Posts tagged ‘Getting Even: Revenge Stories’

Waiting For Godot (or Rather the Argos Delivery Man)

It’s now Day 2 in – dum da-da DUM – The Adventures of the New Vacuum Cleaner!

…Well, if it ever bloody gets here, that is.

Don’t you just LOVE waiting around for delivery men? I say “men” because they are usually always men, therefore it figures that everything will be a complete cock-up (no pun intended) when men are involved in having to sort anything out other than their dirty socks. Though come to think of it, they can’t even get that right. Indeed, the world is run by men. Do we need any further evidence of their incompetence? Having said that, I’m no great fan of women either. On the contrary. In fact, I think we need an entirely new gender since neither of the two we’re now stuck with appear to be of any benefit to society, or the world in general. Back to the drawing board, Mr. Darwin!

So, yesterday while I waited at home all day for the Argos delivery van, my little heart pounding with excitement over the prospect of finally being able to vacuum my carpets after more than two months (my previous vacuum committed suicide) – forgoing an urgent trip to the post office I should add – an attempt was made to deliver my new vacuum cleaner to the occupant of another flat. I find this most disconcerting, seeing that my address was correct on the order and has since been confirmed and reconfirmed and reconfirmed yet again. I’m certain they all went down the pub last night while I left the outside light burning my carbon footprint even deeper into the earth’s soil as I waited for an after-hours delivery that never arrived. If this keeps up much longer, I’ll be thirsting for revenge (Amazon US/UK/Ca).

The thought that someone else might be vacuuming their flat with my lovely new bagless vacuum cleaner with hose and attachments which was ordered for me as a gift by one of my loftmen really sticks in my craw. I can’t abide infidelity of any sort, not even if committed by a vacuum cleaner. As for the bestower of said vacuum cleaner, I have a suspicion he’s trying to make up for the rather lax service of late I’ve been receiving from my original loftman, who’s ignored my numerous and increasingly desperate pleas to take me to Ikea to buy some lamps (I had two die on me) and a new kitchen rug (spilled bleach on the old). I also have several empty suitcases on the landing along with two empty boxes that need storing up in the loft. I’m now at the point where I’m calling this catastrophe on my landing “Installation Art.” Tracey Emin‘s got nothing over me!

I tell you, things are getting so grim round ‘ere that I’ve been forced to advertise for a new loftman. I mean, what’s a single girl living on her own in Blighty to do? As I’ve found out, you can’t count on anyone these days, especially men. I did get some replies to my job posting, however, and yes, I’ve pretty much decided on my new loftman. He’s cute, foreign, and he really likes my bear. As a matter of fact, they’re becoming quite chummy! The only problem is, my prospective loftman doesn’t have a visa for the UK. But other than that, he’s perfect!

Meanwhile, from the upstairs window I peer down at the street below, hoping to see the Argos delivery van pull up outside. How much longer must I wait?????

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmoDMdLoUZw


February 10, 2009 at 4:38 pm 2 comments

Three Chavs and a Packet of Crisps

mitzi-on-south-bank-jan-2009

Well, I’ve barely been back in the UK for 24 hours and I already have an all-new train adventure to tell you about. I mean, I didn’t expect this much excitement so soon after returning home to Blighty, but as they say, “It’s all go round ‘ere!”

It all began when I dragged my jetlagged self into Central London on Saturday to meet a friend for lunch, with us starting out in the South Bank and ending up at a curry house in Soho. Okay, so the vindaloo nearly killed me (more like blew the back of my bloody head off), but I managed to survive both it and the usual swarm of Saturday afternoon humanity one tends to encounter on Oxford Street. I’m sure my face was still beet-red from the crowds and the vindaloo by the time I reached Tottenham Court Road tube station, having to reroute myself there after the big Gaza demonstration screwed up any chances of making it into the Oxford Circus station, let alone crossing the road to John Lewis, where I’d hoped to find an adaptor. Instead I glommed onto two confused-looking women and hurled myself in the opposite direction, just wanting to get the hell out of there asap.

The tube wasn’t very interesting, but my train ride back to Essex was. (If you’ve been keeping up with my blog posts you’ll know that something always seems to happen on my train.) Being an early Saturday evening my car was crowded with passengers on their way home from their various outtings in the city, so I sat with a trio of lads, who instantly took me under their protective wings and welcomed me to their little party. I must’ve looked more lost and forlorn than usual, so I was happy for the distraction and hilarity they provided – and they provided it aplenty! Indeed, there was never a dull moment with this charming troika, who started out by offering me polite little smiles, after which proper introductions ensued. Obviously I didn’t tell them that I was a famous author of both erotic literature and revenge stories (Amazon US/UK/Ca). After all, a woman must maintain some aura of mystery, right?

I had a front-row seat as one of them received a phone call, the booming male voice on the other end giving him a right bollocking for not turning up for a job interview. The rest of us were trying to contain our laughter so as not to make the situation any worse for the hapless job seeker, but we weren’t too successful. I don’t usually like to laugh at other people’s misfortunes, but in this case I made an exception. He probably wouldn’t have gotten the job anyway. I mean, if he’d wanted it badly enough he would’ve gone for the interview surely? He soon saw the funny side of it after the caller rang off, whereupon he decided to discuss Michael Jackson until I cut him off, informing him that I can’t stand Michael Jackson.

After disclosing that two of them were aged 19, with the one next to me a seasoned old man of 20, the lad across from me (their chief spokesperson from what I gathered) played a game of “Guess the Accent” and got mine right on the second try (Canadian is usually the first guess). He next began to interview me as to my relationship status, gaping in disbelief when I told him. He digested this information for a moment, then asked politely and respectfully if I’d consider going out with him, only to engage the shy lad beside me into this romantic discussion, suggesting to him that he might “walk the nice lady home” from the train station – that “nice lady” being me. Seems all three of them wanted to walk me home, and it wasn’t even dark yet! Who says there’s no gallantry in the Englishman? – or, for that matter, the Essex chav? And before you scoff, let me say this: I didn’t hear one single curse or foul word pass through the lips of these lads. Now if that isn’t proof that God exists, I don’t know what is.

Anyway, they invited me out for a night on the town (or rather the town we all coincidentally live in). In fact, there was even a mention of a dozen red roses. Although I didn’t give them a definite answer, I didn’t say no either. Just before they got off the train at Romford (they decided to kill some time at The Brewery since I’d said I was jetlagged and planned to just crash at home for the night), I was given the phone number of their head honcho.

I tell you, if an artist had to paint my life, it would definitely be Salvador Da were he still alive. Nevertheless, I have to admit, those lads from the train made me laugh, and they were very sweet and gentlemanly too. I could do worse. (And honey, I have!)

So what do you think? Should I take them up on their offer?

January 25, 2009 at 12:08 am 16 comments

Bonnie Parker Meets Scarface (New Year’s Eve in South Florida)

new years

This little piggy went to the market…

Have you noticed that something always seems to happen whenever I go to America (or anywhere for that matter)? Lost luggage, mishaps, scraped bumpers – you name it, it’s happened to me. Well, I’ve got a whole new chapter to add to this science-fiction novel known as my life: I’m now keeping company with a particularly cagey group of South Florida residents. Think Miami Vice. Or better yet, Scarface. Those two lame-asses Crockett and Tubbs can’t hold a candle to Tony Montana (jew got it, mang?)!

On New Year’s Eve I was picked up by car and driven to an undisclosed location in Broward County, Florida. The only landmark I recognised was the Fort Lauderdale Airport, which faded to a glittery speck in the distance as we barreled north and into the final night of 2008 and whatever new hell awaited me in 2009. I figured I had nothing more to lose at this point. I had no idea where I was going or who would be waiting there when I arrived. All I knew was that a roast pig was in the deal.

Apparently we were supposed to arrive at half past seven, and it was already half past eight when we pulled up in front of the darkened house where this New Year’s Eve party was being held. Obviously, I couldn’t help wondering about the absence of cars on our arrival. Were we early? I thought perhaps it was like one of those LA parties I used to go to, where the start time is 7pm, but no one ever turns up until at least 11pm. Of course, that was all just a ploy to make it appear as if the guests had so many other parties to stop off at when in truth, they were probably sitting at home watching old reruns of Gunsmoke until they considered it a dignified enough time to “put in an appearance”.

We parked out on the street so as not to be blocked in later, and made our way up the dark empty driveway, which only reinforced my assumption that we were the first guests to arrive… unless we’d somehow gotten the date wrong and the party was for New Year’s Eve 2010. Suddenly a black cat ran out in front of us. That’s when I noticed the cars. They were parked well off the driveway beneath a batch of trees, as if involved in a plot to reinforce the appearance that no one was there. Despite the obvious affluence of the home and grounds, this entire caper was getting dodgier by the minute.

The first thing I was told upon entering the house was: “Whatever you do, don’t get into an argument with anyone. They’re all packing heat.” I glanced around, expecting to be greeted by Scarface himself. Instead I was greeted by a Magnum 45 and a combat knife, which were set out on a table just inside the front door. That was when I began to question the wisdom of having accepted this invitation, which had been extended to me by my crime writer friend Vicki Hendricks, who’s also a contributor to my anthologies Getting Even: Revenge Stories (Amazon US/Amazon UK/Amazon Ca) and Dying For It: Tales of Sex and Death (Amazon US/Amazon UK/Amazon Ca). If you’ve ever read any of her stuff, you’d understand my concern.

Were my worries justified? That all depends on how you look at it. I suppose you could call it a typical South Florida New Year’s Eve: guns, knives, hot coals, a swimming pool, and a pig. What made it slightly more surreal was the fact that our host and resident pig-roaster happens to be involved with undercover anti-terrorist work and is Jewish. In fact, a good portion of those present were Jewish (not so sure about the undercover anti-terrorist gig, though I could definitely envision our host’s feisty little mama taking someone down with an Uzi). Okay, so call me religiously underprivileged, but have you ever heard of a kosher pig? I’ll tell you this for free: our charming host had quite a gleam in his eye when cutting up that shiksa porker. He even gave me extra helpings of pork rind, no doubt figuring I could use a bit of extra flesh on me. I more than made up for my dwindling condition at the dessert table, where I managed to fit a piece of chocolate cake (which oddly was made with courgettes, aka zucchini), a piece of Vicki’s Tres Leches cake (which thanks to her curious recipe was technically Quattro Leches), and some flan onto my plate.

Over dinner I was informed that the doomed porkers such as the one who ended up on our plates get stamped with a number to reserve them for the bloodthirsty customers who ordered them. I guess that explained the 666 I noticed behind one of the pig’s ears, not to mention explained why our host kept calling the pig Damien. The conversation then moved onto the Fakahatchee Swamp (just try saying that ten times really fast!), a Florida landmark full of alligators, snapping turtles, and assorted dismembered limbs – a place where my mate Vicki claimed she went “looking for orchids”. (Orchids, my ass. Even now she still refuses to answer every time I ask her what happened to her last literary agent.) The dinner conversation reached a climactic crescendo when the conversation switched to a detailed discussion of the castration of pigs. At least I think they were talking about pigs.

Just as we were leaving the party, one of the guests pulled me aside to apologise profusely for forgetting to bring his Kalashnikov. I had to admit, I’d already tried every piece of hardcore weaponry in the house – an AK47 sounded pretty damned sexy to me.

Oh well, there’s always next New Year’s Eve…

Click here for Tony Montana’s wisdom


New Year's Eve

January 2, 2009 at 5:09 pm 10 comments

Shot on the South Bank

Is it possible to love someone so strongly, so overwhelmingly, you’d be willing to sell your soul to the devil to have him?

That is the opening line to my short story “Hell is Where the Heart is” from my anthology Getting Even: Revenge Stories (Amazon US/UK/Ca). Having to repeat it again and again for the camera on Monday afternoon caused me to revisit a sentiment that has been amplified exponentially from the time of the story’s conception. But read it I did, for the planned filming of my performance reading was a year in the making. And, on a cold winter’s afternoon in London’s South Bank, it finally came to fruition.

It began over a year ago at the London book launch of Getting Even, where I planned to do a reading of my work. Because my story was so heavy on dialogue, I realised I needed to find a legitimate Cockney to perform the part of my character “Alf” the Cockney Devil, since I didn’t want to get any Dick Van Dyke comparisons being hurled at me (cor blimey Mary Poppins!). So I’d put out a notice on Facebook and voila, enter Bob Boyton – as Cockney as Cockney can get, and in possession of an accent that could slice through a jellied eel in milliseconds. Yup, I’d definitely found my Alf!

Judging by the reaction of the audience that evening, our performance went down a right treat – so much so that let’s just say I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. Enter Paul Atherton from Simple (TV) Productions – a gentleman who kindly offered to film the reading. Well, I won’t say I got all starry-eyed and fancied myself as Lana Turner being discovered at the soda fountain at Schwab’s Drug Store (yes, I do realise I have star quality!), but I did imagine the video being watched on YouTube and anywhere else it was possible to upload it to.

Having lived for a time in El Lay, one tends to become rather blase about such creatures as actors. However, after an afternoon spent in various locations within the Royal Festival Hall – an afternoon consisting of back-breakingly hard work reading bits of my story again and again and getting them shot from various angles, I will never again be dismissive of those who have chosen or received the calling for the Thespian life. As if it wasn’t difficult enough trying not to flub our lines, we were forced to put up with Muzak playing in the background, espresso machines whooshing, cleaners banging and emptying bins, and individuals so stupid and inconsiderate that they couldn’t shut their mouths for two seconds when walking past what was clearly a film shoot. I mean, does the camera with the microphone sticking out of it not offer a tiny hint of what is transpiring? We were even interrupted by some daft old duffer asking why the door to the auditorium was locked. Um… probably to keep daft old duffers like you out! I nearly shouted. Instead I gave him my Hungarian evil (albeit myopic) eye, at which point he fell over dead with a heart attack. Well, okay, so maybe that isn’t what happened. But you gotta admit, it sounded pretty good.

After we finished the shoot, I went back with Paul to his flat to do some editing. Well, if the filming wasn’t labourious enough, just try editing it! To add insult to the injuries incurred courtesy of the Royal Festival Hall, the cable that was supposed to feed the film into the computer decided not to work. Fortunately another cable was secured – a nifty little red one – and after getting all the footage transferred into the computer and selecting passages to slice and dice, we found ourselves being further thwarted by technology when said computer, for some arbitrary reason known only to itself, decided not to automatically save the work it was programmed to save, and we had to start all over again.

By this time I was utterly convinced the project was cursed and that my tragic aura was having a negative impact on the equipment, and very possibly on Paul. I mean, the day had begun with a text message that pretty much shattered my universe, so why not have the film project shot to hell too? But Paul is nothing if not a consummate professional, thus when I left him late Monday night, he was still toiling away editing the video which, if no other mishaps occur, should be done and dusted by this coming Monday. And yes folks, I will post it on Facebook (including my group page and fan page) and MySpace and every conceivable place there is on this planet to post it, including here. I bet you can’t wait, huh?

Solo reading, Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZ2hvlxqYbM

Outtake: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUZTaWmdVm8

December 11, 2008 at 4:28 pm 8 comments

Wrecked on the Isle of Wight (Minus a Ship)

Let me just say that rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

It was like a scene from out of an Agatha Christie whodunnit: an old manor house, a howling wind blowing in from the raging sea, mysterious and menacing creaks in the night. Whispers of “Let’s kill the erotic writing tutor” could be heard emanating from dark corners – corners where hands might jump out at any moment to wrap around your neck.

Or rather MY neck.

Six women and one man, all locked up for Literotica, an erotic writing weekend on the Isle of Wight. Sure, they looked so innocent and friendly on arrival. So who would suspect that beneath these civilised veneers lurked a bloodthirsty desire TO KILL? I myself suspected nothing. (Mind you, I rarely do.) I conducted my workshop just as I’ve always done, imparting a bit of professional and personal wisdom, and inspiring participants to write freely, to strive high, and to leave behind their erroneous assumptions that erotica is nothing but poshed-up porn. I could see I was winning the battle. These people were actually creating work that would have been equally at home in a respectable literary novel as it would in a respectable sexy novel. “Get rid of the top shelf!” I cried. “No more one-handed reads!” I cheered. And the crowd roared back, hanging on my every word.

So why should one of these nice people wish to kill me – and to kill me in one of the most slow and agonising ways possible – by poison? Was I too hard on them? Did I give too much homework? Did they take offence at my bear’s critiques of their work? Or indeed, was it even one of the workshop participants at all? Perhaps the mild-mannered Greek proprietor of our windswept country house was behind it. Now I’ve heard of not wanting to pay someone for services rendered, but come on – isn’t this taking things a bit too far? (Actually, I did kind of wonder why that plumber’s van hadn’t moved out of the car park for the entire weekend.)

I admit they were clever. They waited until after I’d signed their copies of Getting Even: Revenge Stories (Amazon US/UK/Ca)– (Christ, I knew I shouldn’t have brought that one along) – and The New Black Lace Book of Women’s Sexual Fantasies (Amazon US/UK/Ca). Just think how much these copies would have fetched on eBay had their sinister murder plot actually come to fruition!

It’s hard to believe that the people with whom I’d enjoyed a friendly Saturday night pint at the local pub could, within only a matter of minutes, turn on me like that. I was fine up until then. Had they put poison into my untended pint while I nipped to the loo? Had they coated the rim of the glass with some deadly nectar so that when I raised it to my unknowing lips, I’d ingest the substance? Had someone truly NOT enjoyed reading their copy of Getting Even? I mean, everyone kept saying how they couldn’t wait to get stuck into it, especially the story I wrote. So what gives?

I suspect the physicist. As the only male in a group of women, he was already anticipating the worst from before he’d arrived on the island. Yet I did my best to make him feel welcome and comfortable. I even spent extra time with him chatting about such things as parallel universes and cloud computing as we sat drinking cups of milky tea. What more could I have done? Hey, was it MY fault that someone said (no it wasn’t me!) that all men are crap in bed? Okay, so I nodded to be polite. I mean, wouldn’t you have done the same if you’d been in my shoes?

As you can see, I survived the weekend, albeit quite the worse for wear. And yes, I’m booked again for yet another erotic writing workshop weekend next November. I wonder though if someone might be trying to tell me something. For on the final leg of my journey home, the man seated behind me on the train kept singing about Nosferatu.

Hmmm… I have been looking rather wan of late.

November 27, 2008 at 5:01 pm 9 comments

Beannachd Leibh (Scotland Part 3)

(the famous Teddy {Mc}Tedaloo)

Right, you’ve stuck it out this long, and for that I give you credit. Do you realise this is turning into a long-term relationship? Hey well, I’ve been told I’m a good catch, though don’t go getting any grandiose ideas here! (And that goes for my mystery texter with the baby oil too!) Let’s just stick to the blog posts for now, shall we? So (drum roll!) it’s on to the final installment in my Scotland series…

After a weekend of amazing scenery, Bondage Bob, and deep-fried Mars Bars, Teddy and I were dropped off at Glasgow Central in plenty of time to get the train back down to London Euston. I say “plenty of time”, but that plenty expanded exponentially due to the delayed arrival of our Virgin train. In a nutshell, I had a good hour to kill. And there’s only so many times you can keep going into The Body Shop to sample the balm, you know? I love balm. Good balm. If you want to court me, buy me balm. I don’t need diamonds. I just need balm! Oh, sorry, I’m digressing, aren’t I?

With my hands nicely balmed up, I headed over to the chilly platform, where I got into conversation with some lost Dutchman about the rubbish public transport system in Britain, which killed a bit more time until the big red Virgin train pulled in, spewing out its harried passengers so that this new batch of harried passengers could climb on. I quickly confiscated a couple of seats (Teddy prefers the window since he likes to look out at the passing landscape), and we settled in, my only worry being when to start on the packed lunch my mate Ben had prepared for me. We weren’t even half a mile out of Glasgow Central before our supposedly high-speed train came to a dead halt between a scenic pile of rubble and some grim tower blocks. We sat there admiring the view through our rain-streaked window (Ted wasn’t impressed), waiting for an explanation as to why we didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

At long last the train lurched back into service, doddering along like a little old man for a good twenty minutes until it picked up a more respectable speed. The explanation, when it finally came, prompted the entire car to erupt into laughter. It was the classic British Rail excuse – the one we’ve all heard about, yet always believed was a myth. LEAVES ON THE LINE. Now I’ve been through it all, including a delayed train blamed on a “fatality on the line” in Romford. Okay, I admit, if I lived in Romford I’d be tempted to fling myself in front of a speeding train, too. Having said that, it was also Valentine’s Day. Talk about a double whammy…. As for this delayed train, I was not at all happy about the fact that it would get me into Central London right at the start of Monday evening rush hour. The beautiful Scottish landscape I’d left behind was fast fading in my mind’s eye. However, just before we crossed the border into England, I saw one last rainbow from out of the train window. And this time I made a wish.

With each place it stopped, our train became more and more packed with passengers. Bits of luggage were shoved everywhere and anywhere, dangling precariously above our heads and sticking out into the aisles, which made trips to the loo a challenge. We held onto our seats as if they were made of gold (which in a way they were). Poor Teddy was clinging by a thread to his window seat, growling at anyone who so much as even glanced in his direction. You’d think Virgin Trains would allow for the high number of passengers on their west coast route by adding additional cars. I’ve travelled this route a lot, and it always ends up standing-room only in either direction. One time I had to sit on my suitcase in the snack bar, another time by the loo. In fact, I once saw a woman so desperate for a seat that she actually sat on the toilet. I mean, we’d all paid for a seat, so why couldn’t we all GET a seat? I tell you, if there was ever a reason to do another volume of Getting Even: Revenge Stories

To add some comic relief into the fray, the little electronic signs above our seats didn’t kick into gear until well into our journey, sparking off chaos when nearly all of them suddenly announced “Reserved” (omitting such pertinent information as reserved from where TO where) – whereupon those of us who’d laid claim to a seat early on had to embark on a game of musical chairs. Still more comic relief came in the form of a new passenger who kept dragging her suitcase up and down the aisle as she hunted for her reserved seat, passing it again and again and asking everyone if they knew where seat number 58 was. I tried to contain my laughter, as did the fellow seated across the aisle from me as she passed seat 58 for the fifth time, eventually abandoning her quest and moving on to the next car, suitcase in tow. Seat 58 steadfastly remained where it was, empty and very likely snickering at the woman’s folly. As I munched on some nuts, I worried if the smelly fellow with his smelly dog whom I encountered on the journey north was going to end up on my train again on the journey south. Fortunately he didn’t appear. In his stead, we were blessed with the company of a marathon nose blower who got on somewhere between Warrington Bank Quay and Crewe, and this Pavarotti of the nasal passages regaled us with a series of wet arias that seemed to be never-ending in their length and frequency.

After this interminable journey, we finally arrived in London (late of course) – a place where I’ve often felt that if I ever fell down in the street no one would even notice. After a lovely weekend of being looked after and cared for, the sudden shock that nobody is there waiting for you at the other end can be quite overwhelming. This wasn’t helped by the fact that the weather was awful, with great gusts of cold wind and rain pissing down. Not the nicest welcome home, by a long shot. To make matters worse, the stairs leading into the tube were slippery and dangerous as hell. If you’ve ever taken the London Underground, you’ll know that everyone is always in a big bloody hurry to get somewhere (or nowhere). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined myself crashing to a broken heap at the bottom of the stairs and being stepped over as a mere nuisance to the flow of foot traffic.

I will say that returning on this dismal autumn day had a brief moment of redemption when, as I gingerly made my way down the stairs, a young man suddenly appeared at my side, asking in a heavy London accent if he could carry my suitcase (and no, he didn’t steal it!). Frankly, I was gobsmacked. For a moment I thought I might be in the wrong city, until I got on the tube train – and the first language I heard being spoken was Russian.

Yup. I was back in The Big Smoke, alright!

October 30, 2008 at 10:21 pm Leave a comment

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What I Get Up To

I write, I blog, I Mitzi TV, I network, I breathe, I get my name in the press... I'm a true Renaissance lass! My books include IN SLEEPING BEAUTY'S BED: EROTIC FAIRY TALES; GETTING EVEN: REVENGE STORIES (crime); THE NEW BLACK LACE BOOK OF WOMEN'S SEXUAL FANTASIES (non-fiction/survey); DYING FOR IT: TALES OF SEX AND DEATH (multi-genre); THE WORLD’S BEST SEX WRITING 2005 (non-fiction/criticism); WICKED: SEXY TALES OF LEGENDARY LOVERS; the EROTIC TRAVEL TALES anthology series; the M. S. Valentine erotic novels; and a slew of titles available on Amazon Kindle. Find me on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, Flickr, LinkedIn, Plaxo, Tumblr, Plurk, Social Median, and wherever else I might decide to turn up!

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