Just when you think you’ve got your entire life in order, your Mother wins tickets to a Barry Manilow concert. I have been a closet Fanilow ever since the bygone days of the late nineties when my highschool best friend played me MANDY on vinyl one day after school, while we were having cookies and milk! EVEN NOW at the ripe old age of twenty nine, I was literally the *youngest* person in the audience, but still I was proud to wear my little Manilow shirt and hat, proud to sing along with the man who wrote the songs that made the whole audience sing! I will remember it for the rest of my life!

Barry Manilow turned seventy last June and WOW! I’m telling you, I was blown away! I couldn’t have been happier at the COPACABANA! A seventy year old man up on the stage, wearing a shiny suit and boogying around with a set of go go dancers while fireworks go off all around the stage? You have to see this to believe it! It could almost be magic and you can’t help but smile with the Manilow!

But then! Something wonderful happened!

Barry Manilow pointed directly at ME and he said, “BRIANNE! THIS ONE’S FOR *YOU*!”

Well, he kind of pointed in my general direction and maybe he didn’t say *exactly* that, but he may as well have because he gave me just the advice I have been waiting to hear:

“BRIANNE! This is BARRY MANILOW! If you’re getting up every day and going to a job you hate, don’t DO that. If there’s something that you love doing, DO THAT! Look at ME! I’M BARRY MANILOW! *I* came to New York with nothing and no backup plan and I risked everything because I knew what I wanted to do! But look at what glorious, wonderful things have happened! OH, YES! I MADE IT THROUGH THE RAIN! Now I’m BARRY MANILOW!”

It was like hearing the voice of GOD speaking directly to me, even though we were probably just two ships passing in the night!

Then he mumbled something about bad it was going to be to be responsible the next day when everyone quit their jobs, but I wasn’t thinking about that! Barry Manilow’s message rang loud and clear!:

“Get rid of all your backup plans. Write books all day. Risk everything.”

But *I* am NOT Barry Manilow. Not even close.

Barry Manilow was born BARRY ALAN PINCUS and as for going “to New York with nothing and no backup plan”, it’s not like he went far~ he was raised in Brooklyn, he probably just took a bus. By my age, he was already writing and singing tv jingles~ he was stuck on Band Aid Brand and he was State Farm’s good neighbor. He helped McDonald’s tell all of America it deserved a break.

I didn’t even know that. The man is just full of surprises.

Now Barry Manilow, I am warning you! I have listened to your music for years and I have trusted you faithfully, but I’ve gambled everything because of you and I have followed you down this blind alley like a trusting puppy! It’s been several months now, there are no book deals yet and I have not seen a dime. Not one measly dime. I haven’t even sold a comma.

Maybe I should write Barry Manilow and ask him for the 25 grand I need by MAY FIRST, 2014 to fund my Patty Columbo project? Now THAT would be a miracle! I’M READY TO TAKE A CHANCE AGAIN!

After all, Barry Manilow got me into this mess! I feel he should accept responsibility for telling me to quit my job while he threw glitter everywhere to blind me into listening. That really wasn’t fair.

Thank you for reading. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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This One’s For YOU, Mrs. Robinson!

Oh, Mrs. Robinson! We’ve all seen the movie! We’ve laughed! We’ve cried! All our hearts have jumped as Benjamin Braddock pounds desperately on the church glass, screaming, “ELAINE! ELAINE!”

But oh! Mrs. Robinson!

You were no monster! In all seriousness, what did YOU ever do that was so bad? Honestly! This is a question I don’t imagine very many people think to ask, but what did YOU ever do that any other unhappy, neglected woman wouldn’t have done herself?

You were no villain! Never!

It’s about time we all took a look at this classic “love story” from YOUR side!

* * *

When we first meet you, you’re already a miserable, lonely woman! A *bored housewife*, if you can imagine anything worse! I’d blow my own brains out if it happened to me! What happened to you, Mrs. Robinson?! Once you were young! Once you had dreams! ONCE you loved LIFE! ONCE you loved ART!

But then! Mr. Robinson happened!

OH, NO! Poor girl, knocked up in the back of a Ford! Trapped in a loveless marriage forever! Stuck all by yourself in a hollow, beautiful home night after night [after night after night] with a marvelous wardrobe, a well stocked bar and a totally rockin’ bod that old hubby boy couldn’t care less about! You were undesired! Unloved! You had separate bedrooms and that yahoo you married was probably off screwing half the tramps in LA! You must have been the lonliest woman in the world!

But wait! Looky here!

The young, corruptible son of the old battle ax’s law partner is back from school! A young Dustin Hoffman? Oh, who could resist? Those eyes! Those dimples! That scuba suit! That sexy, shaggy nineteen sixties haircut!

Whattaman! OH, MY!

I don’t blame you, Mrs. Robinson. I don’t blame you at all.

It was about time somebody looked at your legs!

* * *

Maybe the way you handled it was a bit RATTY, but come on; the kid wasn’t catching on. Nowadays every young male’s fantasy is to be seduced by a Mrs. Robinson, but this poor kid was so shy and naiive, you had to be blunt. STRIPPING was a bit excessive, but it made for a great effect and let’s face facts: IT WORKED!

You got your kicks all summer, sneaking around to the Taft Hotel and rolling around in your husband’s bed, but the kid was young, he needed to believe in fairytales~ he wanted to TALK and GET TO KNOW YOU and BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. All you wanted was to get your rocks off in a cold motel room and now he wants to talk about your past and your future and your daughter? He wants to know about your FEELINGS?

WHINE . . .
WHINE . . .
WHINE . . .

That was too much, you didn’t want him sticking his nose into your personal life! You asked him for ONE measly favor: “DON’T TAKE OUT MY DAUGHTER!” Simple as that.

It seems like a small thing, you don’t nail the mother, then date the daughter; that’s gross. Yet his parents force him into it and for YOUR sake, he did try to throw the date. How any girl can fall for a boy who takes her to a drive in and a strip club, I’ll never know, but she did. The rest is history.


If there was any kind of a pivotal moment where they fell into deep, all consuming, can’t-live-without-you love, I missed it. If they fell into any kind of love at all, I still missed it. Nothing great or earth-shattering happened! There were no shooting stars, no fireworks! No love poems, no balcony scenes! No chocolates, no flowers! Nothing! Not ONE lousy carnation! Talk about BLAND! I’ve seen commercials for DISNEY movies that were more romantic! Hell. I’ve seen long distance commercials that were more romantic!

They had ONE crappy date. ONE! Then for some demented and mysterious reason, your shy, inexperienced stud muffin vows he’s going marry the ONE person in the world you’ve asked him not to?

Oh, hell no.

What a creep! REALLY! There are seven billion people in this crazy world and out of all of them, he wants to marry your daughter? Your own flesh and blood? Mrs. Robinson, that is dumb. That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard.

He was never courting her or persuing her, he was stalking her and it wasn’t a bit romantic. Following her to Berkley? That’s STALKING. Following her and a date to the zoo? That’s STALKING. Showing up to a wedding where he wasn’t invited, banging on the church glass, screaming and acting like an escaped mental patient? Ruining the whole ceremony and pissing everyone off? At first blush, it may *seem* romantic . . .

But nope. It’s stalking.

Don’t you think there was maybe a better time they could have discussed this? ANY other time? No offense, Mrs. Robinson, but Elaine has got to be a little crazy in the head. The wedding could not possibly have recovered from such a catastrophic interruption and instead of even trying to save face, she runs off with the maniac? Alienates her entire family and her fiance to marry the nutbag stalker she had ONE date with? Because THAT’s not crazy?

It doesn’t add up. Elaine Robinson is a buffoon.

So what are you left with now? Your daughter has run off with your young lover, you’ll never see them again. Your hubby knows all about your illicit summer affair, you’ll probably be out on your ass soon. Your friends will all turn against you and you’ll be left nowhere with nothing, cloaked in shame and humiliation the rest of your life.

Then on top of all that, you still have to pay for the wedding! My heart is breaking for you!

* * *

So there. THAT’s what I think of that super romantic “love story”. Next time it’s showing, don’t bother inviting me.

Now in conclusion, let’s all shed a tear for poor Mrs. Robinson. She’s probably working at a McDonald’s somewhere. Poor girl.


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PATTY COLUMBO!: My New Favorite Serial Killer!

Just when you think you’ll never love another serial killer, your mom mentions she went to school with one MISS PATTY COLUMBO! Never heard of her? Neither had I, but she’s worth Googling a time or two. Who is she? Let me sum up:

Partricia Columbo was a nineteen year old girl from my hometown of Elk Grove Village, Illinois. She was living with a thirty-seven year old married man her father was not too fond of and the Reader’s Digest version is that she and her boyfriend [Frank Deluca] decided to pay the family a nice little visit one night . . . with a shotgun. They needed the inheritance money and daughter dearest was blissfully unaware she’d been written out of the will. Frank shot Daddy in the back of the head, then pretty Patty beat him with a bowling trophy and stabbed his chest with a lit cigarette. They surprised Mommy in the bathroom and shot her between the eyes, killing her instantly. Patty didn’t need to, but she slit her throat anyway. Then they went to see her thirteen year old brother, Michael, where Frank shot him and daddy’s little angel stabbed him 87 timed with a pair of sewing scissors.

Or something like that.

Personally I have no idea how she thought she was ever going to get away with this, so I decided to write her myself and ask for an interview. I know it’s long, but I hear she doesn’t get much mail these days; they get bored in the pen and just adore long letters! I tried my best not to offend her, but what can you say to a person who slew her whole family without hitting some sort of nerve? I still tried my best! I sincerely hope this one writes back!:

Dear Patty Columbo (or TRISH, as I’ve heard you now prefer),

Hey, lady! What’s happening in the slammer? My name is Brianne Sloan and I am a writer in St. Augustine, Florida. I am quite excited to be writing you, as I love serial killers in a freaky sort of abnormal way. It’s actually quite disturbing to people at times, but I can’t get enough! Night Stalker?! Old Bundy Buddy?! Grandfather Albert, Ed Gein? Rodney Alcala (now HE’s a fun one, I gave up dating *forever* because of him!)? Paul and Karla? Myra and Ian? David Berkowitz, Jeffrey Dahmer??? I LOVE THEM!

Mention the Zodiac Killer, I get goose pimply all over!

This has been going on for years, but in twenty nine years of America’s Most Wanted and murder documentaries on the Discovery Channel, you were never mentioned to me! Not once! All those sleepless nights I spent Googling the Unibomber and John Wayne Gacy? Anthony Larette?! In all those years, my MOTHER never saw fit to mention PATTY COLUMBO to me! The “serial killer” she went to high school with! The one who slaughtered her entire family just a few blocks from our house!

The story came up while we were having drinks with a cousin she hadn’t seen in twenty years, they just started talking about you like it was the most natural thing in the world! WHAT?!? My mother KNEW a serial killer?! PERSONALLY!? And she never told me?!? Even in the face of my raging serial killer obsession?

I have to tell you, Patty~ I was almost offended!

(please don’t be disturbed by the term “serial killer”, it’s just what they call a person who murders three or more people in a relatively short period of time; ONE NIGHT seems “relatively short” to me!)

I grew up in Elk Grove Village, my Mom went to school with you. Her name was Susan McCoy and you worked at Walgreens with her sister. She’s Kathy Groh now, but she used to be Kathy McCoy and your boyfriend was her boss. Small world. We lived on Cumberland Circle West, in a split level ranch with the exact same layout as yours~ two bedrooms upstairs, laundry room downstairs, my Grandma complained every day she did the wash! I still wear my Mom’s ELK GROVE HIGH, CLASS OF ‘75 shirt!

We have a lot in common, Miss Columbo. I have a little brother myself and I’ll admit there have been days when I have indeed wanted to stab him 87 times with a pair of sewing scissors . . . or a fork . . . or a pair of needle nosed pliers, or whatever was handy. Also the brother of one of my uncles (not a blood relative) murdered his parents and dumped them behind a Domino’s; I think we’ve all been there!

And YOU might be my new best friend!

* * *

Let me explain: I have been planning and outlining a book on how I was sucked into an imaginary “relationship” with a coldblooded sociopath and how it took me two years to detatch the whiny leech (something YOU may also understand, the dangers of letting someone like that into your life; you have to poison the well and trick them into leaving YOU if you ever want your freedom back, it’s like giving a dog flea medication) and I announced a book project on my blog. I was so very excited about it, but I soon found out he’d been married only a month before I ran that article . . .

So NOW I look like a crazy bitch!

I’ve decided to hold off on that project, I believe it’s the only HUMANE thing to do. I have morals, I have manners and the unsuspecting bride obviously has no idea about what she married or what kind of sick and twisted family she’s married into; I’ll let her have at least the honeymoon phase before I start exposing her new husband as the antichrist. It’s the least I can do for that poor girl, she will be miserable for years to come~ it’s inevitable, I can’t bring myself to ruin what precious little happiness she is ever, ever going to have. I decided to write a book on something a bit more PLEASANT . . .

Like PATTY COLUMBO and her *own* psychopath boyfriend (who seems a lot like my guy, to be honest) . . . who plotted for eight months to brutally murder a whole family in the middle of the night, in a sleepy Chicago suburb where nothing fantastic or exciting EVER, EVER happens!

TA DA! That’s where YOU come in!

I want to tell the REAL story. I have been reading everything I can on you for a little more than a month now and I am beyond, beyond fascinated~ this is some prime time stuff! I have Googled you in every possible manner, seen all the pictures! I read Women Behind Bars, Love’s Blood and everything . . . but nothing told me what I really wanted to know.

I don’t want to know about the murders themselves, I’ve looked at those from every angle, upside down and backwards; from the bowling trophy to the cigarette burns to setting the thermostat to 97 degrees to hasten decomposition, I’ve read it a million times. There’s nothing new there and if there is, the world will never know; you say you can’t remember that night and if you secretly can, you’ll never admit it. Even a killer has pride! Though certainly you remember PLANNING it!

A nineteen year old murderer? My god! How does that HAPPEN!?


* * *

Look, I’ll level with you~ when I was nineteen, I TOO committed a crime. I didn’t plot for eight months, but I plotted for about eight minutes and stole a pair of jeans and a bra from the Dillards in the Avenues Mall. It was all together worth about thirty bucks and hardly, hardly worth the events that followed, but I still remember seeing that cop waiting for me before I got to the exit. In that one moment, all was lost~ I simultaneously had the impulse to run, cry and throw my arms around the arresting officer! In a second, I felt my heart deflate and all hope just wooshed out of it! THIS is why:

Shoplifting was the kind of thing teenagers did all the time with little to no consequences. No nineteen year old thinks of themselves as an ADULT yet, but all the same, next I knew I was sitting in BIG GIRL JAIL! Before a judge in handcuffs and shackles! In an inmate sweatshirt . . . and PIGTAILS!

I think that’s kind of the same thing.

Like me, you probably didn’t realize how BAD what you were doing was, the finality or the enormity of it and you certainly didn’t realize you were going to get caught. You obviously weren’t aware you’d been written out of your parents’ will and I guess you just saw a means to an end. Their life insurance policy was probably only worth about a hundred thousand dollars, but instead of just going out to MAKE a hundred thousand dollars, you tried to do it the hard way (or the easy way, depending on how you look at it), butchered your innocent family, signed your life away and ended up nowhere with nothing. That’s a lot like how I still had to pay for the clothes I stole, even though I did not get to keep them.

I think that’s everybody’s story. In some way.

My Grandma is still in Elk Grove Village, I’m planning a visit in the near future. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to set up an interview. I can write circles around anyone who has written anything on you (pardon the bragging, I’m just trying to get you to work with me) and I absolutely BELIEVE in your story. I’m not interested in any raunchy child molestation scenes and I could care less about any sexual congress you ever engaged in with a German Shepherd, all that is irrelevant~ WHAT could possibly drive a girl to plot and scheme for almost a year to murder her entire family? In the WORST, WORST way imaginable? With your slimy boyfriend, who was twenty years older than you, VERY married and to be honest, not even CUTE?! Not even for the seventies?!

I’m interested in the planning phase, how in the world you ever thought you’d get away with this. “Normal” people can’t just go around signing murder contracts and planning hits! They just CAN’T! Even the planning phase is peculiar, who plans that kind of crap? Let alone actually carries it out? What on earth HAPPENED? I even want to try and tell the story in a first person narrative, so the reader can personally relate and get inside a killer’s head. It hasn’t actually been done before and I may need to fictionalize it for convenience, but I still would like to talk to you~ I have no idea what could drive anyone to do a thing like that! Can’t even grasp the concept!

I am enclosing a stamp so that you can write back if you like, if I haven’t offended you to the point that you’ll never talk to me in a million years. If not, you can use it write someone else, but FACT: You plotted and schemed for a year to kill your whole family. FACT: You’re serving a life sentence and have been denied parole more than a dozen times. FACT: EVERYBODY (and I mean EVERYBODY!) knows it, there isn’t a thing you can do about it.

And FACT: I haven’t judged you.

Under all the lies and blood and evil, there has to be a person. I’d like to talk to her.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know!


~Brianne Sloan
XoXoXo! <3

P.S. Isn’t this how Basic Instinct started?

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Win A Date With MATT SMITH!!!

Hello, kids. Fed up with men and sick of babysitting, I have not accepted a “date” in over a year now. It’s not worth it, I can’t take it~ I am so jaded that there may not be any hope for me, it may be too late all together! I accept this! Though sometimes a single girl will inadvertently find herself in a “date” situation that’s beyond her control. It’s not always pretty.

Then she almost always comes out more jaded than before.

* * *

Several months ago, I was at some random Mexican Restaurant in Jacksonville waiting on a to go order for my family. I sat down at a table to wait, had a beer and wrote a poem, but there was this greasy creep that would not stop staring at me; he was by himself with a pitcher a few tables away. I shuddered and avoided eye contact with the sleaze bucket, but he sent a waitress over to get me. Crap. I looked beyond that mess of curls that made him look like Jesus and I noticed a familiar egg shaped noggin that used to hang out with my brother! MATT SMITH!

“OH, WOW!” I cried recognizing him, completely hiding the fact that I never
liked that guy! “MATT SMITH! It’s been ages! Wow! How you been?”

He stood up, picked me up and twirled me around. Normally I would have been a little put off by his forwardness, but I am all muscle and I can never help being at least a little impressed when someone can pick me up and twirl me around like that. Especially when it’s a skinny little prick like this one.

He went off on some rant about how he’d always felt a connection to me and he crossed his fingers tightly to symbolize how “close” we’d been: “Man, Scott was my boy and all, but you and me? Girl! You and ME! We had a BOND! You liked Skynyrd and you were into art! I remember when you painted all those clouds all over your blue bedroom walls? So good! Those were ‘da bomb!”

(I got in a lot of trouble for those clouds)

“Matt, we never hooked up,” I pointed out. “Not even close.”
“That was *only* because you were Scott’s sister! Heh heh!”


He gestured to half a plate of tortilla chips and about a fourth a pitcher of beer on the table. “Go on, help yourself!”

How GENEROUS! Really!

At first it wasn’t so bad! We tripped down memory lane and shot the breeze, had a few laughs. My mother came in and talked with us for a bit, then she bought us a pitcher (because that big, fancy high roller ran out of money), took the food, made sure Matt could drive me home . . . and then she just LEFT me there. Just left me with this broke nerd who seemed to think he was on a DATE with me! Now that my BROTHER was not there to protect me!

That’s when things got nuts. He was beyond obnoxious and the more he drank, the worse he behaved.

The waitress came by to check on us, see if we needed anything. When she left, Matt hissed, “Stupid cunt. She’s a cunt.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, stunned and unable to remember another time when a guy had actually used the C-word in my presence. There are certain words you just don’t use around a lady and that’s kind of the king of all of them.

“Cunt. The waitress is a cunt.”

I did not bother to ask why, I just stood up and went outside. I wasn’t sticking around for that, but he followed me and changed the subject. He began asking about an old friend of mine that he used to sort of date (back when “dating” was just drinking beer and making out in the pool) and he demanded I call her. I didn’t think she’d want to talk to him because it hadn’t ended well and she’d moved to Missouri, but I was just thankful for the opportunity to talk to someone else. Anybody else. I went back to the table and dialed the number.

I was standing behind my chair leaving my friend a voice message, when the drunk son of a bitch came up behind me and kissed my neck. Then he grabbed my ass, actually reached up my dress to do so. I slammed my phone down on the table and spun around, shouted quite a few rather unladylike obscenities . . .

And slapped him across the face.
Then the manager came over! GREAT!

He got thrown out for grabbing my ass. I got thrown out for slapping him across the face.

* * *

“Come on!” Matt said. “COME ON! I’ll take you home! We gotta get out of here before they call the police!”

“Nope. I’m not going with you!”

“Look, I’m sorry! But we have to get out of here before the police get here! I can’t go back to JAIL!”

The moron was almost in tears! So I got in the car, figuring it was only two minutes to my mom’s house and nothing too terrible could happen in two minutes.

“Jail? Why were you in jail?” I asked as he started the car.

“Oh. Murder. Just murder.”

Murder?!? MURDER!?!

I kept my cool as he drove away, but mentally I was pressing my palms up to the glass and screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

“Murder?” I asked calmly. “You KILLED someone?”

“No,” he replied, as if “killing someone” were the dumbest conclusion one could come to upon hearing someone had been convicted of MURDER. “I did MURDER, I didn’t KILL anyone.”


Then at last! My mom’s house was in view! I jumped out of the car and ran inside! SAFETY WAS IN SIGHT!

Except the drunk jailbird followed me inside, to where my MOTHER (who obviously didn’t know about the C-word . . . or the ass grabbing . . . or the MURDER thing) obliviously invited the butt head to stay for supper.

Yeah. Thanks, Mom.

[To Be Continued . . .}

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A few weeks ago, I published an article on my two year ordeal with disposing of an ex headache. Writing about my struggle was taking too long, so I decided to write a book on how I finally got OUT of an (AHEM!) “relationship” with a whiny, whiny sociopathic leech who was basically riding my coattails and growing on my ass. Wasn’t pretty. There was blood. There were cops. There were runaway trains and getaway cars, there were nudee pics in gay ads! THE FULL ENCHILADA!

(Did you ever take someone back so they’d shutup and stop embarrassing you? Really?)

Then yesterday I heard the sociopathic leech was married to Miss Mugshot about thirty days before I ran that article!

OH, GOOD! Now I look like crazy bitch!

I hope Miss Mugshot knows what she’s in for and I hope she likes fake Tiffany! I hope she knows to count his lies and hack into his email, that she knows the difference between real tears and crocodile tears! Pity’s all he’s selling and hopefully by the time she needs to detatch herself from the parasite, there’ll be a book on how to do so!

My pleasure! Don’t even mention it!

In other news, it looks like it was a beautiful ceremony! Just gorgeous! BEYOND WORDS! His beloved MOMMY planned every decor detail (from the folding chairs to the bride’s stripper heels!), though I was mostly pleased to see he got fat. There is not a woman in the world who would not be pleased to see her ex- ANYTHING got fat, especially if he had been fat to begin with! If his own MOMMY called him “Mr. Fluffy” THEN, I wonder what she calls him NOW!

He’ll always be OEDIPUS REX to me!

* * *

Now I realize this has seemed a tad bitchy so far, but DON’T GET THE WRONG IDEA! I’m ecstatic for them! Over the moon! I sincerely wish Oedipus Rex and Miss Mugshot a long and happy life together! Truthfully! From the bottom of my heart! I think it’s wonderful! Maybe he’s met his match? I hope so!

Karla Homolka and Paul Bernardo?! Ian Brady and Myra Hindley?! Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow?!?!?!

A love like this is hard to come by!


XoXoXo! <3

(I do sure hope Miss Mugshot likes his MOMMY!)

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You Can’t Evict A Roommate Without Sending A Certified Letter?

Dearest Alice Edwards/ Demon Mother/ Inhuman Jackal Lady,

I have received all of your incessant emails and I am compelled to thank you profusely, as they were quite interesting reading! THIS was my favorite!:





I looked over the paper trail you threatened me with and it appears as though I was completely within my rights. As a matter of fact, I predict it will be a bestseller! Your end of the “deal” may have included paying rent, but I also asked for other things~ respect, security and comfort in my home were also part of the agreement and I dealt with a terrific amount of situations in which I should never (Never! Never! Never!) have been placed. All you see is that I kicked your son out and broke MY end of the agreement, but I only broke it because I had made a pact with the very devil!!! And it was the devil that sent the beast!

Every single promise that was made to me by either you or Casey was badly and quickly broken. If he’d cared about staying, events would have played out differently and everything would be peaches and cream now. I shall now take you on a guided tour of the month I endured; only the highlights of course, there was a problem every single day and I don’t want to have to type that much!

On July 17th, 2009, you emailed me for the first time~ you stated your son was
“eighteen, white, educated and mature” with a “wonderful, serious girlfriend”~ I now know the only true part of that statement was that he was indeed WHITE. We emailed back and forth for awhile and finally exchanged numbers. On July 24th, you called me and I told you that you and your son were welcome to come and look at the place. I heard you announce to Casey that I said he could have the room, but I quickly cut you off and corrected you: “No, I will consider you if the meeting goes well.” You stumbled on your words for a second, then apologized and asked to come see the place; I gave you my address, then went and vacuumed the stairs, as it was the height of shedding season. You arrived before I finished and I went outside to meet you.

You introduced me to little Casey, a slight, fair-haired wigger punk dressed in baggy clothes and trying to act tough with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. I giggled at that and I reached out my hand to shake his; he didn’t take it, probably because he was hiding the mark of the Beast. I shrugged it off and took you upstairs, where you announced that everything was “perfect”; you then agreed with everything I said. You stressed to Casey that it was my apartment and he would have to follow my rules. At
this point, we went over things like taking turns with dishes, cleaning the common areas and splitting electric and I asked Casey questions directly, but you were the one who answered them, even when you had to cut him off to do so. I then mentioned I was keeping the lease in my name so I could kick people out at will. You said directly, “Oh, you want him gone, he’s outta here.”

Oh, please.

Looking at the cigarette behind his ear, I went over the smoking porch~ I pointed out the furniture, which I had just finished paying off. I stressed no cigarettes in the house ever and you casually mentioned Casey’s “occasional” weed habits. You mentioned you also smoked pot because you had MS but that you were outside smokers~ I said no cigarettes in the house, but that we had smoked weed inside on occasion. I said I never bought it, but that my friends and I sporadically smoked it in the house. You suddenly grew very nervous and flustered, gesturing anxiously and answering questions I hadn’t asked: “He smokes a little bit of pot, but nothing else! Nothing else ever! Nothing else. Nuh-uh.” I found this odd and mentioned it to my friends later. At one point you even slipped and mentioned he was seventeen, but made it seem he would be eighteen very shortly. Great. Even the kid’s MOM was a liar.

I met you for lunch the next day, as I was getting more and more desperate~ I told you about interviewing Tiairamiqua because it had been awhile since I’d heard a good ghetto name and you made a couple comments I felt bordered on racial slurs. This made me uncomfortable, but I offered you a trial, stating he would have thirty days notice if I kicked him out. I mentioned that if he compromised my life, endangered me in any way or did anything that wasn’t completely on the up and up, the deposit would be put in jeopardy . . . you assured me he was “very mature for his age” and either you were positive that wouldn’t happen or just really anxious to be rid of your son. There was tons about the arrangement I didn’t trust and I had you both pegged as liars, but all the same, he moved in that weekend.

Next time just go on Oprah, like a normal person. Please.

Casey’s first night wasn’t bad~ we sat and talked with my stupid “boyfriend”, who soon left, then we sat and talked without him. He’d come home with a bike he said he bought off a bum for five dollars~ it seemed sketchy, I knew that bike had to have been stolen and I felt bad for whoever it had belonged to. He helped himself to the beer and I honestly didn’t think about it~ wasn’t MY responsibility. We went over ground rules and I stressed the importance of trust and honesty in my home. He said he agreed with me completely and actually confessed a lot of things~ he told me you had instructed him to say he was eighteen, that he didn’t really like his girlfriend all that much and that he had quite the history with drugs. I did a double take when he mentioned a cocaine overdose, but told him as long as he was honest with me, we should be fine. I started to feel slightly uncomfortable that Adam had gone home. The “mature, educated 18-year old” with a “wonderful, serious girlfriend and no drug history” was really a seventeen year old high school dropout who referred to his girlfriend as “Dumb Bitch” and had both a marijuana arrest and a cocaine overdose on his record. I had been fooled. Badly.

~The next day I laid in bed all morning, text-fighting with my stupid “boyfriend”, then I heard you come over and take the kid shopping. I went out to greet you when you came back, but no one really seemed to notice my presence. You apologized for waking me up, so I told you that you hadn’t woken me~ I noticed there was a little boy I had never seen before staring at me (I assumed Casey’s little brother, though honestly YOU should be sterilized), but no one bothered to introduce me and this put me off~ I get offended when people do something so rude as to bring someone new into my home and not introduce me.

That night Casey came to my bedroom door to ask if he could have friends over~ I told him yes, but to try to keep it short. He said, “But how long? An hour? Two hours?” I was stunned~ was he actually asking me for a specific time limit???? I realized I was babysitting.

He introduced me to his friends (a nerdy, awkward kid and a small Asian girl) and we smoked a bowl~ they helped themselves to the beer I had just bought that afternoon, but I didn’t say anything except to not drink anymore because I didn’t want to embarrass Casey. I made a note to discuss it with him later. They didn’t know what Rocky Horror was, I made a joke about MacGyver, whom they’d never heard of . . . they discussed Zac Effron and something called “Gangsta Grillz” . . . I don’t know who Ed Hardy is! I mentioned I’d been watching Beverly Hills 90210~ the girl asked me if I meant the original one and told me that her mother had watched that in highschool. HIGHSCHOOL!

I excused myself, saying “Go easy on the weed and no more beer please.” A couple hours later, I went to the kitchen and made a sandwich~ Casey heard me and cornered me, asked me if I wanted five dollars for the beer. I had no clue what he was talking about and went to bed. I found out later when I couldn’t sleep and went for a beer to relax me~ there were only three left. I had bought it that afternoon and drank two~ it had been an 18 pack!

I brought it up to him after his friends left. He looked me dead in the eye and apologized~ it wouldn’t happen again. He told me the nerdy boy was twenty one and I laughed~ he elaborated and told me that now that Adam could get into bars, he hadn’t been seeing much of him. I laughed again~ no twenty one year old would be dating a fifteen year old.

~On Monday my stupid “boyfriend” was broke (as he was borrowing money and spending it on other dames, of course), so we went downtown and played tourist~ I’m a licensed guide and we get into the attractions for free, so we visited The Spanish Quarter, The Old Wooden Schoolhouse, etc and had lunch. I opened my mail on the way downtown and was delighted to see an envelope from Chicago, addressed in my grandmother’s handwriting. She had sent me fifty dollars cash, wrapped in tinfoil and enclosed was a note that said, “Here is a little bit of spending money. Maybe you could get a cheeseburger and a coke?” I laughed and made a note to call my grandma after work the next day. We were gone maybe four hours tops, most of which I spent stressing over the night before and we came up with the plan to give Casey his thirty days notice on the first~ I was told to keep my mouth shut and deal with it until then because he “wouldn’t help me if I fucked it up”.

When we went back home, the door (MY door) was opened for us by some kid I’d never seen. He was holding one of MY beer cans, his eyes were red and glazed over and the entire house smelled like marijuana. It was two-thirty in the afternoon.

As Casey was heading down the stairs, the dog barked several times and bounded in front of him towards me, slipping and sliding down the rest of the steps on her chest~ this had never happened before. What had they done to upset her so badly? I was furious. I ushered the kid out and Casey went to work, leaving Adam and I alone in a smoke-filled house to discuss the day’s events~ I was shaking the entire time. What had just happened in my house? I knew then that no matter what you said, Casey was neither trustworthy, nor capable of being left alone in my house; and I knew I would not be available to babysit him.

The next day, I started my job at Marshall’s~ I worked from ten am to two pm and worried about my house all day. I got my nails down on the way home and while I was waiting, I called my grandma to thank her for the money. I opened up about the living arrangement and how freaked out I was; I explained the events of the past few days, but I was overheard by a woman getting a pedicure~ she interrupted me. “Get him out. You are liable for everything, you are not his guardian and he’s breaking the law in your home. Ask GRANDMA for the money or don’t give his deposit back!Do not give the deposit back, tell her to take you to court. She will be in a lot of trouble if she does.” Turned out this woman was a police officer and I was scared. I wanted him out, but I didn’t want anyone to be inconvenienced or hurt or to go back on my word (by the way, my thoughts on this matter have changed drastically since then).

I don’t remember whether I saw Casey that afternoon or what, but I think I went directly to my friend Sarah’s~ I helped her move a couch into her apartment, talked about my experiences and became more and more terrified as time went on. I had every right to be terrified. I called you and frantically told you everything that been going on. I was hysterical, but you didn’t want to listen~ you wanted to hang up and call Casey to “fix the problem”. I was not concerned with fixing the problem, I just wanted him gone. You wouldn’t listen to WHY.

Casey didn’t come home that night, but the voice message I received the next morning was pretty frantic~ he claimed he would do “whatever it takes”, that he got rid of all his weed, that there would be no drinking MY beer, no drinking ANY beer . . . I felt bad. I saved the message, I saved every message and I will try my best to type up a transcript. By this time, I’d already figured out what kind of family I was dealing with~ I can’t produce the texts he sent to me that Tuesday, as there was a mishap with my phone, but basically he said something to the effect of, “You really fucked my life up! Bitch! I can’t even keep my job now!” I was just so sick of dealing with it and I wanted everyone to be happy~ I promised him thirty days. Big mistake.

He thanked me profusely and I waited up to talk to him that night. He called first and told me he was on his way, then meekly walked in the door about ten minutes later. We sat outside smoking and he claimed he was “really good” at following rules once he knew what they were~ so I told him again what they were. No weed in the house, no cigarettes in the house, no people over ever and no drinking my beer. No drinking ANY beer. He then politely handed me thirty dollars for more beer, which I bought two cases of and placed in the fridge. I don’t remember what time I went to bed or anything, I just remember the “If you change your mind and want me to stay . . .” discussion. I was polite and all, but in my head, I was thinking fat chance.

The next day (when he popped a can of beer open at one pm), it became apparent that because he had given me the money for the beer, he thought it was HIS beer. So bam! I realized that if I wanted to keep beer in my house, it was not going to be safe from this child; I was not available to babysit him, I had a [shitty] job and a life. So I made a comment about it to which he replied, “No. I bought me a case and you a case. I didn’t touch your case.” I swallowed hard~ WHAT A SKUNK!

In one of the following days (after a few lengthy discussions about having friends over), I was lying on my bed in my room, playing on the internet. I’d heard Casey leave, but I was still hearing footsteps. I got up to use the bathroom and as I was walking in, some short kid with a hat I’d never seen before walked out. He had a red backwards cap on and he smiled at me, then without a word, he walked into Casey’s room and shut the door. I went to the kitchen door, which was open and introduced myself. At some point, Casey came home and we all sat down and talked about nothing.

I think it was the next morning that there was an entire case of beer missing. Casey wasn’t home or asleep, but I freaked out. It was one thing for him to disrespect me by drinking my beer, but it was quite another for him to actually take beer out of my home. I went to work and by the time I returned, there was half a case of beer sitting in the fridge~ I was stunned! He actually took beer someplace and then brought it home? How tacky!!!

Oh, the first thing I did was talk to him about this! He said he was sorry and he’d never do it again (he said could get anyone to buy him beer!), but that night the half case of beer was gone and what do you know? I had once again unwittingly supplied minors with beer! What a mind trip! How did any of this happen? I never even mentioned that half a case of beer to him~ where would it have gotten me?

One morning, I woke up and there was a naked girl I had never seen before standing in the bathroom with the door open. She was buck ass naked in MY house and didn’t seem to realize WHY this was an issue for me! I said “Hello?” or something and she didn’t respond. I shrugged, too tired to talk anymore and proceeded to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. Then the naked girl started digging in the fridge, putting her naked hands all over my food! No way THAT’s sanitary! One day he finally did introduce me to the naked girl and he was naked too. REALLY naked! She was not gone by morning ever and she was pretty much over every single night after that, I would come home to garbage cans full of used tampons and pad wrappers I didn’t recognize and the naked girl almost always missed the trash can~ it was disgusting.

I got really sick of him coming home and asking me to go buy him cigarettes, this happened almost every night . . . at one in the morning.

Let’s talk about his friend Adam~ I bought beer one night and he said he was gonna have a friend over. There were two cases of beer in the fridge and I said I’d chill with them for a little while, but I told him no beer and that I had to be to bed early. He told me that Adam was twenty one and that he was legal to drink beer, but he asked me to please stay up and hang out because they might need more beer later. I pointed out that if Adam was twenty-one, they wouldn’t need me to buy beer and that I was tired. Casey mumbled some excuse about Adam having lost his ID . . . “four days ago”. He kept repeating the words “four days ago”, and I remember thinking, Wow . . . this kid is a terrible liar. When Adam got there, he went to the fridge and cracked open a beer without asking. We all went outside to smoke and I asked him, “Adam, how old are you?” His immediate reply?: “Nineteen.” Casey started looking down and saying, “Naw, man, don’t lie . . . tell her how old you really are. Your twenty-one, tell her the truth!”

“I’m nineteen,” was Adam’s flat reply. I looked at Casey’s face and he was all red~ I’ve never seen anyone so embarrassed to get caught in a lie! We laughed about it and talked for awhile, then Casey stated that he had in fact lied and would never lie to me again~ he lied about seven more times that night alone.

I was beaten~ I figured if they were going to drink my beer, I could at least keep them in the house. Casey kept talking about going over to the church to play basketball, but I requested that Adam stay over and that they not leave the house at all that night b/c they’d been drinking and I didn’t want to get in trouble for something I had no control over. For some reason, we went inside, where I put on a Hanson cd~ we MMM-BOPPED for a little while, then Lily started acting like she wanted to go out and Adam offered to take her for a walk. I said fine, once around the block, but don’t go anywhere else and be back shortly. He agreed and I got Lily her leash and handed it to Adam, but Casey started to follow him. “Whoa,” I said, feeling a little more maternal than I’d planned. “You do not need both need to go. Where are you guys going to go???” Casey swallowed and started to step forward, like I’d noticed he did whenever he was going to lie. “You don’t have to worry, we’re just going for a moonlit stroll around the block. We’ll be back in five minutes. Promise.” Bullshit.

As I watched them walk out the door with my beloved dog, I knew they wouldn’t be back in 5 minutes. I wanted to cry, but I had things to do. So I did them~ five minutes turned into ten minutes, which turned into an hour and so forth. I started freaking out about it after 45 minutes and calling Casey from my phone. I heard his phone ringing in the house, so I grabbed it and started texting and calling Adam frantically . . . no answer. This was so scary; I’d made it clear to him that Lily was the most important thing to me on the planet and I had made that clear to you as well~ I could not stop hyperventilating. After about an hour, I got onto my bike and started riding frantically around the town for about twenty minutes. I was so scared. I stopped outside the front of the Grace United to give directions to an older couple and I got a phone call from Casey; he said there was no need to freak out because they’d just taken her downtown to meet girls. I pedaled home as fast as I could and ripped him a new one. It had been two hours.

After this, he and Adam sat outside smoking with me. I explained that what had happened was not cool at all and they just seemed to think it was funny. I mentioned that I had to go to bed, but that they needed to come in the house. They said they were just going to sit outside smoking a bit longer and I stressed that they absolutely needed to stay in the house and that the beer should not be touched. They promised, but I could tell they had something up their sleeves. I could not babysit them that night, I had work in the morning and I couldn’t believe how unfair all of this was. I went to bed and couldn’t sleep, so I went to the kitchen about twenty minutes later to grab a beer to help me doze off . . . the boys were gone and so was every single can of beer that had been in the fridge~ there had been a case and a half when I’d gone to bed. It had been
twenty minutes.

I don’t entirely remember what happened directly after this, but I didn’t hear
from him til the next morning I didn’t hear from him til the next morning when all he could tell me was that they had taken a cab and did not drive~ I was not told where they went or what they had done, but he tried to make me less angry by repeatedly telling me he did not drive. Once again I had unwittingly provided beer to minors, what the hell do I care whether they freaking DRIVE?!? They could drive off the Bridge of Lions and I wouldn’t bat an eye!

My friends stopped coming over because of him and I practically moved in with Sarah across the street. I was afraid to be at home, but even more afraid to not be there. One night I had my friend Kaci over~ we went out and had a few rounds. We were pretty drunk by the time we got home (and trust me, I am allowed to be drunk in my own home) and when Casey showed up, we really weren’t able to stop him from helping himself to the beer and vodka. He insisted on staying up with us, watching movies. After a couple more movies, Kaci announced that she was leaving and started to walk down the stairs, but I grabbed her and stopped her, told her she was drunk and I wanted her to stay with me. She agreed and went to use the bathroom and I sat down next to your son on the couch, where he looked at me practically drooling: “You want her to stay because you’re a lesbian, right?” WHAT? I almost popped him.

I went to bed before they did and I woke up to a note Kaci had left me on a paper towel and to your son asleep on my couch with his arms around a basketball. The note said: “I left because after you went to bed, that child started trying to molest me. He started rubbing my back and grabbing my thighs and ass and stuff. It was yucky.” There is no excuse for this!

He didn’t do dishes, he didn’t keep his room clean so I could show it and secure a roommate for September, he called me at work once to cuss me out and scream at me because I simply asked him to do dishes. DISHES! One night I told him to straighten up: he had twelve days left at this time. Certainly this wouldn’t be hard, right? We sat outside and I begged him (BEGGED him) to behave for the next twelve days~ I laid out the rules, the same ones as before. I feared for my sanity and my safety and I offered to give back the deposit in cash the next day if he moved out immediately. He said he had nowhere to go and that he didn’t
care about whether or not I gave the deposit back because the money wasn’t going to him anyway. So I told him that he should be responsible for it if he lost it, not me.

We talked about it for about an hour or so, the whole while him acting confident as hell that he could get through twelve days without a problem. It was getting late, so I had to go to bed, but before I did, I counted the beer left in the fridge (five cans sitting on the middle rack and an unopened 18 pack sitting next to them) and told him to stay away from the beer~ he looked me dead in the eye and promised. I fell asleep quickly, but I am a light sleeper and the house shakes every time a train goes by; one went by about an hour later and woke me up.

I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I went out to the kitchen to grab another beer. The five cans were gone and the new case had been ripped open and five were already missing from it . . . who needs five beers in one hour? Your son was sitting outside on my porch, still smoking and drunk as a skunk. I was too tired to react to this the way I wanted to at the moment, so I sat outside with him. The naked girl called him five times in a row and he said he had to go answer it. He started to walk down the back steps, but fell down the back steps drunkenly . . . he did not land on his feet. Then he picked himself up, dusted his pants off, then continued walking like it didn’t even happen.

You emailed me that my “ordeal” would be over soon and to “hang in there.” My “ordeal”? My ORDEAL?!?!??!!? This was the last straw~ the next day after work, I sent you this:

My “ordeal”? Nice weasel wording. I went out on a limb for you guys and was screwed over~ I don’t deserve this. I asked you to please tell your son to do those things because I wanted you to tell him to do them. And by the way, I keep beer in the fridge and rum in the freezer b/c it lowers my electric bill~ if I give Casey ONE beer while I discuss the rules with him, it does not mean finish off one case and open another while I am asleep. No one needs to drink ten beers in one hour, then fall down my back steps drunk (right across from the police station by the way) and tell me he can’t replace it because he doesn’t have any money. And he cannot have friends over then tell me he thought it was okay because he didn’t know I was at home. The naked girlfriend over every night? That’s the least of my worries. SHE HASN’T EVEN HIT PUBERTY! Come on! He has ten days left and he’s still messing up and putting me at risk in my own home? Please. And one of you has to be lying about that cocaine overdose and I honestly don’t appreciate it either way. Regretfully, Bri

I did not wait long after sending this before kicking him out. That email was pretty frantic, everything in my life had been put at risk, regardless of whether or not you will admit it. My home, my sanity, my health—I could not take it anymore. That email was my last cry for help. But you did not respond. All that talk about “If he messes up, you come to me” and “I’ll handle everything.” Please. The only things I ever heard from you were about the damn security deposit~ every day, even while he still lived here, which was ridiculous.

This was a child, not a legal adult and suddenly he was my responsibility? Because YOU’RE a bad mother? Jesus Christ, lady! That night with the beer was the night I made up my mind to get him out ASAP and that under no possible circumstances were you getting the deposit back. Everything was broken, every single part of your end of the agreement . . . and you clearly knew this or you wouldn’t have hounded me about the deposit the way you did, including while he was still living here. I said it was the honor system and f you’d wanted it back so badly, you would have kept your son in check. I have a lot more to say, but this letter is already eight pages long. My GAWD~ I’ve got the pictures, I’ve got the proof and you’re not getting a dime from me. Not one measly DIME, think of it as my babysitting bill!


I’ll tell you what~ after he trashed my house as my “punishment” for kicking him out, I had to clean out his room and when I did this, I found a dollar thirty-one in change~ if you’re really hurting for money, I will send you that and I never want to hear from you or your family again. Do not call me, do not write me, do not ever (EVER! EVER! EVER!) come knocking on my door again. You all need therapy, it isn’t MY fault the poor kid has a lousy (lousy, lousy, BEYOND lousy!) mother!

Thank you,

Brianne Sloan

P.S. You need Jesus. Your whole family needs Jesus.

* * *



Posted in Dating Men | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

So You Think YOU’VE Had a Bad Roommate????!!!!!

From: Alice Edwards
To: “‘Brianne Sloan’”
Date: Friday, July 17, 2009, 2:42 PM

Would you consider renting your room to my 18 year old son who works full time and is never home? He is clean, white, educated, mature, and I (his mother) just moved out of St. Augustine and to Flagler Beach , which is too far to get him to work! I do work full time here in St. Augustine and see my son almost everyday.

Please let me know, I would pay the deposit and monitor his living expenses and help with his groceries and expenses. My son and I have lived here 6 years, we had a huge 2-story home in St. Augustine Shores which was just sold. My son desperately wants to keep his job and for now, he takes a cab or rides a bike! He does have a wonderful girlfriend who just graduated from Pedro Menendez and also works full time at Napoli ’s Pizza off A1A. Other than that, he is a straight-forward kid who has helped me do dishes and keep clean house for the last 10 years of this kids life! I can attest to that…

Alice Edwards

Date: Tuesday, July 21, 2009, 9:07 AM

Hi Bri,
OK, I did not hear back, maybe you forgot about us. Is the room still available and would you want us to come see it today? I would like to see it because Casey is running out of options on finding a place to live… His girlfriend won’t commit to a place and I’ve already moved myself to Flagler Beach ! We need you.

I really think this sounds like an excellent deal! We are not shady and we have NO ONE in jail!!! LOL!!! And yes, I will make sure my son pays his rent or I will pay it for him and take it out of his hide!

To: “‘Brianne Sloan’”
Date: Tuesday, July 21, 2009, 9:07 AM

Please rent room to Casey, I can pay you today! I’ll give you three months in advance! He just really needs a room; he wouldn’t be there that often, a perfect tenant who has a perfect mother who will make sure he pays his rent! I will back him up personally…

Now who would have thought this could work out BADLY?

Posted in Dating Men | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments


Ladies, have you ever dated the guy who would do ANYTHING so that you would not break up with him? And I mean ANYTHING?

When you’ve inadvertently been suckered into a “relationship” with an anal retentive mama’s boy who will do ANYTHING to keep you, you will have a very difficult time breaking up with him. Make no mistake.

* * *


(and I am nottttt proud to admit it)

Was he cute? No. Fun? No. Smart? Sexy? Independent?

No. No. No.

So how did he end up with me?

Geez. It was not easy. I was bored enough (and hungry enough) to accept ONE date with the sucker and since he did EVERYTHING wrong, I figured I could keep him around, be able to SAY I had a “boyfriend” and not have to date~ it was just a WORD to this dork, he was cool if there was no real “relationship”! I didn’t think it’d be so bad having a “boyfriend” who LEFT every time his mommy told him to! Who gave MY mommy gas money to go get me because HE didn’t feel like putting the miles on his stupid Acura!

I found out he’d never even met his “girlfriend” before me, she was just some fake profile with hot pictures on MySpace. He was happy with sweet nothings from what was probably a sixty year old fat dude, a hairy bus driver in pretty pink panties! At the time, this was just fine with me~ the less I had to put into a “relationship”, the better! It was only going to be for a little while anyway!

But a sociopath has no boundaries. I didn’t know that then.

* * *

Next I knew, he was jumping through flaming hoops to keep me! I’ve never seen anything like it! I had him pegged as a psychopath almost instantly, but I still thought a person like that was a rarity; I admittedly was a bit fascinated by his lack of depth, his ability to say anything without a flicker of emotion. The way I could tell him he was a terrible, disgusting person and it didn’t even matter to him, he’d just call my mother and TELL on me. One text sticks out in my memory:

“Im a horrable person, u hate me etc. If I bring u flowers r we still b/f and g/f?”

It was so childish, so empty! I almost felt bad for him, he was a pity puppy! At times, I thought I could HELP him even, but I didn’t know there was no cure; I certainly did not realize how hard it would be to detatch myself from someone with no conscience. We had nothing in common (NOTHING!), I did not like him (and suspected he didn’t like me) and we looked ridiculous together: a poser stockbroker in a three piece suit . . . and a saucy pirate wench? I am not kidding! He had a lousy Jew haircut and drove a stupid Acura- it was uglier than sin, just like his hair!

Yet we dated for two years?


I broke up with that loser every week. Once I figured out I could get him to do *anything* in the world by simply calling him a “loser”, all of St. Augustine stood in awe of my marionette! I had him on strings! He was my puppet! This was going to be a piece of cake! At first, it amused me in a way and I didn’t feel bad about playing with the emotions of someone who had none, but believe me~ I did get my comeuppance! I wouldn’t get out for two years!

The first time I broke up with him (excuse me, TRIED to break up with him) was because he accused me of not “taking care” of my appearance and wearing the “same old clothes” over and over again . . . it was true, I *did* wear the same clothes over and over again, but that was because he only HAD TIME to see me when he tagged along on my ghost tours! (again, something that APPEALED to me in a “boyfriend”!) How many stupid PIRATE outfits was I suPposed to have? Don’t forget the Civil War/ Flapper/ Pioneer/ Colonial getups too! All that was not enough for him?

He said (whining pitifully), “I come to see you in expensive designer clothes. I could go home and change, but I don’t because I want to look good for you!”

That was when I started really hating him.

I said, “I wear pirate rags and look phenomenal. You wear knock off Gucci and still look like a constipated rat Jew with a bad nose job. I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”


But lo and behold! He appeared on my doorstep the next morning with seven Sausage McMuffins and got down on his knees! Licked the bottoms of my dirty pirate boots, begging my forgiveness- it was pathetic.

I took him back so he’d get the hell up off my floor! Spineless twit. He pulled this crap in crowded parking lots a lot too, he knew it embarrassed me to be the girl responsible for the sobbing loser, begging on his knees.

Then one April Fools Day, a friend told her boyfriend she pierced her vajayjay and that was her entire stunt- I thought it was weak. So I looked up all these YouTube Videos of men pulling Mac Trucks with their genital piercings and sent them to my “boyfriend”:

“Madam, if you really loved me . . .”

He called me in tears! He was hysterical! Begging! Trying to compromise! It was pitiful! I toyed with him awhile before I reminded him of the date . . . but that was the first time I got a sense of how far the dork was willing to go. I had never been the type to ask a guy for much, but this was irresistible!

How could he be so afraid? He didn’t even have any balls.

He was Jewish, so I saw my chance when my family invited him to Easter brunch- Christian holidays were always fun for me, I could make up whatever I wanted: “Madam, you can’t come unless you get me a present. My whole family will be there and I can’t bring a guy who does not know I am supposed to get a present. All girls get presents on Easter.”

“What kind of presents?”

“Gold. Girlfriends usually get gold.”

“What kind of gold?”

“Easter Rabbit Gold. Everyone knows about Rabbit Gold.”

“Okay, let me do some research. I’ll see what I can do.”

He Googled. He called his mother, he called my mother. He went to Kaye Jewelers and asked about this mysterious “Rabbit Gold”. Then he came to me: “Were you messing with me? Tell me the truth.”

I don’t remember what I told him, but it was settled: I was breaking up with him if he didn’t find me Rabbit Gold! I didn’t think it could fail! On Easter, my whole family went to Brunch at Mimi’s- I got Easter Candy, a copy of Enchanted and a gold Playboy Bunny charm which he *said* was made of Sea crystals and diamonds . . . but who knows? It was my “rabbit gold.”

(also it’s probably fake, like everything else the boneless toad ever gave me)

Then I saw *Enchanted* and instantly became furious- hello? I WAS A *PRINCESS*, BUT BY GUM! No one danced with me in meadows! Birds did NOT do my laundry.

“Madam, I am going to break up with you if you don’t find me a meadow! Because ALL THE OTHER GIRLFRIENDS . . .”

And what do you know? That pansy freak actually found a meadow! A freaking meadow! THEN he started doing all my laundry! No kidding!

If I ever wanted to get rid of this bonehead, I had to kick it up a notch!

“Madam, where’s my five hundred dollars? For the summer? ALL THE OTHER GIRLFRIENDS get five hundred dollars in the summer . . . and if you don’t give me five hudred dollars every summer, you are going to look stupid.”

Then the blockhhead gave me five hundred dollars. Every summer.

Oh, Jesus. I had convinced him I had to have presents on every holiday, a present on his birthday and two on mine, one from him and one for me to give myself.

“Madam, I want twenty dollars a day. For fifty days.”

“Bri, that’s a THOUSAND dollars!”

“If you really loved me! OR! We can just break up . . . no skin off your bad nosejob!”

“I love you!!! I love you!!!”

BLAHBLAHBLAH! Then the moron bought me a living room full of brand new furniture so I wouldn’t break up with him! Unfortunately he had bad credit so we had to buy it in *my* name, then he’d make the payments. Over a YEAR . . .

This was about the dumbest thing I have ever let happen in my life! I wasn’t thinking about the YEAR part, I needed furniture and saw a means to an end. Then a few days later (in accordance with my life always working out like a poorly written sitcom), I found out he’d been emailing his sloppy, potato shaped ex our entire “relationship!” I found a year’s worth of correspondence on his laptop, he said to her all the same useless things he said to me. But it wasn’t about her, just as much as it’d never been about ME.

(In fact, in a year’s worth of emails, I was not once mentioned. Not even one time. Neither was SHE really, it was all about HIM. It was always only about HIM.)

She was a roller girl, her name was JENNA JAB U SOME, her number was 69! She was 40 ish, married with rugrats and she was probably a very nice person, but she was so fat you couldn’t see her implants anymore!

HE said she *used* to be a Juggy on the Man Show. He rather enjoyed bragging about that actually. I auditioned for American Idol that week, made it to the fourth round~ he bragged about that the same way, but I was done! It was over. FINALLY I had my escape, my “Get Out of Jail Free” card!

I felt like I could fly!

But OH NO! The furniture!

By that point, it was going to cost me *four thousand dollars* to break up with my “boyfriend”!

Now how was I going to afford THAT when I’d been kicked off American Idol?

* * *

I can’t believe I’m still writing. This story is way too much for a mere blog post, if anyone’s even still reading. I’m going to have to write a whole book; I’ll do it tomorrow. I started writing this post after reading about how Linda Lovelace couldn’t get away from Chuck Traynor and how Elizabeth Smart didn’t run, even when her captor had her in public~ people don’t understand until it’s happened to them. FACT.

A book on how to break up with a sociopath needs to be written anyway! If one had existed in 2007, it may not have taken me two years to get out! It was IMPOSSIBLE! I threw fake Tiffany off the Bridge of Lions! I pushed him down stairs! There were black eyes and nasty bite marks and cops were called! COPS couldn’t even help me! A few times, I found myself emailing Roller Potato, begging to know HOW she broke up with him! You ever hear of a thing like that? In time, I tracked down all his exes, pleading for help! They all told me they simply left town, which I wasn’t in a position to do. I figured out how to do it after I read a book called “The Sociopath Next Door” in December, 2008, though I still wasn’t free of him until September, 2009. His “conscience” wouldn’t let him leave without paying off my furniture, so he waited til it was paid off to start cheating on me. Whatever.

If I happen to be murdered in the next few days, I know who the cops may want to question first! I promised I wouldn’t write about him if he gave me my guitar back, which he did after four years . . . so I gave him a pseudonym. That’s fair, right?

Adios, kids!!!

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HUBBELL PUPPY!: Why I Should Have Gotten A Zebra!

*Being an owner of dachshunds, to me a book on dog discipline becomes a volume of inspired humor. Every sentence is a riot. I would rather train a striped zebra to balance an Indian club than induce a dachshund to heed my slightest command.*

E.B. White said that! Now I haven’t trusted E.B. White since he killed Charlotte, but HOOOO, BOY! Was he ever right about this one!

* * *

God only knows what possessed me to buy a little wiener puppy- I was not *ready* for another dog and I’m still not, but the main thing was companionship. I’ve lived alone most of my adult life, but without a dog? Without anyone nuzzling you awake in the morning? Without anyone bugging you to go outside? Without anyone wagging their tail or sneezing in your wine and/ or stealing your pizza?

That’s really ALONE alone.

I was going crazy, so first thing I did? I bought a monkey. I woke up one day and there was (in all seriousness) this receipt for a monkey in a Yahoo Window! I’d sleep spent three grand on a monkey? A stupid spider monkey or marmoset? Or squirrel monkey or whatever it was?


I thought about it for about five minutes, maybe six. Then I canceled my monkey mostly because in the movies and things, monkeys just seem to cause problems. They’re always losing things and hiding things and pouring poison into water coolers, that sort of thing. A monkey is just a little mischief maker and I decided that if I wanted poop flung at my head, I’d just get married . . .

Now that was an idea! Golly gee!

I decided to get married, I thought it’d be terrific! I’d get a pet husband, we could play fetch and go for car rides! Take long walks in the park! Every time he started sniffing up some trampy chick’s skirt, I could smack him with a rolled up newspaper and send him to bed without supper! Then every now and then, we could go to the jungle! He could visit his relatives! I thought it was the BEST! IDEA! EVER!

But shucks. There was no one good around to marry.

So I went to the pet store and picked up this Dachshund. He was the coolest looking dog in the store, all cute and grey with black splotches and one little brown paw, these big baby blue eyes! Still he was compleeeeeetely inadequate; so small and skinny and fragile! As a rule, I hate little dogs and my heart was set on an Afghan Hound, but when I picked him up, he lunged towards my face and licked my nose, then snuggled up to me and buried his head in my neck. The next words out of my mouth?:

“I’m buying him.”

I frantically took a hammer to the block of ice around my emergency credit card, I HAD to have that dog~ he cost far less than the monkey, plus I’ve always been a sucker for men with blue eyes!

And now he’s mine.

* * *

First he was little “Cary Grant.” Then he was little “MacGyver”/ “Bogart”/ “Captain Renault”/ “Holden Caulfield”, but they all had brown eyes. It took a week before I decided on a proper name, but now he’s Hubbell, like Robert Redford in The Way We Were. Robert Redford has blue eyes!

After I finally named the puppy, I came across that quote by E.B. White. He said it was easier to train a zebra, but obviously E.B. White didn’t know that MISS BRIANNE SLOAN could train a zebra! Hello? My last dog LILY (may she rest in peace!) sneezed on command! She barked to the Blue Danube! All her toys had individual names and you couldn’t say the word WALK around her because she’d go nuts! REALLY nuts! You had to spell it out and even that only worked for so long because she soon figured out how to spell it!

Yes, sir! It was *ME* that taught her all those wonderful things! *I* was a force to be reckoned with!

(except for breaking into the fridge to steal pizza! I didn’t “teach” her that one!)

But nope.

This dog is impossible. IMPOSSIBLE! I have had him a good four months now, he officially knows two words! TWO!: he has figured out his name is “Hubbell” and he knows “dinner”, he doesn’t seem to have much of a desire to learn any more words. Communicating doesn’t seem important to him, all he does is eat and cuddle and poop . . . and eat and cuddle and poop . . . then eat and cuddle and poop. I managed to get him potty trained in only three and a half months and a Dachshund is notoriously hard to potty train! That’s a step in the right direction!


But if I go to try and “train” him to do anything else, he pretty much laughs at me! He cocks his little puppy ears, looks at me like I’m nuts, then just flops on his back, stretches his legs out and waits for me to pet him! He’s so darn cute that it always (ALWAYS! ALWAYS! ALWAYS!) works! I can’t stay mad at him and training him starts to seem totally unnecessary~ he is beyond adorable! I mean, what does he need to know how to “sit” for?

I tell him to “sit” and it feels like I’m asking too much! I mean, it can’t be easy being that cute all the time! I take him for a walk and suddenly he’s a rockstar~ everyone and their grandma has to come up and pet him! And oohhh and ahhh over him and how darn tootin’ DARLING he is! Children attack him! Whole classrooms! They chase him and chatter at him, rub their grubby hands all over his little puppy belly! They ALL want to hold him and love him and giggle at him!! What a responsibility! It must be so taxing! He’s giving his fans what they want and it just drains him and drains him! How can I ask him to sit? His tiny brain must be mush by the end of the day!

So of course Hubbell can’t SIT! He’s too put upon by society!

I’m cutting him some slack, but here’s a tip from someone with experience: If you or anyone you know is planning on purchasing a Dachshund in the near future, I strongly recommend you consider a zebra. Or just go with the monkey!

BETTER YET! Simply leave your emergency credit card in the freezer where it belongs!


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Fifty Shades of WHATEVER!

I gave in, I finally read it. I realize I am a book snob and I’ve proudly read neither a Harry Potter, nor a Twilight book, but the FASTEST selling paperback of all time? 90 million copies? Translated into 52 languages? Possibly a bigger seller than the BIBLE?

THIS I had to see!!!!


Fifty Shades of HUH?

If there was any sort of a “book” contained within the pages of Fifty Shades of Grey, I certainly missed it. It wasn’t a “novel”, it was book-bound blogging~ all emails and what appeared to be the clumsy journal entries of a naive eighth grader, interspersed with a few rudimentary and childish, not even too terribly raunchy sex scenes! This is about more than shamefully poor prose, I did not even notice any sort of a real plot! NOTHING! I’d have had about the same experience had the pages been blank.

As a writer myself, I usually bite my tongue in regards to this sort of thing~ it isn’t my place to rip another “writer” apart, particularly one who is billions upon billions of times more successful than I. But since I am abso-freaking-lutely sure that Miss E. L. James (whoever that is) doesn’t give a good, hot damn what Miss Brianne Sloan (whoever that is) thinks of her, I’m just going to say it:



* * *

It was bad. Just SO bad, on every single possible level! I’ve seen deeper episodes of The Simpsons! Shoddy prose, elementary storylines and a trashy, one dimensional “heroine” with zero personality and ZERO self respect. And she’s losing her marbles over a basically boring character with stalker like, borderline sociopathic tendancies, that obviously were not even intended? Because he happens to be good looking? A man who “wants” her and “wants” her and never says WHY? He sees nothing in her, which is a relief because neither did I.

So she wants to visit ENGLAND . . . WHY?

“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Bronte Sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.”

And the dealer passes! The bitter irony of THAT line being within *these* pages is a heartless affront to all writers, anywhere and everywhere!

Now my subconscious may want to bitch slap the inner goddess of E.L. James, but it isn’t really her fault. I doubt she originally intended to even publish the insipid tripe, let alone top bestseller lists everywhere! Come on. Snowqueen’s Icedragon wrote FanFiction, she wasn’t exactly trying to be Jane Austen . . . yet somehow she’s become one of TIME Magazine’s 100 Most Influential People In the World? You almost have to applaud the bitch!

Not everyone can write, I understand this~ I always say God bless their hearts for trying! I’ve seen it a thousand times, people with minimal or non existent talent, churning out page after page in vain, writing and writing and getting nowhere? More for release from their suburban 9 to 5 lifestyles than anything? Craving adventure and excitement? Longing to be Anais Nin?

Oh, my! We’ve all been there.

Yet you take E.L. James, a typical middle aged woman without even a vague shadow of any real literary talent, plus precious little knowledge of what the world of BDSM is actually like! She types up four hundred pages, full of a naive, clumsy narrative, asinine phrases which she repeats interminably and what appear to be copy and paste email conversations that do not move the story forward at all, but seem a desperate effort to help her reach book length? And FORBES lists her as one of the highest earning authors of all time?`

Oh, E.L. James! You go, girl!

Laters, baby! <3

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