Finalist in 2017 Dick Awards (as in Philip K. - get your mind outta the gutter)

That's me on the far right. Go buy the book to see what the fuss is all about. Heck, buy them all. Just buy mine first.

Oh, so now that I'm far away on another planet, people start being nice to me. Spend money buying my book. Nominate it for awards. Lure me into thinking I might actually win by making it a finalist. I suppose I should say thanks for the nomination, not that you have the taste to actually hand over the award to a girl with a mouth classified as a weapon of mass destruction.

I suppose I should say the nomination is honor enough for me. That would be classy. Fortunately, that was another quality my DNA is allergic to.

If you want to see who else is up for the Philip K. Dick Award, check it out here. The prizes get handed out in April at Norwescon in Seattle. I'm not gonna hold my breath about winning, and certainly not leaving this unpronounceable paradise for the swamp that is the US of A at the present time.

At least this prize, the Philip K. Dick Award, has a name that a girl would enjoy being able to brag about: I'm this year's Dick winner.

Resolutions for the 2017 New Year That You Don't Have to Keep

It's the New Year on Planet Earth, which from space you can tell by that little drunken wobble as the parade of midnights travels from east to west.

Typically, this is when even life's winners feel like they have to improve on their perfections by making resolutions that they will not be able to keep for more than a week and thus be faced, however briefly, with the depressing fact that they are no better than anybody else and possibly much much worse. Therefore, in the spirit of interplanetary goodwill, which I am only able to feel for you because of humanity living light years away from my corner of the heavens, I will provide you with a set of resolutions that will be good for you whether you keep them or break them. I got one for body, heart, and mind.

Resolved: not to eat until I explode.

The win-win: No matter how much you eat, you aren't breaking your resolution unless you actually do manage to eat until you explode, in which case you will make it into all kinds of record books and scientific studies, guaranteeing the immortality of fame to an otherwise nonentity.

 Resolved: perform one act of kindness for someone every day.

The win-win: If you do something nice for another person, you get to feel superior. If you don't do something nice for anybody else, think of how kind that is to yourself to not have to put yourself to the trouble of figuring out how to help somebody and then actually doing it. You are someone, so you count just as much as the rest of the losers.

Resolved: to read a book whenever I feel tired.

The win-win: Reading is something everybody agrees is virtuous, certainly more virtuous than napping, and it gives you an excuse to put your feet up and to ignore other people who try to talk to you. If you fail and fall asleep instead, well then you get your nap after all.

Hooray for Hollywood Redux

In response to the question of was I movin' to LA after the success of the movie: No.

California is no New Jersey. It don't even compare to Delaware where people at least know that beaches is for getting fat on Boardwalk fries, frozen custard, and taffy while acquiring a yearly sunburn.

Los Angeles is like twin cities with Washington DC, only with more plastic surgery. Everybody is too important to have anything to do with reality.

And Hollywood is the saddest place on earth, I guess cuz apparently you can't make movies without humiliating underlings, feeling up waitresses, and generally making sure nobody feels respected or secure in their job, relationships, or looks. This is where all the psychotic losers come to prove they are somebody among the beautiful people. Only duh they're actually all losers so deep down people constantly worry that secret loser cooties will rub off.

So no. I don't go to Hollywood, not even for the premiere of a movie about me.

A Book about Yours Truly

I got a book coming out about me. I know, you losers have been trying to hawk your pathetic memoir for years, and here I am with somebody begging to tell my life story. Okay, so maybe they aren’t the biggest publishing house on the planet. Okay, so maybe they’re so small you need a microscope to find them on that World o’ Books map you keep pinning your hopes on. I coulda got somebody bigger, but first I woulda had to work for it. You know, that miserable round of begging who knows how many clueless jerks to read my story and then smile while they’re screwing me over in the contract part. No. Here’s the book from a small enough publisher that I know where all of them live and so, if they give me too much crap, I am able to make their lives as miserable as I can without breaking any laws that somebody can prove. Simple.

Now go buy the book here: Unpronounceable