in middle school.  Good job.

Me:  Born at age 15 – – thirty-five years is a long enough life for you.

Mean Girl:  Ya think?

Me:  Die.  Die, bitch.

Mean Girl:  You’re the one who feeds me.  You’ll have to starve me.

Me:  That’s too slow. I’ll put my hand over your stupid ass voice right now and squeeze the life outa you.

Mean Girl:  Yeah. Suffocation. Works every time.  If you have the guts.

Me:  Guts?  I hate your fucking guts. There’s no use for you around here anymore. You. Are. Dead.

Mean Girl:

Me:  There.  How was that?  That okay?

Therapist:  Well done,  Stephanie.  Well done.  It was self-defense.

Note:  This was an atypical posting for me.  My blog is humor based  (with an occasional anchoring of seriousness) so if you need a laugh after this, please see my most recent posting – – about the Academy Award nominated movie, “Her.”  Just click  HERE