I am so good at self-care



The "B" is for "Book" and the "F" is for "Fuckin' 'ell, a book!"All right, all right, I haven't been the most faithful correspondent of late.  I won't blame you if you assumed that that I was gone for good.  I just hope that you envisioned a suitable end for me.  Stranded on the planet Mercury, maybe, or eaten by a venomous slugbeast thing.  Or maybe you figured that I finally made one too many bad jokes about Her Majesty the Queen, and was mauled to death by her attack corgis.

But in actual fact, I've been on a secret mission of the utmost importance.  I'm not allowed to reveal any details- suffice it to say, someone very evil is down to his last Horcrux.  (We're pretty sure it's his toupee.)

But have I been writing, in my off hours, when I haven't been fighting back against the forces of Twitter-based fascism, or being bent over a desk by Her Majesty the Queen and told what a very bad lawyer I've been?  Or have I aged and seasoned, like...well, not like wine, but maybe like cheese, and decided that there are more productive ways to spend my time than writing many many words about gay pirates?

HA HA HA of course not.  No, my disease is worse than ever, and my doctors have despaired of a cure.  Beggar's Flip, the sequel to Shell Game, will be out this summer, published by the spiffy folks over at Bedazzled Ink Press.  This is the continuing story of Darren- socially awkward noblewoman turned pirate queen- and Lynn- sorta kinda Darren's slave girl, sorta kinda Darren's life coach, and altogether the bossiest backstreet driver that ever set foot on a pirate ship.  The gay is radioactive, the snark is weapons-grade, and pretty much I do not know what I am doing with my life.  But I hope that you like it. 

And now, back to the workshop of the magical lesbian dwarf blacksmith who is forging me a double-headed axe blade out of the heart of a very gay star.  One more Horcrux to go. 



Observe!  It is Pink Crayon Dragon.  Together, let us gaze upon his splendour.

Some might comment that Pink Crayon Dragon's head looks much like a sock puppet crafted by a kindergartener of average ability.  Pink Crayon Dragon is unmoved by such observations.  Pink Crayon Dragon does not give a shit.  Pink Crayon Dragon is secure in his dragoninity.  He does not need any outside endorsements to maintain a positive body image.

Pink Crayon Dragon suffers no spasm of insecurity because of his colour.  If other dragons are so juvenile as to shout homophobic taunts, this will merely reinforce Pink Crayon Dragon's conviction that he is right to be spending most of his time with panda bears.  The panda bears just get him, you know?

Pink Crayon Dragon was born "Maurice," but is thinking of having his name changed to "Martha."  No, Pink Crayon Dragon is not transitioning.  Pink Crayon Dragon merely scorns your artificial, culturally-enforced binaries.  Don't you try to pigeonhole him.

In other news, I'm back.  How have you been?



Things are still pretty freaky down here in the law mines, but I have bribed a passing pigeon to bring you this note from my cell.  Lesbian romance writer and generally swell person A.J. Adaire invited me to come to her website and talk too much about myself.  Can I pass up an offer like that?  I cannot.

The interview is here.  You should go and read it!  We touch on a number of subjects including bomb-making and nuclear survival.  Also girls who kiss, of course, because, well, come on.

So: yes.  Go hang out with AJ for a bit.  She is good people.  Go for the nuclear apocalypse, stay for the pie.

Edit: Yes, I know, something seems to be up over at AJ's place and the interview isn't reachable at the moment.  I am tentatively hypothesizing that the site got eaten by a camel.  Sorry 'bout that; I'll relink as soon as things get sorted out on that end.



Hello, yes, this is Our Majesty the Queen, and one hopes that you have been substantially less naughty than usual.

One knows that we have a lot of fun here, but one would like to- what is it that the kids say?- “get real” for a brief while on the subject of the situation in Sochi.

One was tuning in today to the BBC when one heard news which made one clutch desperately for one's pearls and shriek for the maid to come running with gin and sal volatile.  The Mayor of Sochi, Anatoly Pakhomov, reports that there are no gays in his city.

One is quite, quite sure that this news is correct and accurate in every particular, because the only other possibility is that a politician is lying, and surely such a thing could never occur.

Friends, friends, dear friends, one is sure you will join one in a moment of silent Anglican prayer for the poor, bereaved citizens of Sochi.  One has oneself known times of deprivation- there was the rationing during the Second War To Which America Showed Up Disgracefully Late, and there were the weeks during which Prince Harry was on one of his benders, during which one was hiding in the most remote of the royal linen closets, trying to avoid the media melee.  But never, never, never, has one had to endure the kind of dreadful privation, the brutal, wrenching want, that those brave Sochihans suffer as a daily reality.

Life without gays?  Life without music!  Life without stars!  How could they possibly cope?  How do they drag themselves through the weary days without the healing rainbow light of same-sex lovin’ or behaviour defying gender norms?  Heaven only knows what their parties are like and who looks after their homeless kittens.

One has rapidly assembled a crack team, liaised with the Red Cross to arrange an emergency airlift, and will be parachuting gay into the areas where it is needed the most.  If you have some extra gay to spare, please give generously.  The amount of gay you radiate whilst purchasing your morning cup of coffee could provide a family in Sochi with supplementary gay for over a week, rescuing them from the grey, conforming numbness of their heterosexual stupor.

Carry on.