Talking Trash

Something I have to get off my chest.
And no, I'm not the one who's talking trash. And no, this post is *not* related to the latest "news" on Kiefer.

What this post *is* about, is a co-worker. Now, I'm not the type of gal who will come online and get into the blame & shame game and I usually keep private stuff to myself, but this is really starting to bug me, so I need to vent. Once you're done reading, you may think it's no big deal, but it is and if you give it some time, you'll find out why.

So what is this about??
Kiefer in the first place.
How?
By constantly (and deliberately) getting his name wrong. In Dutch, there is only one way to pronounce it and that's the right way!
-IE- in Dutch is ALWAYS pronounced "e" whereas -EI- sounds more like the word "heir". There is no way you can get it wrong, unless you're *trying* to get it wrong. And that's what bugs me.
That intention to say it wrong just to tick me off.

News Flash!!
It's a lack of respect when you don't get a person's name right, especially when you're doing it on purpose. You want to disrespect Kiefer "to my face"? You're gonna get a reaction and you know it.

And here's another news flash!
Stuff like that is "funny" when you're 15 and in mid school! Not when you're a grown woman and even less so AT WORK!

Makes me feel like I'm 15 again and being constantly pestered by my stepdad. HIS biggest joy, was to talk trash about my idols just to tick me off. Just to get me going. For the sake of pissing and setting me off.
Ten years worth of that are enough to last me a lifetime, thanks a bunch for putting me through it again.

Yeah, I'm stronger than that, but honestly, enough is enough.
You're really starting to piss me off by intentionally disrespecting someone I admire and respect immensely. You don't like him? Fine! To each their own. That doesn't mean you can/should disrespect the man. You're also disrespecting me in the process.

That's the first point.

And this is the second one.

You trashing my writing!!

You asked me what my upcoming novel is about. When I told you it was Sci-Fi, your reactions said enough. When I added the word "aliens", your response gutted me.

"Booooo-ring"

How do you know?
You haven't even read THE FIRST WORD and you're saying my novel is boring, simply because it's about aliens. What makes you think a story about aliens can be nothing but "boring"?? Don't you think you should try *reading* it before deciding whether or not it's "boring"?
It could be. But how do you know?

How can you say something like that, when you haven't read ANYTHING I've ever written??


I tried explaining the difference between "not being interested in something" and "something being boring", but you weren't listening. You even dragged another colleague into it, asking HIM what he thought about aliens, and practically telling him he should agree with you in saying aliens are "boring". Thankfully, he's slightly more tactful than you are. And a little more respectful as well.


Do you have any idea how hurtful that remark was?
You don't even know what the damn story is about!
How do you know the book is going to be "boring"?
Simply because it's about aliens?
Why couldn't that be intriguing?
Thought-provoking?
Riveting?

What makes you think it's impossible to write an interesting story about aliens?


Maybe Sci-Fi is not your thing and maybe you don't believe in aliens.
That's fine by me, I won't judge you over that.
But what gives you the right to judge my work without even reading it?
What gives you the right to shoot my story down without even giving it the benefit of the doubt?


What gives you that right??



It's a good thing I've been publishing my work online for over a decade. I've had more than enough compliments and confidence boosters over the years and I know I can write a good, strong, intriguing story. You're not the one who will convince me otherwise.


Just know that talking trash about people and disrespecting them and those they admire, isn't going to make you many friends.


You know who you are.

Enjoy your weekend, I'll be working on that "boring" piece of junk you'll never read.

Party poopers - poppers - peppers - ... errrr. Friday Fiction Challenge - all audiences

Hello again, my lovely readers.

This week's challenge is a Non-Fiction story around the topic "Party Personality".
I hope you'll enjoy the read, but if you don't ... no sweat.

Have a great weekend!!

Party poopers, poppers, peppers, … errrr.

Party personality.

That’s an easy one to write about.

I don’t have one.

Or two.

Or three.

I know some people do, depending on the kind of party they’re attending, they will dress and act differently. I don’t.

Why?

That’s simple: I don’t play games. I don’t pretend. What you see, is what you get. I don’t have multiple personalities … well, maybe I do, but not for partying purposes. Besides, I don’t like to party. There’s too much noise, too many people - most of whom you don’t know or don’t want to know – and too much alcohol. There always is, no matter where you go or who you’re with, there is always, always, too much alcohol. Sometimes only 1 person will have too much of that, but it’s enough to ruin the whole evening/party.

I’ve never liked to party. I’ve never been interested in going to these kinds of events. I like a good concert every once in a while, but not parties. Not even birthday parties when a lot of people are invited, or wedding parties, or graduation parties (which we don’t really have here).

So, I don’t really have the problem of having (or not) a party personality. I don’t need one since I don’t attend parties.

Even at work, all those ‘social gatherings’, they just give me the creeps. Half the people there, are people you don’t even know because they work in different departments, or on different floors, different buildings, whatever, but you’re all slapped together in one big room and ‘have fun’. It’s not my idea of fun, that’s for sure. I prefer to be at home, in my lazy chair, reading a good book while listening to music I actually like, or watching a movie for the gazillionth time, or – which happens more often – sitting at my computer, writing or playing games.

And even if I did attend parties, I still wouldn’t need an alternate personality for it.

Why should I?

Why should I pretend to be different at a party?

Why couldn’t I just be me at a party?

Why would I have to play it sexy, or tough, or hard to get, or easy to get, or whatever?

Why do people even feel the need to be different at a social gathering?

Why do people feel the need to play games?

Is it because they think they’ll find mister right (or mrs right) by playing a game of make-belief? How could you? How could you possible find the right partner, if you’re not being true to yourself? How does that make any sense at all?

If people don’t like me for who I am, why should I pretend to be different to make them like me?

I know I tried that, way back when I was still young and innocent (blah). I wanted to be part of the popular group of girls in school, like everyone else. So I tried to act like them, talk like them, walk like them, dress like them. Who was I trying to fool? They could see right through the charade and – honestly – I know none of them really liked me, they tolerated me in the area. And you want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Because I was the pitbull, the guard dog. The one they turned to whenever a boy/guy was bugging them. The one who took action and didn’t think twice about going up against a guy twice her size. That was why they tolerated me around. Because I would defend them against attack or bullying.

They never liked me, I know that now. I didn’t know it then, until one beautiful Friday evening in May 1990 when I found out … the hard way.

It was my 18^th birthday and my mom and stepdad allowed me to throw a party.

I invited everyone. All of my ‘friends’ from school, and everyone on my volleyball team. I was excited and looking forward to having a great time. The night of the party, our doorbell rang once. Just once! When I got the door, my entire volleyball team was there. They had rendezvoused at the training complex and a couple of the parents had driven the whole group over to my place from there.

I had an awesome, fabulous time with real friends. People whom I didn’t have to pretend with. People who knew me and who appreciated me for who I was. We all had a common goal: be better than the opposing team. Because of that common goal, there was no need to pretend, no need to fake. With them, I was me. No need for an alternate personality.

When I got back to school on Monday, I started telling my ‘friends’ how awesome my party had been and how much fun I’d had and I could see them, looking at each other, trying to figure out who broke the ‘oath’, who had betrayed the others by coming to my party.

I knew then and there, that they didn’t give a damn about me. Either because they knew I was faking it, or simply because they didn’t care either way.

It was a lesson learned and I remember it to date.

And I really like to quote Kiefer Sutherland when asked ‘What is the best advice your father ever gave you?’. His answer: “Don’t get caught with your pants down.”

There is absolutely no reason WHAT SO EVER to fake your way through life.

Be true to yourself because people will either see through the charade, in which case they won’t like you because you’re lying, or they will find out, sooner or later, and they won’t like you either, because you lied to them. It’s a lose/lose situation, every which way you want to look at it.

With me, it’s very simple: You like me? Great! You don’t? Fine by me.

What you see is what you get, I don’t do special treatment and I don’t care what people think.

I am free to be me.

We all are.

Live and let live.

So, seriously, my party personality is the same you’ll see at work, at home or when I’m grocery shopping.

Party on!

More entries can be found over here

Nightmare on 3rd Street - Flash Fic - All audiences

Here's yet another flash fic I wrote.

This one is not 24-related, it is however Kiefer Sutherland-related.

I hope you'll enjoy the read.

Nightmare on 3^rd street.

Out of all days, it just had to happen today!

It couldn’t have happened otherwise.

Murphy’s Law, you know.

Everything that could go wrong, would go wrong.

It started this morning when he spilled coffee all over him and lost half an hour taking another shower and changing into clean clothes. Then his car wouldn’t start and he had to call a cab, which made him even later.

Shooting had been a total disaster and he had called it a day in the early afternoon.

It really was no use insisting.

He wanted to go out to his favorite restaurant, but they had a wedding party that evening and didn’t take any reservations. Four other restaurants were full as well and he had given up trying, grabbed his wallet and jacket and had gone to the nearby diner.

It wasn’t all that, but their food was good and the atmosphere relaxed.

After dinner he decided to go have a drink, it might help ease the tension.

He had been sitting there for a while when a woman had started flirting with him and it had changed his mood altogether.

For the first time today, a smile played on his face.

He had sent a drink over and she had taken it as an invitation to join him.

She was already a little drunk and once she was at his table, she became very flirtatious, coming onto him big time.

It was funny how she practically dared him into kissing her.

He took up the dare, leaned closer and kissed her briefly, his lips barely brushing against hers.

The heavy hand on his shoulder made him jump in surprise and he turned around.

A big man loomed over him and he heard the girl say something that sounded an awful lot like “Hi sweetheart”, which made his breath catch in his throat.

The guy grabbed his shirt, pulled him to his feet and shoved him hard against the chest, nearly knocking him down on the table.

“What the hell are you doing kissing my wife?” the guy yelled in his face.

For once he hadn’t checked the woman’s hands. He always did, to make sure there was no wedding ring.

He tried to get the man to calm down, telling him he wasn’t trying anything and it had just been a friendly peck, but he couldn't stop the rising fist.

The other stood a full 10’ taller than him and that fist looked pretty damn big, so he put his hands up in surrender, hoping to stop him from actually hitting him. He really didn’t feel like ending the night in the emergency room.

Instead of hitting him, the guy pulled hard on his shirt, throwing him forward, and he could barely catch himself, knocking his bad knee on the hard wooden floor. It sent a jolt of pain through his leg and he didn’t move as fast as he could’ve.

The guy’s foot came down on his left hip, pushing him sideways and forward, sending him flying between the legs of a nearby table.

He rolled and the other grabbed his shirt again, pulling him back to his feet, yelling some more.

It was weird how nobody even tried to help him. It was obvious he didn’t stand much of a chance against Gigantor and if he started pounding on him, he’d slap his butt into hospital in no time. Maybe someone had called the police. Maybe.

The guy pulled on his shirt again, flinging him forward once more. His knee buckled on him and he had to steady himself on the edge of the table to keep from falling. He turned to face the man, a painful grimace on his face. The woman was still in her chair. She hadn’t moved, she hadn’t said anything, she was simply watching her husband throw him around. He would’ve appreciated it if she had at least tried to stop her husband, but she didn’t look like she was about to.

“Stop looking at her, you fuck!”

He snapped his head around to look at the husband instead.

Still nobody was moving to help him.

Nobody was trying to reason with the guy or stop his attack and it scared him.

It scared him to know he was alone.

The man came back at him, grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward again, pulling him into his punch as he landed it.

The power of it dazed him and he staggered on his feet.

Surely someone would come to help him now, but he didn’t hear anything; nobody was trying to stop this.

The fist landed in his gut this time, knocking the wind out of him.

The guy held him up and hit him again, letting go of his shirt at the same time and he dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

He looked up at the man who stood waiting, a huge grin on his face.

He was ready to take him apart, one piece at a time.

The fist rose again and he brought his arms up to protect himself.

The touch was soft.

Gentle.

So was the voice that called out to him.

“Kiefer … wake up.”

He lowered his arms and opened his eyes.

He looked into her eyes, a beautiful grayish blue.

She was smiling at him, reassuringly … comforting.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

The tension left him and he nodded, managing a faint smile.

Yeah, he was okay.

Now, he was.

“Were you having that nightmare again, baby?”

He nodded.

“Oh, come here, let me make you all better.”

She leaned over and kissed him gently.

“Better?”

He nodded again.

It always made him better when she kissed him.

“Try to get some more sleep, you’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

She settled in his arm, her head on his chest like always.

He kissed her on the top of her head, closed his eyes and went back to sleep.