Writing. Fashion. Art. Architecture. Music. Film. Television. These are a few of my favorite things. Debut novel coming out this fall.


Ming-Na Wen as Agent Melinda May in “Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD.”

Don’t forget to tune into “Agents of Shield” tonight at 9 PM EST.

Hello, everyone. I’ve spent the past year and a half working on my first book, Chubby Chaser, that will be published soon. The novel is a new adult/romance novel about Jason Pruitt, a high-school football star who tries to woo Sara Krason, the homely, overweight girl that no one at school likes, to win a bet, but things go awry when he actually starts to fall for her. To promote my work, I’ll be posting promo chapters until the book is released. This chapter is chapter four (the first promo chapter was chapter two):

Chapter Four:

Sara pulled up to the school’s student parking lot in her red Volkswagen Jetta with a grimace on her face: she had always bemoaned the return to school, because it meant another nine months of suffering the fools of the Tallis High student body. Fortunately, this was her last year, and if everything went according to plan, she would be attending Wesleyan University next fall, where she would finally be among her intellectual peers.

She came to school a little early that day to talk to her guidance counselor, Mrs. Townshend, about applying for early admission to Wesleyan. Reaching across her seat to the passenger side, Sara grabbed her backpack and then climbed out of her car, her bitch face firmly in place in case any of the jackasses who populated the school tried to mess with her, though they usually left her alone these days.

As she crossed the parking lot to get to the school, she turned and saw some dumb slut in a car giving a guy a blow job! In broad daylight! What the fuck! Sara turned away quickly, scrunching her face up in disgust. One more year, she told herself. Just one more year, and she would be free. Life would be much better after high school; “It gets better after high school” had to be a saying for a reason.

Mrs. Townshend was a sweet fifty-year-old woman, who kept a jar of bite-size candy bars on her desk (which Sara loved) and always smelled as though she bathed in perfume (which Sara didn’t love). She looked over Sara’s records on her computer before turning her attention to Sara. “Honestly, you’re a shoo-in for Wesleyan even if you don’t apply early admission. Your GPA is perfect, you’re a lock for valedictorian, you scored a twenty-two hundred on your SATs, an eight hundred on your SAT math subject test, and a seven hundred on your SAT writing subject test. Then you’ve got your art portfolio, which goes to show you’re well rounded and passionate about something. You still need two teacher recommendations though. How are you looking on those?”

“I’m on good terms with all my teachers, so I shouldn’t have any trouble getting recommendations.”

“Good. What about your essays? You can use your art for the one that requires you to write about one of your extracurricular activities or work experience, and you can write about anything you want for the other one.”

“Um, I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“What about your mother’s passing? You can write about how that’s affected you as a young girl going through puberty without her mother.”

“No way.”



“Okay, well, try to come up with some other ideas. You have until November, so there’s no big hurry. Your stats will be the most important part anyway.”

The bell rang.

“That’s the first bell. You better get to class.”

“Okay.” Sara grabbed her backpack (and a few candy bars) and left, wiping the sweat from her brow on the way out.

Mrs. Townshend was such a bitch. How could she even consider asking Sara to exploit her mother’s death for a college essay? If Sara had to stoop that low for admission to Wesleyan, then she didn’t want to go there. She did still need a topic for her second essay though. At first she thought about using her hunting and shooting experiences but then quickly decided against it; with all the school shootings that have occurred, that might make them averse to admitting her, and she didn’t want to seem too weird or out there. Ooh, I know! Sara thought as she finished her last candy bar. She tutored students at school to cover her National Honor Society community-service requirements. She could write about that and how it gave her so much joy to help her peers succeed academically. It was total bullshit, of course, but colleges ate stuff like that up.

Sara loved the order of her classes. It allowed her to get all of her least favorite subjects (AP English, French, and AP government) out of the way first and saved all of her favorites (physics, anatomy and physiology, and AP calculus) until after lunch. Sara didn’t like English class because it usually involved reading some boring book or play, like Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew, simply because it was a classic. She loved to read but preferred to pick her own material. She didn’t mind French that much, but it wasn’t the language she wanted to study. She wanted to learn how to speak Japanese and Chinese, but her school didn’t offer those. She had to take at least two years of a foreign language to graduate, and French was the best of a bad bunch (French, Spanish, and German). As for AP government, she simply found politics boring, but it was another class she had to take if she wanted to graduate. She could’ve taken regular government and regular English and regular calculus, but AP classes looked better to the college-admissions people. And because AP classes required at least a B-plus from last year’s class, there were fewer dunderheads in the classroom, though a few riffraff always managed to sneak in, usually jocks and their female counterparts (cheerleaders).

When it was time for lunch, Sara went out to her car to eat. She had been avoiding the cafeteria since eighth grade. Kids had always made fun of her for how much she weighed, how much she ate, and the way that she ate, but that year they had done something particularly heinous to her.

Sara was sitting by herself in the cafeteria, eating a slice of pizza, periodically dipping it into a small container of ranch dressing, when Kimberly Weitsel came over and sat next to her. Kimberly was pretty and popular, and for the life of her, Sara couldn’t figure out why Kimberly would want to sit next to her.

“Do you know who Lady Gaga is?” Kimberly asked.

“Y … yeah, I know who she is,” Sara stuttered, nervous.

“Everyone keeps saying I look like her, but I don’t know.”

“You’re a lot prettier than her.”

“I am?”

Sara nodded enthusiastically.

“Thanks. You’re really pretty too.”

Sara shook her head and looked down. “N … n … no.”

“No, really, you are. I just love your hair color. It’s so different looking.” She stroked a strand of Sara’s dark-red locks. “Is this your natural hair color?”

Sara nodded.

“I’m totes jealous. All I have is lame, boring brown hair.”

“B … b … but it’s very nice brown hair. Very pert and shiny.”

“Pert?” Kimberly clearly didn’t know what the word meant.

“Y … y … yeah, pert, as in ‘nice, attractive’, you know?”

“You’re so smart. Yet another thing about you to make me totes jealous.”

Sara smiled. Kimberly was one of the prettiest and most popular girls in school, and here she was, saying she was envious of Sara. It was as though her birthday and Christmas had fallen on the same day. To Sara’s surprise, Kimberly continued to have lunch with her for the next two weeks, and it was a great boon to her: she felt the anxiety and trepidation that had plagued her for years when it came time to go to school begin to dissipate; she felt more comfortable speaking up in public; and for the first time, she felt as though she had found a true friend.

That was all shot to hell when Kimberly brought a bag of homemade chocolate-chip cookies for lunch and gave two to Sara. Sara thought they tasted great. She didn’t even notice a problem until near the end of the class she had after lunch. Her stomach cramped and became hot and bloated, as though it was filled to the brim with molten lava, and she could feel intense pressure in her anal region. She had diarrhea.

She trotted up to the desk of Mr. Whitman, her English teacher. “Mr. Whitman, may I use the restroom, please?”

He looked at the clock. “I can’t give you permission to do that. There’s only five minutes left until the end of class, and as you know, Ms. Krason, students aren’t allowed out during the first or last five minutes of class.”

“Please, Mr. Whitman, it’s an emergency.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “I have diarrhea.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that one before, Ms. Krason,” Mr. Whitman chuckled. “I never thought I’d hear it from you though.”

Sara held her stomach and clenched her anal sphincter muscles; the heating and bloating were getting worse, as was the intense pounding in her anal region. The sound of laughter made her turn around. Kimberly and the people she was sitting with were looking at Sara with sly grins on their faces and tittering. Sara knew immediately what had happened. It was the cookies. Kimberly had pretended to be her friend to set her up with the cookies.

Sara had never disobeyed a teacher before, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold it in until the end of class, and she didn’t want to give her enemies the satisfaction of seeing her suffer anymore. So she ran for it, and several strides later, she involuntarily expelled the contents of her bowel, but she kept running. Behind her she could hear the entire class laughing.

That day was the last time Sara had eaten in public. It was also the last time she had ever tried to befriend anyone.

I am on Goodreads now, so feel free to drop me a line. Here’s my page

Don’t forget to tune in to “American Horror Story: Freak Show” tonight at 10 PM EST on FX.