Warning: If you are prone to heavy imagination overload, skip this post.
Rachel Vincent probably didn’t mean to twist my imagination in quite the way she did. And no, while I am critiquing her work right now and LOVING IT, a few simple words did this terrible thing. (Okay that AND the critique.)
It’s the time of year when certain Oklahoma creatures begin invading the home. There is nothing like bopping around barefoot and seeing one of these lift its back end at you. (Did you know that isn’t a tail? It’s an extension of their abdomen.)
So, I’m telling her about my almost-in-the-shower-heebie-jeebie dance and she casually mentions getting stung IN HER BED.
In it, fairly warned readers.
Oh, and while I caught mine and took it outside, she puts hers down the garbage disposal. This werecat writer has a dark side, eh? But then, she has been stung and so far, I’ve avoided it. I have no idea how because I find these things everywhere. I cleaned out a stack of magazines in my office and found two dead ones underneath. They’ve been in my kids’ rooms–okay yes, when it comes to my kiddos, I can bring myself to administer a swift death.
No freaking garbage disposal though!!!
So, while I was tucking my wonderfully relaxed (see post on Worst PAIN Ever! below) self into bed all weekend, I was lifting covers to inspect the bottom of the sheets. On Mother’s Day, my hubby brings me coffee in bed then makes a joke about nests of scorpions in the bedroom somewhere. I watched the floor all weekend.
I dreamed of freaking black werecats with stingers and huge garbage disposals.
And since I’m critiquing, Rachel is going to know exactly how this “coming together” happened.
(On a side note, I didn’t do a drawing for prizes in my Apex Digest Subscription Drive–I had two comment, so both won! Congrats Carol and Dorris!!)