A contractor came by the house yesterday to talk about some remodeling projects. Nice guy, youngish, a little fond of monologue but also copacetic with my interjected semi-funny sidebar comments. In other words, it went great, especially given the hot day and my finely honed sales resistance. Until, that is, on his way out, when he handed me his card.
Owner-slash-Smile Maker, his title read.
I looked up, groaning. Smile maker, really?
See, it worked, he said with a grin.
Actually, it was more of a grimace on my part. But I just nodded and shook his hand.
Earlier this week, a co-worker said how much she liked someone. So-and-so is so nice, they're always smiling, she said, nodding in approval.
Those kind of people scare me, I said, and her own smile died.
It's true. I trust them the least. The smilers. Either they're up to something devious and trying to allay all suspicion, or they're just not paying attention.
There's a shadow constantly hovering at my shoulder. For all my gallivanting into the social whirl, nevermind the positive social media...
Ever wondered what it takes to get a piece of fiction published? I'm not talking New Yorker type of prose. That's a rarefied world ...
Check out my new video, a brief reading from a story published this past spring in Opossum.
Welp, after a half-year experiment in social media, BSP has returned to its blogger roots. I hated Faceborkland, tbh. Sure, it was easier t...