[ETA: Scroll down for Shuzluva goodness]

I cribbed this from Writing Fiction of the Gotham Writers’ Workshop and tailored it to me. It would be rad if you guys did it on your respective blogs and posted the links on the comment section. Let’s dance, bitches.

What is in your refrigerator right now? On your bedroom floor? On your nightstand? In your garbage can?

In the fridge: day-old pizza, a severed foot, rancid milk, a tub of butter, a bottle of ranch, strawberry jelly. On my bedroom floor: some comic books, slippers, Tim’s dirty socks, the hamper. On my nightstand: a copy of collected works by Harlan Ellison, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, a box of Kleenex, and nasal spray. In my garbage can: junk mail, discarded boxes from my Amazon purchases, empty water bottles, banana peels, balled up piece of paper when I’m bored and try to pretend I’m some kind of basketball wunderkind. Yeah, I don’t recycle. And I’m evil.

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[fake blurb alert]

Forty-five year old Mara Jensen has a problem: she can’t seem to keep a man longer than a night. She suspects it’s because she’s a Vulcan from the planet… well, Vulcan and her ears and hair part tend to freak people out. No matter what she’s tried to do with her hair, it has the tendency to sweep over to the side and reveal her scalp. She also used to be a hermaphrodite, but her parents had that taken care of when she was a baby, and sure, she has to take hormone injections for the rest of her life and—-[ahem] But that’s not Mara’s biggest problem. Once, while stranded in a space station with a bunch of cosmonauts and no food, Mara and crew had to draw straws to see who would be eaten first. Needless to say, Mara drew the longest stick. [hee, stick!] Once she’s back among civilization, Mara has tried to suppress her cannibalistic impulses, but she just can’t help herself. Especially when former Navy SEAL Treat Harris moves next door. Not only is he handsome and young, he is also very muscular… and Mara can’t resist but picturing him naked and slathered with A1 Steak Sauce.

Treat Harris was the best Navy SEAL evah. That is, until he was discharged from his unit because of a late-onset narcolepsy. During a routine training drill, Treat lost his best friend because he got a little too excited and promptly fell asleep, thus accidentally letting go of his best friend’s hand and dropping him into a meat grinder (WTF). Racked by guilt and having to deal with his illness, Treat has decided to live the life of a monk by moving into the most boring suburb in America and sit in front of the TV all day waiting for his disability checks. That is, until he meets Mara Jensen, his enigmatic neighbor… who seems to look at him like a slavering wolf and he’s a bloody steak. Zzzzzz….

[Ed. note: Yeah, I don’t know where I was going with that. That came off of the top of my head and the top of my head is not funny.]

Here’s a cover that had me staring at it for ten minutes. I was convinced it was a girl at first, but then I thought Silhouette Desire wouldn’t put a topless chick on their cover! As cute as this boy is, however, I don’t buy him as a cowboy. He looks like Abercrombie & Fitch’s idea of a cowboy, but I bet this bitch has never shoveled hay in his entire life. I bet he gets manicures and shit. Just check out how white is Stetson is. Uh… hello! No room for ambiguity. I think they should have given him a black Stetson so we could pretend he’s kind of a bad guy that is redeemed by a… sassy cowgirl or something. I’m a little jealous of his hips, though. They’re almost as wide as his belt buckle. This is one lean man. I like a dude with a little more meat on his bones. Not fat, mind you (no fatties!), but… hefty. A man who works out and stuff, but doesn’t mind eating a big fat steak and downing a forty afterward. Dude looks like he’s allergic to carbs and nibbles daintily on salads. He don’t look like the type who can scarf down a Carl’s Jr Six Dollar Burger (if it doesn’t get all over the place, it doesn’t belong in your face). I bet he’s the kind of date who’d glare at you if you ordered curly fries with your burger. I’d still let him stick it in, though… but just the tip. Then he can go home.

… okay, not late. More like, returning to the party after everyone’s gone home. I will tell you something, kiddies… Leo Dicaprio was the first guy who ever made my girly parts tingle. No, I’m not talking about the Jack Dawson bullshit that made him a household name (admit it, whores… how many times did you see that movie?). I was crushing on this guy back when he was Luke Brower, the charming homeless boy that Mike Seaver brings home in Growing Pains. Which reminds me… hey, Bonnie Dee, how awesome would it have been if Carol Seaver (or Mike) had been tagging Luke, eh? That would have been some bizarre Picket Fences bullshit, man. Heck, that would have made spectacular Must-See-TV (oh, wait, that’s NBC). I could have been better guided as an adolescent if I had a little more Growing Pains in my memory.

Anyway, when I heard Leo was going to reprise Tony Leung’s kickass role in the American remake of the film, Infernal Affairs, I was pretty peeved. Infernal Affairs is one of my favorite films and Americans tend to… make shitty-ass really fucking bad substandard remakes. But I told myself it was being directed by Scorsese and Matt Damon was going to be in it, so I decided to watch it anyway. Via Netflix. ‘Cause Smallville was a rerun. I was totally wow’d by Leo’s performance, dude. Oh, and his gritty, pill-popping, dirty-boy hotness. And his on-and-off Southie accent. He took that undercover-cop-breaking-down-under- pressure gig and frickin’ nailed it to the wall, yo. He tapped that ass, spooged all over it, and knocked that bitch up. Why did he get nominated for the Blood Diamond thing instead of this one? Forest Whitaker is so going to kick his ass on Sunday night. Leo’d look better in a tux… but Whitaker’s taking that golden man home, you can bet on it.

Even if he loses on Oscar night—-and he will—-I’d let him tap it, anyway. I bet he’s all intense about it. You know those method-actor types.

I was raised a good Catholic girl. Growing up, I was made to believe I was supposed to love Jesus as he was my Lord and savior. He will care for my soul and get me to heaven if I only trusted in his love. Okay, I was down with that… as I grew up reading about Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, I was already suffering from a major waiting-for-my-knight complex, so the thought of a blond-haired, blue-eyed (y’all know this is majorly my type) knight ushering my ass to paradise… yo, I was all over that. OFF THE CHAIN, yo, for realz! But then something happened… I totally started crushing on Jesus, like Martha did in Mary O’Connell’s kickass book Living with Saints. I confessed it to my priest and it went a little something like this:

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