Eddie Davidson: Blog

As many of you know, I worked with OmegaPet before Covid, pretty much every day for years. I could have worked all day on stories but instead I worked on this. It's rare I have this much time to set aside for writing.

I do hope that OmegaPet has a friend like me again, one day. He may come to appreciate them. He didn't appreciate me, or he wouldn't have thrown my friendship in the shitter for that story he had to know he was not entitled to steal. He had to know I would not abide it because he had stolen it before, and I told him he couldn't.

Imagine discovering that your friendship is so worthless, that someone you knew for six years would trade it just to get some votes on SOL? What a shitty fucking bargain.

He recently wrote a defense of his plagiarism of my work in his blog and called it an accident.

I wanted to write a single word response, which is "Bullshit".

That sums up exactly what I think of his lack of ownership of what he did. Bullshit sums up his lack of awareness of what it means to have your work stolen and eviscerated by a friend. Bullshit sums up my thoughts on the "accident" of stealing a story you knew you shouldn't steal, because the first time you stole it, I was ready to end our friendship over it. This is the second time he stole the same story without permission, and Bullshit sums up his entire response.

He didn't just take it without permission. He took it KNOWING that I said he can't take it. He took it KNOWING how I felt about having my experiences, my voice, my details removed and removed them. He took it with *NO* intention to even give me credit. He took it with the intention to take it to places I would not want him to take it.

He stole the story from me. He stole my WILL to continue the story now, as well.

His blog should have actually been an admission of what he did and an unqualified apology. You won't find those there. You will only find bullshit.

He is incapable of that. He still thinks his putting his name and copyright on my story was an accident and an over-reaction by me. If that is the case, let me add some context; You be the judge.

This is also a vent for me, and I apologize in advance for that. You didn't come here for drama. This is painful for me though, so I will share the raw feeling with you, anyway.

That is why a fresh betrayal hurts much more. As an author, there is always a risk that some troll is going to steal your stuff and post it up on some bookstore and sell it as their work. It would not hurt so much because snakes bites when you pick them up. If they bite you, you shouldn't be surprised. Trolls are parasitic shit stains and stealing is what parasitic shit stains do.

I was surprised that a friend would steal from me -not once, but twice. I was surprised that a friend would erase the very details that I worked so hard to create from my writing, but keep the framework of the story I wrote.

I shouldn't be, because it's not the first time he did it.

It's hopefully the last time he will do it to me. I'll follow his writing, if only to see whether or not he's dumb enough to think he's entitled to a fucking thing I wrote or created.

Imagine this scenario: You allow your friend to borrow your car a few times, and even though he never gives you credit for doing that, you are a good friend. He does stuff for you, it's not a one way street.

One day, he takes your car without asking. He doesn't put gas in it, which he knows you hate. He plans on keeping the car for himself, and you say "no, you can't do that."

He claims to be sorry, but only after you bring it up. He thinks you should be glad he took your car. You weren't using it at the moment. That's where I was with OmegaPet-59 a few months ago.

Over the years, he's taken my ideas and never given me credit for them. He's taken them in directions I didn't particularly enjoy, like attempted rape scenes that were unnecessary. As an author and a friend, I provided feedback on how I felt. He not only never gave me credit for creating the story/idea/characters, but he unabashedly kept those objectionable scenes in the story. The pattern was always there. He doesn't give a shit if this scene hurts a reader that wasn't expecting it.

He has a history of telling the same story over and over with slight variations. This rape was something that simply did not belong in there. It could have been that their daughter's date got a little handsy, and she asked him to leave. I wouldn't have even noticed that. This was a full on rape kit dude, who fled the scene.

I am not a fan of that, but I also felt ownership of these characters, and a sadness that, in some way, if a victim of rape, or even someone like me who can only try to fathom what rape survivors feel because I know some personally, might feel if they read it. Those characters felt real to me. He made them act like thoughtless assholes that laughed and fucked the night of her daughter's eldest rape.

I am realizing that's because HE is a thoughtless asshole, who does not understand the pain he creates and lacks empathy.

I did not want that rape associated with the characters I created. I told him that. He left it in.

There are some characters you read about or create that feel like more than just names on a page. I still remember Jeff and Diane from that story because I could see them. I knew them. They were created by distilling hundreds of experiences and people I've met into something that felt authentic.

They are an extension of me - of who I am and what I've done and where I've been and what I've learned.

So, that is why when he strips me out - it hurts. When he makes them act like his generic Leo/Mary characters that he always writes - it hurts. When he gives me no credit for their creation, it hurts.

As a friend, I gave him my silent permission to use them. We aren't friends. He may not have them. It kills me to take stories down. It's like chopping trees. He didn't attribute me as the creator of the story.

He never gave me credit for any of the work I did. As a friend, I silently respected that. We aren't friends. Fuck that. Those first chapters are mine. He did that to Mary Christmas, Hobo-Sexual, and several other stories. Hobosexual was supposed to be a story about a homeless person that we collaborated on. after my initial chapter, he gets her a home and makes her a regular sexual.

I wrestled with my beliefs in not censoring, being a good friend and my distaste for the scenario. Ultimately, I respected his decision to leave it in, but registered my distaste with him. That was not the case for his decision to steal my latest story and copyright it. In that one, I was 100% abundantly clear - this was an end to friendship level egregious action the FIRST time he did it.

So, doing it a second time is no accident, nor is it forgivable.

I can forgive, but I cannot forget, and this time he forced my hand - forgiveness is off the table, because I won't forget that he did it once already. I miss my friend OmegaPet. I miss my writing partner.

I will not miss the guy who stole my stories and slapped his name on them. That's the role he chose for himself.

The rape is not the only time he wrote something into a story I created that I could not abide and found distatesful; there are many other examples, but they would take too long to explain. I don't like censorship. I include a lot of kinky shit in my stories, even if I am not into it. I feel like authors should be able to do that. If the rape had been a plot pivot point, I could justify it. It was just something random he threw in.

I put damsels in distress or predicaments in my stories, but this type of scenario with parents who don't even call the law, get her therapy, offer to talk to her about it in more serious ways, or go out hunting down this motherfucker? Now, he made my characters do something that no parent should ever do.


At the time, he dismissed it by saying, "It was only ATTEMPTED RAPE, he didn't follow through."

"Oh, you only attempted rape? You tried to forcibly tie up this woman, but you fled the scene? nothing we can do about it then."

-The cops in Omegapets world.

The parents I created for this story, never get help for their daughter, they never even talk to her about it, they laugh about it, and go to bed. They never press charges. These were the characters that I created in that story, and they always made me feel terrible that this unnecessary event was in this story.

We've talked about it over the years, since it was published. As a friend, I allowed him to keep it in. We aren't friends. Those priveledges that came along with that friendship are revoked.. He ended that. He traded his latest theft of my story for that friendship. He loses all of what comes along with that friendship - everything. That's what it cost him.

It cost me more than the price he paid. I lost trust, I lost time, I lost the will to write that story. My friendship clearly meant nothing to him, so getting to write a shitty version of my story twice must have felt like a bargain.

That should have been my first clue that OmegaPet doesn't understand what crime is. He doesn't see the attempted rape as a crime. He doesn't see it as a big deal. He doesn't see assigning a copyright over a story he didn't write as a big deal.

He writes tear-jerker porn. It's about tragedies and abuse. I write embaressed nude females and CMNF/power exchange stories. We were friends even though we wrote different stories and found some common ground. The rape was not one of those things. The theft of this current story is not one of them. The direction he was planning to take it was not one of them either.

The rape was not salient to the plot and never gets called back. I know rape survivors of "attempted" rape and I know that it caused PTSD and they are *NOT* and may *NEVER* be okay. I mention this because my so-called friend still doesn't think he did anything wrong when he copyrighted my story a second time. The one I told him he could not have a month ago.

He says that it was an accident as well, apparently. He didn't intend to hurt me. He said in his qualified apology "I am sorry if you took it that way."

How else could I mothfuckering take stealing my story, putting your name on it an erasing me out of it when you know you shouldn't? How about just not doing it in the first place? If you do, admit it was wrong and apologize. Never doing it again.

How about that?

He took it again, yesterday. New Years Eve 2025. A perfectly shitty way to end a perfectly shitty year.

How could he think I would want him to take it? I will continue to ponder this. How could a reasoning person think that if you tell them you are ready to end your six-year friendship over their theft of your idea without your permission, that you should do it again in a month to see if I changed my mind?

How could you, as a reasoning person, when I've told you endlessly that erasing my style of writing out of the story kills me, think that you should erase my details out of the story I told you that you could not have in the fucking first place?

If you ask OmegaPet, his response will be that it was an "accident". I have accidents all the time. Spilling the milk is an accident. I've never accidentally taken a friends story, copyrighted it, put my name on it, changed the character's names, erased their details and overwrote it with a summary form ONCE.

He did it twice.

TWICE! to the same story. It must be some fucking story, right?

It's worth hurting a perverted old man, and hitting him in the fucking balls, crushing his spirit and stealing his will to write. That "accident" cost me a lot more than just a shitty friend that was never a friend.

It was an accident he edited it, put his name on it, copyrighted it, like the attempted rape in his story was an accident.

I mention a pet peeve like not putting gas in the car. That's because when he's taken my stories recently, he doesn't spend one second adding to the story. It's all about erasing the voice of "Eddie" and all the little details I enjoy so much about it. I write to live through the eyes of my characters and share those experiences with others.

I live through the character in this story. I want to live in the story, and when you read it, you live through my eyes. I don't know how to express how magical that transference of my experience to you as a reader is, but taking it away from me by stripping it from my story is a different kind of theft.

Stealing my ideas is one thing.

Stealing my words and feelings and replacing them with shitty ChatGPT writing is another altogether. It's painful because it means those memories translated into new stories, those elements of people I've known that get transfused into the characters to make them feel authentic are gone and erased - stripped by an uncaring, thoughtless asswhole who still thinks he is entitled to do it.

An asshole I was HELPING with creative writing but never once told to do this to my story.

His writing style is more like a police blotter. All the sensory details stripped out, all the body language flushed down the toilet. Even who is speaking and their tone of voice is generally deleted.

He's done this to several of my stories recently, and I told him to stop.

One sunny day about a month ago, he slapped his name on one of my unfinished draft stories. It's a story I particularly enjoyed, but it's about a family that loves life and enjoys it, and I was in a dark place. The Eskimos have a tradition where the women sleep with guests. This family doesn't see sex as a thing you "take" form women and they "give you". It's like sharing a meal/hospitality to them.

I *TOLD* him I put the story away until I was feeling it, and that he MAY NOT have this story. He takes it anyway and starts erasing my words from the story to make it more of a summary form.

I am often accused of writing stories with similar tropes, and I don't deny it. One of them is the nerdy, bashful guy who doesn't know shit. He's wet behind the ears and has no game. That was me back at that age. I write what I know, and I love that first kiss scene - when your hands are shakin,g and you don't know how long to hold the kiss.

I love putting someone like that into a scene with people who see sex as a positive, joyful thing, and he's not used to it.

I told Omega-Pet that he could absolutely not have this story a month ago. I told him how it made me feel to watch him strip those observations from the main character about the experience out of the story to "Hurry up and get to the action".

I told him that I have very little time left on this fucking planet, and have almost nothing of Eddie to leave behind in it.

I think about people like Ernest Bywater. If you knew him or knew of him, you knew he was generous with his time and his advice, and he helped people here. Fuck, I want to be like Ernest Bywater - even a little bit.


I think about Phil Phantom. I never met Phil but he wrote the filthiest most joyful shit you'll probably ever read. It was way ahead of its time. It is very likely Phil is not on this planet anymore, but you can still find his stories floating here and there.

SOL has been my home for many years. I've tried other sites but aside from one other forum, this is it. This is the archive where you can find my work. It's not the best work, but it's MINE. I WROTE IT. I DID NOT STEAL IT.

OmegaPet, Mike McGifford, and a few others have directly helped me over the years with editing. I am hesitant to mention names simply because I don't know how people feel about being mentioned in public but other authors helped me indirectly or with constructive feedback.

Ernest helped me. Vulgus helped me. Hooked6 helped me. MaryS helped me. The list is longer but you get the idea.

They may not know it, but their writing influenced me. It not only taught me how to tell stories in better ways, but it served as motivation. If I did that for OmegaPet, that would be great. Even if he is a lying sack of shit that plagiarizes stories.

A month ago, OmegaPet took my work, put his name on it, put a copyright on it, erased the essence of me and kept the story framework.

I told him our friendship was over - point blank. He had checked out of editing for me a long time before that and after many times telling him how I felt when he erased my essence from stories, taking one without my permission at all was simply a step too far.

He subsequently apologized. It was a qualified "I am sorry, if...."

I am a reasonable person. I have almost no friends. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and accepted his apology, even though any time you apologize - Here is something I'll share with you:

Anytime you apologize, everything after the word "if" or "but" has just invalidated your apology.

He tells me he never learned basic creative writing in high school. I am amazed that he embraces grammar rules so hard, but he won't do something as simple as "Show" over "Tell" the reader. His style is to drop a mountain of exposition on the reader like "We live in a two-story house" instead of "I went upstairs" (Which provides the context clue they have a two-story house).

I invest in him one of the few things that I know - how to tell a decent story. I am a master bullshitter from the old school. My storytelling style is to imagine sitting across from you in a bar, shooting the shit, and telling you the most interesting thing that ever happened to me. I write it just like I (or my main character) would tell it to you.

I learned to write like J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye and do "Show Not Tell" in High School. It's intrinsic to storytelling for me. I do not know how to write without it. I would not want to write without it.

I offer him a "Creative Writing" exercise with a throw-away scenario that means nothing to me. It's super generic. I show him how the father sits in the old car and explains to his son that things are different where they are going, to set up the reader to wonder "HOW DIFFERENT?" and to show the reader that the car is old to not only paint a picture but establish this man's financial means.

Yesterday, New Years Eve 2025, he decided to respond to that scenario with one of his own. This is where he stole my car a second time.

He takes the ONE story I told him not to take a month ago. The story I was ready to end our friendship over. The story I told him he abso-mother-fucking-lutely could not change and erase me out of. The story that I told him was joyful to me, was now his as far as he was concerned.

He renamed it.

He put a Copyright on top of it.

He put his name on it.

He renamed the two main characters.

He systemically went line by line, erasing the details and altering the dialogue.

He kept in everything that happened, but as if Eddie hadn't told it.

He writes pretty much the same story over and over. I call them "Leo/Mary" stories. He writes the same story about them meeting. The Leo gaslights and love bombs her, doesn't have to try hard and she falls head over heels for him. It's the instant win Mary Sue Romance trope.

I hate those stories, and I've made no secret of that to him. Over the years, he's used my ideas and turned them into Leo/Mary stories. The characters always act a certain way, and the Leo never faces any challenges, and has an instant win button. The Mary always has the same personality, and the existence of all other characters is only to faciliate the sex between these two characters.

That's what he likes. That's what his readers like. They can read endless variations of the same story. However, he was going to take MY story and do this to it.

He was going to take my story about this wonderful family. One that I had multiple characters already for and make it all about Leo/Mary. He told me and I quote: " you will clearly see the Mi Casa story is clearly a foundation for the early plot. However, this story is going to go in some different directions."


Foundation? Motherfucker, you stole the story, put your name on it like you wrote it, COPYRIGHTED IT, decided you would erase my details out of it, and then planned to make it into something I can't stand.

So he borrowed my car a month ago, didn't put gas in it, took it to a part of town I didn't want him to take it, planned to keep it, and only gave it back when I treatened to end our friendship.

A month later, he stole my car, plans to repaint it, alter it, register it in his name, and plans to take it somewhere I didn't want him to go with it.

If you go to his blog, he says he "Accidentally" Copyrighted my story.

He "Accidentally" woke up, turned on his computer, opened the file that had the story Eddie wrote that Eddie told him was not his.

He "Accidentally" took that story and erased out line by line the details that Eddie wrote and replaced them with summary that looks like ChatGPT wrote it (and it probably did)

He "accidentally" added a copyright with his name on it.

He "accidentally" emailed it to me to inform me that while he plans on taking my story, he will be going somewhere else with it.

It's 100% obvious to me that "Somewhere else" is the same story he always tells, because he already has my nervous virgin talking like Leo and my low-self-esteem hot but chubby girl acting like Mary.

I had all day to write yesterday. I had all day to write today.

Instead, I am so gutted and betrayed, I am not. He stole 48 hours of productivity from me, on top of everything else.

That's precious because we don't get that time back. I could have been working on stories, but I was so devastated that I had to vent, and reflect. Did I somehow tell him he could steal my story and keep it?

nope.

Could he possibly have gotten the impression from ANYTHING I EVER SAID about stealing this story and claiming it as his own that I'd be thrilled with his decision to steal it?

nope.

He maintains that if he "planned to steal it," why would he email it to me?

I don't know. He's clearly a fucking dumbass, who doesn't give a shit how I feel, so why does he steal the story in the first place and put copyright over it? He claims that's all accidental. He's not at fault, and I am a meanie.

I tell him that we are not friends. There is no coming back from this. I tell him that over the years, three of his most popular stories are characters I created, in scenarios I created, and he never once gave me credit in any form or fashion. as a friend, I allowed that. As a person he stole from, I do not.

I appreciate those who wrote to me to tell me that, legally, his copyright may not stand. I do not have the money, time, or interest in court. I documented with Lajeez that I wrote the story. I am hesitant to have him manage the dispute as if I were Lajeez, I'd suspend us both and forbid the story to be posted just to save myself the drama.

It probably will *NEVER* get published anyway, because it's too painful to post, since a former friend of over five years took it upon himself to steal it not once, but twice, and erase my essence out of it.

You can't take the plot of Star Wars, change Luke to Pete Skywalker, and write shitty dialogue, but follow the same plot and copyright it as a new IP. You can make a "parody," but tbh if he tries to steal my ideas, there are not a lot of options I really have.


Before any smart ass armchair lawyer emails me about 'fair use' or some parody Disney hasn't come after - just understand that's not the point of this analogy. He wasn't writing a parody. He was stealing my work and putting his name and copyright on it. I do not sell my work and never will. I do not have any financial interest in this, but I do not want my shit behind paywalls, either. I do not want others claiming my writing is theirs. I'd be okay with fan fiction that continues my story 100%. What OmegaPet was doing was not that. It was "Hey guys, I just wrote this new idea called Star Wars." as if you wrote it. Plagiarism.

The only thing is to loudly and longly say "OmegaPet is a selfish, conceited asshole that stole my work and plagiarized it. He copyrighted it, and I do not recognize the copyright and dispute his legal right to it."

I have other updates and such to share, but I thought I'd put this one to rest without getting into it further. I mentioned this yesterday and included his version and mine (the first bit) for reference. I'll follow his work to see if he has the audacity to try the old "I changed it just enough that I can claim I wrote this" technique.

To which I would try the technique of:

"Legally, that would be true, but ethically you are a motherfucking thief and fuck head. You copied my homework, you aren't an author. You are a cheater. You stole the characters. You stole the scenes. You stole the events. You took from me the experience of writing this wonderful story by making it impossible to enjoy in the future. You planned to eviscerate the essence of my words and replace it with substandard chatGPT for low attention spans. I will let everyone know what you did. I hope 2026 brings you the fucking karma you so richly earned, and that you choke on this fucking story that meant more to you than six years of my friendship."

If that technique does not work, so be it.

I hate to be a sad sack and complain. Most people wouldn't give a shit anyway, and just see this as drama. It's the last day of 2025, and I thought I would share what I found in my mail box. It floored me and on some level devastates me.

Today, I had time to sit down and go over some of my recent work, fix some mistakes, and post some of the new content.

I had to share this with you, though. My "Friend" of several years, who's been editing with me, sent me his "Rough Draft" of his story. He copyrighted it, that's smart?

Copyright © 2025 OmegaPet-58

Yeah? There is a slight variation in his version of my story. He changed the names of the two characters and made them both talk exactly like the Leo/Mary characters he always writes in all of his other stories. It's the same story I told him not to steal a few months ago, which I documented in my blog.

TLDR VERSION: A friend has helped me almost daily for years, recently stopped helping edit, and stole a story of mine. He erased the observations/style of how I write from it and took it without my permission. He has a history of erasing my style from my stories and taking them, but it had always been with my permission.

Recently, we were talking, and he mentioned he had never taken a creative writing course and did not understand Show versus Tell. People like Ernest Bywater (a beloved author who passed too soon) helped me, so I always believe in doing the same. I offered a suggestion we could work on together that illustrates the basic techniques of showing versus tell. It's a different idea than the Cabot House one you'll see below. My initial blog went into that, but all that really matters for this story is to take a look at his 'proposed' story we work on.

And then the story he tried to steal a few months ago. I told him no. I am not the best writer in the world and I am not trying to be. However, I have a style of writing that is pretty much "As if I were sitting next to you at a bar shooting the shit about the most interesting thing that ever happened to me."

I don't have much I have done that I can leave behind in this world. It's my goal that, like Ernest, I can leave behind some of "me" in the work I do and the people I help. That includes helping people get off to my filthy stories. I told him how hurtful it was a few months ago when he stole this idea without permission and started to summarize my words to remove my details. I told him unequivocally no, and that I was done as a friend.

If he hadn't been so intent on erasing all the uniqueness of how I write, I may have been flattered. However, even in his second attempt to steal this idea and claim he wrote it/made it up himself, he worked extremely hard to insult me a little further by taking out the exposition and little details I felt were so important. The stuff I shared that was based heavily on my own nervous feelings when a girl asked me out. I got to live through my character's eyes again and be a naive teenager when I wrote it.

He wanted to remove that one part I enjoy the most, in his quest for Cabot House. A story that is not really all that brilliant. It's just *NOT* his.

In this story, the family believes in sharing hospitality. They also don't see sex or pleasure as a chore. It's something they share like hugs and kisses. I only stopped writing because I have been severely depressed and I felt like I could not do it justice since it was such a positive and uplifting story for me to write. I HAD every intention of going back to it.

He's made me so sick of this idea, that now I can only associate it with betrayal. If it was some random troll stealing to be stealing that would be much easier. Betrayal by a friend who has been working with me makes it deeply personal.

He didn't just say, "Here is your idea with the things that make Eddie's voice unique stripped out." HE COPYRIGHTED THE MOTHERFUCKER AS HIS OWN.

He took what I wanted to leave behind, removed me from it, and slapped his name on it - ensuring no one would ever know I had anything to do with it. Well, now *YOU* know. It's hard to give a fuck, I suppose but I've at least documented that if he does publish this - this is the kind of person that he is.

He apologized, but he clearly didn't mean it. Today, he sent it again with his copyright on it.

I guess he thought I'd be thrilled to watch him reduce my idea to shitty summary form and slap his name on it.

See if you can see some similarities between his COPYRIGHTED Dale and Angela story here, and the story that follows that was written several months ago. It's a rough draft, so I apologize in advance; the version he stole is not in a ready draft format.

This is the last day of 2025. This is how mine ended this morning - I saw this in my inbox. His copyright of my work kills me.

Here is his version;

Cabots’ House

Copyright © 2025 OmegaPet-58

Chapter 1

“You know, Angela, I have to tell you, I miss the Daleks. I know they’re kind of cheesy with the… what is it? Are you OK? Angela?”

The two of us were off in a corner of the lunchroom on opposite sides of a long table with today’s alleged food on trays in front of us. We’d become almost friends over a common interest, the “Doctor Who” science fiction series from British television. I say almost friends because, so far, our only interactions had been at lunch.

I liked Angela, but she was very reserved, or shy, and resisted my attempts to get to know her better. Once in a while, she let slip a smile, or even asked a question about me. I found her silences frustrating, but I had the impression she liked me, at least, a little. She didn’t seem to have any other friends, and neither did I, for that matter.

I’d been watching the TV show for a year or so, when some asshole (a girl) shoved Angela into me with a snarl as we were walking down a hallway, spilling her books and some papers. As I helped her, I noticed she was wearing a “Doctor Who” sweatshirt, which gave me an opening to talk to her. We were on our way to lunch, and I stuck to her for the rest of the period, and thereafter.

Today, as usual, she spoke so quietly I had to lean forward to hear her.

“You’ll say no, Dale, but I have to ask. Would you come to my house after school? You could go to a restaurant with me for dinner. I’ll pay the ticket—the bill.”

Already, that was almost more words than she’d ever used with me.

“You mean, a date?”

“You’re right, it’s stupid. I shouldn’t have asked…”

“I’d enjoy that, Angela. I have money, we can go wherever you want.”

She was still apologizing until she looked up and realized I was smiling at her.

“You want to? With me?”

I was already excited by her proposition. I wasn’t expecting that Angela would be my first date (ever), but if it was her idea I’d be stupid to turn her down. I did worry that she had so little self-esteem that the night could go sideways.

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I? No, don’t answer that. I insist.”

“Meet me at the east gate after school, then. My house is not far.”

I had lots of questions, beginning with “Why now?” but abruptly Angela took her tray, dumped her trash, and left the lunchroom, leaving me confused. But pleased—my first date!

With a few minutes left for lunch, I called up my messaging app and sent a text to our family group.

Dale: i wont be home 4 dinner-a date.

I heard back immediately from my older siblings.

Sherry: go dale!

Bobby: how much r u paying her?

Mom: who is she? do I know her?

Dale: she is angela cabot in my class at school

Mom: what is her home numbr so i can call her mom

Dale: what? embarrassing!

Dad: eileen, if he’s home by 9 you don’t need to call

Dad: if your ph is charged nothing to worry about

Dale: 80% thanks Dad

Mom: You have $?

Dale: I have $45

Mom: That’s not much u need more for a nice place

Bobby: you could have 2 happy meals from mcdnlds

Sherry: im gonna fk you up bobby

Dad: i need to work. dale-use the debit visa i gave u for emrgecys.

Dale: thx dad

I closed the messaging app, knowing any more texts would irritate my father. As always, Bobby made fun of me, Sherry was supportive, and Mom was overprotective. I appreciated Dad’s willingness to give me a cushion for the restaurant cost, and to intervene with Mom.

I suppose Dad was pleased that I had a date, recognizing I was pretty old to have gone without any dates before this. I didn’t have an excuse. I judged myself as very average, with ordinary height and weight, brown hair, brown eyes, and now, finally, clear skin.

As for Angela? Her “school uniform” was invariably some kind of baggy sweatshirt over loose slacks. I could only guess at her shape, but I had no indication she was overweight. And, even if she was overweight, that wouldn’t bother me.

What I could see was her long wavy hair, usually kept in a clip and hanging down to the middle of her back. Her eyes were a light brown, perhaps what they might call “hazel.” I wanted to study them in detail, but convincing her to look up into my face was always difficult.

I was so distracted by my upcoming date that my last period English teacher had to call my name twice before I responded to the question he asked me. At least he let it go because ordinarily I was one of his better students. I walked out through the parking lot to the east gate.

No Angela. Was this all a tease? It didn’t seem to line up with our conversation; but then I saw her already walking away on the far side of the street. I rushed to catch up, and spoke to her, slightly breathless.

“You, ah, you changed your mind?”

“I thought you changed your mind. I didn’t want to be just standing out there alone.” What happened next explained why.

Two tall girls pushed and shoved Angela off the sidewalk into the gutter.

One said, “Move your fat ass, tubby.”

Angela almost lost her balance, weighted down like I was by three or four heavy textbooks. As it was, mud from the gutter got on her shoe, and I rushed to steady her by taking a firm grip on her arm.

“You didn’t say anything?” I asked.

“No. There’s no point. They’ll believe what they want to.” She sounded defeated, if not sullen. Those bitches!

“Can I tell you something?”

“What?” Still sullen.

“I’ve read that fat hatred is the last kind of acceptable prejudice.”

“I suppose you’re right, Dale, but I’m not fat. I just prefer loose clothes, they’re more comfortable. That is, when I have to wear clothes.”

“I see. Wait, what?”

“I should have told you this before now. Inside my house, everyone is naked all the time. Before we get far from school, this would be the best time for you to say, ‘This is not for me,’ and go home like usual.”

“Because I would see you naked?”

“No, Dale. Because I would see YOU naked. My parents insist on having our visitors undress once they’re inside the front door. It’s something they are very strict about.”

“Angela, you need to do one thing before we go any further.”

“What is it?”

“I’m tired of looking at the top of your head. Look up into my eyes. No more looking at the ground, like you’re ashamed of something. If you expect me to undress in front of you, I expect you to look up, like you enjoy my company. Like you don’t find me hideous and repulsive. Am I hideous?”

“No, Dale. I’ve been imagining you inside my house, how you might look.” A smile crossed her face, affecting me. “I’m hoping you will come inside and meet my family. Our rule is naked inside the house and backyard, clothed out in the world.”

“Then there’s one more issue. If I’m around you and other family members who are as attractive as you are, I’m going to have a visible physical reaction.”

That earned me a big smile and a small chuckle. “You’re going to get hard, Dale? I certainly hope so. We’ll consider it a compliment.”

“Holy moley, you’re serious? Oh, I can see that you are. Does your father have a gun?”

“No, why?”

“I’d like to get through this day without being shot for being horny around his daughter.”

“You’re in no danger. Like I said, erections are considered a compliment. So, now is your chance to back out.”

“I would—no, I am excited to see you without those baggy clothes. I think what I can already see is very attractive. Please don’t try to convince me otherwise. Lead the way.”

(END OF THEFT)

Neat, right? copyright that bitch! You wouldn't want someone to steal it, like for instance this story that he stole without my permission, apologized for stealing, and apparently thought he'd do it again? There are so many ideas, why take mine? I should be flattered, but I am not. I am deeply offended and hurt. I sent him an idea we could work on together that was quite different from his. It would be an example of creative writing that emphasizes SHOW versus TELL.

His proposal is to write the two main characters like his Leo/Mary characters from all of his stories, copyright it, put his name on it as the creative person who came up with it. He's also stolen three other stories over the years that he never gave me credit for. I didn't say anything, but Must Love Dogs and Hobo-Sexual are both my titles and characters/same setup. Study Sessions are my character and setup.

I didn't say anything over the years even though he doesn't list me anywhere or give me any credit. I am just mentioning this because this is not a misunderstanding out of the blue. This is someone who steals ideas and copyrights them.

It's sort of like writing the five year mission of Space Journey, on the Spaceship Enterprise with Captain Flirk and copyrighting it. The Baron of the Brooch and the Flobbits along with the Warlock Randalf must take it to Mountain of Doom to stop Soreon! "Look at my original idea!"

It's my story, if you ordered it on WISH/Temu.

Here is a not-ready to publish chapter one of my version of the same story he took.

MiCasa SuCasa

“Would you like to go out with me sometime, like on a date or something?”

Taylor asked the question like she was delivering terrible news and found the conversation unpleasant, like an obligation she was completing against her will.

She’d sat across from me at lunch all year and barely spoke a word to me or anyone else. Taylor Welton had big blue eyes that seemed impossibly round, an upturned nose, and a weak chin that made her look stuck-up. Her chestnut brown hair was shoulder-length and curly, like she’d gotten a cheap perm. Her hair wasn’t flattering. Her hair framed her face like she was trying to blend into the crowd, not stand out.

I thought she was pretty in the face, with big blue eyes, an upturned nose, and a weak chin that made her seem a little mousey. She had slightly buck teeth that made me picture her as a rabbit.

Taylor wasn’t a traditional beauty, but she wasn’t ugly either. If I am being honest, there weren’t many girls I would have turned down back then. I was pretty much the eternal virgin.

I knew she was probably chesty and a little chubby, but she wore baggy t-shirts and jeans to cover her figure. Today, her shirt had a skull on it with the words “Pantera, far beyond driven.” She often wore shirts from heavy metal rock bands. I think girls teased her about it. I remember once she wore a Korn shirt to school. The band was once very popular, but almost no one my age knows who they are.

I remember once some mean girls joked behind her back that she looked like she ate a lot of corn because her shirt made it seem like she was in support of the vegetable, and they probably had never heard of the band. Taylor heard the comment and didn’t respond, didn’t frown, or react at all. She was the kind of person who seemed very passive. She looked down at her food and kept eating.

I probably would have, as well. I wasn’t the type of kid to cause waves or stand up to bullies. I didn’t like it when they teased her, but I didn’t stand up for her either. I often felt guilty that I hadn’t.

I was both bewildered and flattered that she asked me on a date. I’d never been on one, mostly because I was too shy to ask, and I didn’t own a car. I thought she might be joking with me because she seemed more physically mature than I and had a pretty face. She could do a lot better than me.

Taylor was far from a silicon Barbie doll. She wore baggy jeans that completely hid her figure.

“Forget it, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, sorry,” she apologized, looking down at her food. Her body language read like she was metaphorically curling up in a little ball inside a protective imaginary shell.

She always kept to herself. Like me, she didn’t have friends that I knew of. That made us perfect lunch partners – far from the jocks, rednecks, goths, and popular kids. I was painfully shy. I played computer games, read sci-fi, and had no idea how to talk to girls. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have known what to say back. It didn’t seem logical that this was some elaborate joke on me, and the moment I said yes, she’d tell me that I was a fool for thinking it was possible.

“I’m flattered, but can I ask… why did you decide to ask me now, after all these months of sitting across from me?”

I kicked myself for answering her that way. I should have jumped on the opportunity, but a part of me was still skeptical this was real. I grew up in the time of YouTube pranks, and I didn’t want to end up on one of those TikToks where the girl asks if he’ll go on a date with her, and people ridicule him online for thinking he had a chance with her.

“It’s dumb, forget it,” she shrugged, looking at her plate. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to like, interrupt, and stuff.”

I looked to my left and to my right to emphasize that I had no one sitting on either side of me. I motioned to her because she was sitting almost perfectly across from where I sat. “I didn’t have a lot going on, so you didn’t interrupt. I am just a little confused. I’d love to go on a date with you.”

I was so proud of myself for not stammering or muttering.

“My mom said that I have to get out of my shell and stop being so shy. She said I had to go on a date with a boy and have normal, healthy sexual relationships.”

My tongue caught in my throat, and suddenly I wasn’t able to speak. I began to blush at the mention of healthy sexual relationships.

“Oh, it’s not like that,” Taylor assured me when she noticed how uncomfortable I grew when she mentioned healthy sexual relationships. “If we go on a date, the most I can do is like a blowjob or something.”

My pants felt tight as my dick stiffened under the lunch table, and I tried to contain my shock. The possibility this was some elaborate put-on still felt very real, but if it was true – then why not?

“Um, that would be okay,” I replied as if this were a negotiation and I was willing to take less than full sex in exchange for a date. I didn’t mean it to sound the way it did, but that’s how it sounded to me. I’ve replayed this awkward conversation in my head a thousand times since then, and it still amazes me how naïve and awkward I was. Taylor should have assumed I was a complete loser and walked away because I had no clue what to do with her.

“Okay, can we do it tonight?” she asked casually, like she was talking about something far more mundane than a date that involved “healthy sex” and blowjobs.

“It IS Friday,” my fingers danced across an imaginary Rolodex as I pretended to check my nonexistent schedule. “I am free for the evening, but I don’t have a car or anything.”

She didn’t laugh at my attempt at humor or seem very impressed by it – in fact, if anything, she seemed sad. “My mom or dad can drop us off somewhere. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, and I can pay for my own food or whatever.”

Suddenly, a million possibilities began flitting through my brain like they were carried on the wings of the nervous butterflies in my stomach. Everything was turning up Gary for me today, and it seemed like it was up to me to screw this up somehow.

“Where would you like to go?” I asked. I was already thinking about how I’d ask my parents to let me go on a date. They would have a thousand questions, and my brother and sister would probably tease me mercilessly. My older brother was a bit of a lady’s man, and he’d take some potshots at me. I assumed my older sister would laugh and ridicule me for one reason or another.

“I don’t care, like wherever, basically,” she shrugged – clearly content to do anything that I wanted to do.

Unfortunately for me, I was paralyzed with indecision because the possibilities seemed endless and the chances of my picking something stupid were infinite.

“We could go see a movie,” I offered.

“Okay,” she replied flatly – not inquiring as to what movie we’d see.

I had no idea what movies were playing in a theater. After Covid, my family stopped going to theaters entirely, and I didn’t keep up with that.

I had so many questions about what movie she wanted to see and what kind of food she ate. I was also worried that I didn’t have any money.

“What time should I come by your house to pick you up? Err, um, for your Dad and Mom to take us someplace?”

“I don’t know.”

Taylor’s response wasn’t a question or a recommendation. It was a definitive response, and then she stopped speaking. I would come to realize that Taylor did that all the time out of habit, and it was one of the annoying things her family was trying to make her stop doing. At the time, I was unsure how to respond.

“How long will it take you to be ready?” I asked a more clarifying question so that I could get an idea of what time I should stop by their house.

“I can be ready right after school. It only takes me a few minutes to walk home,” she shrugged, failing to make eye contact with me. I felt she was intimidated, perhaps a little overwhelmed, and that was a new sensation for me to process. I had never intimidated or overwhelmed anyone except in online Co-Op PVP shooters.

“Maybe I could walk you home?” I asked nervously. Taylor didn’t seem all that interested in me despite asking me out on a date. I wasn’t sure if I had blown it.

“I don’t know,” she scrunched her nose like she smelled a disgusting fart, like this conversation was making her want to get up and run away. I felt like I was coming on too strong, but I didn’t want my first date to be uncoordinated just because I didn’t know what time to be there.

I paused and let the silence sit between us awkwardly.

“You can if you want, but my family is weird. I guess you’d meet them anyway,” she shrugged- clearly no big deal to her. I thought she might be apprehensive about introducing me to her family on the first date, but her parents were going to take us out on the date, so it made sense.

I tried to fill the heavy silence after the matter was settled. A few unequivocal “I don’t know” from Taylor were all I needed to realize that I was probably annoying her. I was more than happy to stop speaking because I was painfully shy, nervous, and that minimized my chance of putting my foot in my mouth and sounding like an imbecile.

We said goodbye to one another when the lunch bell dismissed us, and I said I would see her soon.

I spent the rest of the day on cloud nine – I had a DATE. A girl had ASKED me – CHOSEN me. It didn’t matter who it was, but the more I thought about Taylor, the more she seemed perfect for me. She clearly had low expectations, seemed easy to please, and she was gorgeous.

I was short for my age, and I would have preferred a girl who was more my size, but those girls were younger than me, and as far as I was concerned, too green on the vine to think about romantically. I would have bragged to my friends that I had a date with Taylor if I had any.

It took me a while to gather the courage to ask permission to go on the date. My parents COULD have said no, and that would have been devastating after all that work up.

My father was the first to respond. He was at work, and he wasn’t the type to send long takes. He simply wrote, “Good job, Gary.”

My mom, on the other hand, launched a barrage of questions about who my date was, where we were going, when I’d be home, how I’d get home, and was embarrassingly overprotective. I was the youngest of the family, and my mom let my older siblings go on dates on Friday night without even asking.

“They are older, Gary. They are more experienced and they both drive!” she wrote back.

“Can I go out with her?” I texted back.

“Why can’t she come here? I want to meet her and talk to her parents. What is her mother’s phone number?” my mom wrote back.

If my older sister hadn’t asked Mom to make sure to pick up some new diapers for me, and spoon-feed me some baby food, my mom probably would have been a stickler. I am sure Chloe just wanted to have a laugh at my expense, but Mom must have realized she was being far too overbearing.

“If you get lost or don’t know what to do, call me, don’t text. Pick up the phone and call me. If your battery runs out, you call the police and have them pick you up and call me!” Mom’s response was her way of saying that yes, I could go.

“What time will you be home?” Mom sent immediately after that decision.

I was halfway through texting that I had no idea when I’d be home because it was up to their parents, but it would be sometime after the dinner and movie, when my older brother Pete texted another sarcastic dig at me. “Mom needs to know the precise time, because she’s going to read Thomas the Tank Engine to you and tuck you in, and change your diaper, Garr-Garr.”

“Just be home by midnight, and if it’s going to be later than that, I want you to call me and I’ll come get you. In the future, you need to ask permission BEFORE the night of your date,” my mom said.

My parents share authority equally, but my father usually only weighs in on the big things. My mom is the one who enforces the little rules, like who does which chores. I should have waited for my older brother or sister to tease me—it always seemed to have the opposite effect than they intended because my mom would lighten up.

“That’s not fair. Chloe and Pete don’t have to ask permission to go on a date at all!” I wrote back. In my head, the tone of my observation was helpful and constructive. I didn’t really think about how my mom might perceive it or react before I sent it.

She must have read it in a tone that sounded like I was questioning the very fabric of reality and her authority as my mother in the most rude and insulting manner possible.

“Gary Sonneborn, You are not them! They are older than you. You spring this on me without any notice and expect me not to worry? I have never met this girl. She may not even be real. You have different rules than they do because you are younger!”

I was about to apologize and shrink away from conflict, but my sister unexpectedly came to my rescue with another insult. “Ten bucks says Gary’s date’s name is Rosie Palmer!”

“CHLOE SONNEBORN, that is crude and disgusting!” My mom wrote in my defense.

“But true,” my big brother piled on to the insult.

“I am trying to work to put food on the table. Can you guys remove me from this chat or joke around in a different one without me?” Dad’s text put an end to that line of conversation. I was free and clear – permission to go on a date. This was really happening!

On one hand, I was full of jubilation and excitement that I had a date. My mind found ways to terrify me. The least of which was looking in the mirror and seeing a pimple faced kids staring back at me. I felt like her parents may take one look at me and think I am way too small to be on a date with their daughter. If her siblings were like me, they might tease her because I was a dweeb. Doubts crept across my mind that this was going to work out at all. I was dressed in my school clothes.

I assumed I needed to go home, shower, and put on aftershave (I didn’t need to shave, but I’d borrow some from my Dad or brother). I’d need a change into fresh underwear. I might be sweaty or nervous, and I wished that I had worn a nicer shirt. I just had on my sneakers. I assumed maybe I needed dress shoes, possibly a tie.

I had no money at all. My brother and sister both had credit cards that my parents controlled. I wasn’t even trusted with bringing cash to pay the lunch lady because it made, me a target for bullies and mom didn’t want to take the chance they may try to rough me up to get it from me.

All the self-doubt, low self-esteem, and awkward hormonal angst simmered and percolated in my mind for the rest of the day, consuming my thoughts and making me fail a math test that I was certain I would have passed.

It all went out the window at the end of the day. A wave of adrenaline kicked in, and I hustled out of my final class for the day to try to find Taylor. I almost went to my bus to go home out of habit. I saw her walking toward the gate alone, holding her books to her chest.

“Did you change your mind?” I asked as I caught up to her after a quick dash.

“About what?” she asked dumbfounded.

“Our date?” I reminded her. I was prepared to be crushed. I felt so vulnerable. After all that effort, if she told me that she had a change of heart, I’d have to eat crow at home when my siblings teased me mercilessly about rejection. I could visualize my mother coddling me and patronizing me because she thinks that would soothe my feelings but it would only encourage the teasing and make it feel worse.

“Oh, no. I thought maybe you did,” she shrugged. I was frustrated she was walking home without waiting to see if I’d meet her, but I tried not to think too hard about it. Taylor Welton always seemed very passive - a gentle big girl. She could be meek and soft-spoken, and that could come across as sullen and melancholy.

She almost never smiled, but the trace of a wintry smile passed across her lips. I assumed she was happy I chased after her.

“I am excited!” I replied with a smile as we headed off the school property.

“Why?” she asked – seemingly perplexed why I’d be so excited to have a date with her. I didn’t want to tell her this was my literally first date ever – although it was probably quite obvious.

“I have a date with you! That’s why,” I beamed with pride.

“I know I am fat and lumpy. You don’t have to pretend I am hot,” she assured me pragmatically. “I am just a girl.”

“I am just a boy,” I countered.

it goes on to introduce their nudist household - same as his version of my story does. answer the publication of this blog, He now claims he accidentally put copyright on my work. I guess also accidentally picked the same story I told him not to do a month ago. He accidentally renamed the characters. He accidentally summarized all their actions. He accidentally gave them shittier dialogue. It's all an accident and he's blameless. I'm the one who's in the wrong apparently

I didn't start writing for bullshit. I started writing run away from bullshit. I am so sorry for sharing my bullshit with you. It would have been easier and less painful to be betrayed by a stranger than a friend. This isn't his first time stealing my ideas, but it's certainly the last

Last year, I wrote one of my favorite stories of all time "Twats the Night Before Christmas".

It was meant to be a short story, but for me, that's 12 chapters of 15+ pages each.

It was a fun idea; He's finally 18 years old and his parents have an 18+ annual Christmas Party. He's been excluded. He feels that is a double standard because his older sister got her invite right away.

He crashes the party and learns about this particular "Twatmas" party - It's a HO-HO-HO lot of fun and games.

I inserted my alter ego into the story as "Uncle Eddie". That version of me is stil just as full as shit as the real me, but he's gregarious, life of the party, and he is married to a woman that looks like Moran Fairchild - because why in the fuck not?

Pretty much every guy jerked off to her in the 1980s.

I thought a fun idea might be to revisit a romance of sorts that kicks off in that story. The neighbor's husband is an inattentive prick. I had plans for a story featuring Mrs. Sandusky, now in a committed relationship with Nick as her master, but still living with her husband, two daughters, and son.

In the story, she mentions a daughter, but I'd probably find a way to explain why she didn't bring them up.

The problem was that I just wasn't feeling all that fucking jolly this year.

That story is one to be told when you are feeling happy, and can laugh joyously. I had a falling out with a friend on here that was going down, and with real life drama - it just didn't seem like that story was ready to be told. I had no inspiration.

I've got this Sailor Moo story to edit. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I have procrastinated my ass just like I have with Christmas shopping.

I just now caught up to chapter five with a repost and updated photos. (They are harder to make, now. About the time I was on chapter six, some legislation must have happened, and suddenly all of the LLM image generators online turned into ninny machines that freak out if they saw a pussy. In fact, I like to say that if the developers of AI image software ever actually saw a woman naked, they may not be so afraid to let you make a fucking image of one.

I spent a good part of hte evening on one picture. Hopefuly it was worth it. Chapters 6-12 are completed. I am just editing and it's taken weeks.

I have this great Spanksgiving story I started around Thanksgiving. I have chapter two pretty much done. I've done a shit-ton of research on it. I am calling this "Domestic Bliss" - it's sort of this 1950s ideal traditional wife/good housekeeping magazine type of world. There are no arguments. The dad is the head of the household and "Father knows best".

But like the executive officer on a ship, the wife would never contradict or play devil's advocate around her family when he says something. She'd discuss it respectfuly in private. It's a world where spanking butts and corporal punishment isn't a bad thing - it's for their own good/a sign you care enough to spank them. In short, it's my recollection of growing up.

I set in idyllic "Peach Valley", a sort of perfect suburb with just the right mass transit, small town vibe. Everyone has a big white two story house, you can afford it on a blue collar salary. Pool, two-car garage, even though the wife doesn't drive.

I mix in characters like J.H. Kellogg who had 42 foster daughters he raised in his insane asylum and most likely experimented on to prevent their 'chronic hysteria (masturbation). He and six other rich assholes invented a spanking holiday where wives say what they appreciate about their husbands after getting spanked in public.

Like anything Americans do, when I say "invented", they stole it from a German holiday, and completely changed it to suit their needs. They schedule it the day after Thanksgiving , simply because it's the start of the shopping season for Belsnickel. What is Belsnickel? Well, it's JUST like Christmas, only spanking of naughty girls is involved.

I created a theme park in this story, that I put a great deal of work into designing. I hope you will be patient with me. This story is a work of love. It's ot something I can bang out quickly.

In this story, my alter ego is cleverly named "Ian Neff" (A play on "ENF" or embaressed nude female). I don't always make an alter ego of myself in my stories but it's such a fun setting, I had to do it. I have plans to write many other stories in this universe.

The problem is mostly time. If possible, I'd still ike to drop a short Christmas story that's been percolating in my head called "The Fundamentals of Fundaments" based on a book written by Ian's father "C.M. Neff" (CMNF - clothed males, nude females), another genre I love.

In this story, the neighbor agrees to teach young Pete Omegan the birds and bees because he has in sisters to do it for him.

I also have this idea for a story called "Tamilfarmer108". I love Indian culture, and I feel like there is something missing from Indian erotica. I've already done a ton of research on this one as well and it will be picture heavy.

I came up with several stories centered around this concept. India has some of the most drastic repression when it comes to public nudity or even public displays of affection. Imagine though if some sunny day a new prime minister is elected and they decide to change the laws drastically!

Has anyone ever done a NIS (Nude in School) story in India? Imagine the fun you could have writing about the traditional beliefs of most people there who would feel shame/shun it, against some cute, highly intelligent Indian girl that volunteers for the program despite her conservative family's wishes and her walk to the school on a daily basis?

Most NIS stories are either Great Britain or the good old US of A in a fairly (all-white) setting. I have a couple other Indian story ideas up my sleeve, but it's really a matter of focus. I need to edit and publish the stories I do have. I have some older stories (Girl Scouts, New Foal, Aunt Scarlett) and some existing stories to do first.

I may try to bang out some short stories, and I may say fuck it tomorrow and just write the fundament story. I don't want you to think i've given up on existing stories if I do that. There are times where if I don't act on inspiration, i'll lose it forever. There are other times if I try to force myself to write - it wil come off wrong.

It takes me forever between posts anymore because editing my own work takes so much time.

I had a friend for many years on here, who recently started plagiarizing my work, but his caveat was he was erasing the parts that I held most dear (details) and just summarizing. I am a big advocate of SHOW, not TELL.

His writing is the opposite. Spray Paint the Canvas Method: Why bother telling the reader what people talked about, when "We talked about it" will do?

I am painting a picture with brushes. He doesn't want Bob Ross. He wants a can or two of Sherwin Williams.

20 lines of dialogue in a room full of people? attributing it to a person who is speaking with body language and tone of voice since so much of that expressive non-verbal communication is critical to understanding motivations? Just write it like this:

"Hello"

"Hello, I adore you, Mary."

"As do I."

"Yes, I know."

"Also, so do I!"

"Let us have vanilla sex with your parents."

"I see no reason we should be uncomfortable attending their sex parties even though we just found out they have them, and we are blood related, and none of us have done incest before."

Many things happened, and some characters that weren't in the room when we began came and went. You have no idea what room we are in, and what we are doing while we have this dialogue. (His stories are basically crossword puzzles you have to solve and a brief summarization where you have to fill in your own details.)

"Yes, it would get in the way of the story for us to explore that awkward feeling."

We went to the sex party. A lot of things happened.

"Well, that was some sex party."

You get it. I don't have to trash the guy. He writes what he likes, and he writes for an audience that enjoys that. He once wrote a rape into his story, and after the daughter tells the parents, they sort of shrug and laugh it off, and go to bed and have sex. You wouldn't know how they reacted to hearing she fought off her rapist and he escaped. I am assuming they laughed it off because he likes to keep it a mystery. I implied that from the fact that they didn't call the police, they knew where the guy was, he was likely to try it again, and they got her no therapy or even asked her how she was doing.

Sounds like they laughed it off. You'd have to guess.

I told him a million times the story worked without the rape and that I now hated the parents, but he chose not to correct it or elaborate.

That's what friends do. They try to help each other, and if the person doesn't want that help, they let them make their own decision. I didn't agree with it, and I still don't. That story (I gave him the idea for it) is still one of my favorites of his, it's just bittersweet because it could have been so much better with details.

In the most recent case though, he rewrote the first one I gave him instead of continuing it. It was a story we kinda-sorta collaborated on last year that he wrote into one of his Leo/Mary romances. I wanted to give the entire family the happy ending they deserved. The story took a weird twist as soon as he introduced the Leo side character. It was someene I never intended to play a major role in the story, when i wrote the initial version. When I handed it over to him there were 19 chapters. He started back on chapter 14 and had the Leo character become part of the story.

It was the weirdest thing, because it was supposed to be this family ensemble, and they all were supposed to get osmething for Christmas. Everyone else because a background character in his version. I eventually asked him to take it down because it saddened me. I had alluded to her little sister getting what she wanted, her step brother getting redemption for being a snake int he grass (And even wrote it into the future chapters), the gay brother telling his secret to his parents and gaining acceptance/losing his guilt.

All of it in the shitter.

As a friend, he took it down. That's what friends do for each other. A misunderstanding occurred. I asked him to continue it in the spirit it was heading. He could make course corrections, surprise me, but fuck - that's a "Great, I am driving the cruise ship? Firt step? Sink the boat and see how it does as a submarine."

Lesson learned, this year we were going to fix it. It was the first one. I had started over myself because as I crafted Mary Christmas, her sister Joy, Nathan and the parents I breathed life into them. They were "real" to me, the way Captain Kirk is real to me, in that our shared understanding of how he acts makes him more than just a throwaway "Captain James", the generic Starfleet captain. You can have a much greater visceral reaction to Captain Kirk's death, or loss.

I wanted the mom to feel she gained a family, Joy, to understand her submissive thrill-seeking tendencies to be a "Smart-assed masochist" and actually seek out bullies to goad so she could scratch an itch that she didn't understand. I was willing to start over with new motivations, but what I wasn't willing to do was erase my own words - the ones I used to create them and give them life in my head. My friend didn't understand that, but I didn't stop being friends over it.

It took more. An editor will stop helping you because they get bored. A friend will help you because they enjoy you - appreciate you. My friend was a friend through it all. He likes most of my stories about as much as I like his -which is to say not all.

He sees power exchange differently. To him, submission is weakness and a mental illness. Giving up control is illogical. Dominant people in his world are controlling bullies.

In the first story (Mary Christmas) - you won't find it on SOL. The idea was Mary's last name was Christmas. I've met people with pun names before and the first thing they say is "my parents were the jokers, not me."

Or they say "Go ahead and joke, I've heard them all"

I had a friend named Stan Smellie. It would be funny if he smelled but he was clean and tidy. People still tried the joke. Stan used the old Cyrano trick of offering much more witty options when someone tries to put you down.

The Step brother in this case was a manipulator but he had been taught to manipulate by the guy who ripped off his mother. He was going to get his ass kicked by Joy after he wouldn't stop doing to Mary what he was doing to Joy. Joy liked it, Mary didn't.

After being outcast and living with himself for a while, he had a mea culpa and offers to help them get what they really want because it requires a first class bullshit artist to sell this to the parents (in my version). All that went out the window but I was okay with it because my friend was writing new content.

It was just SO extremely off the mark that it hurt. He sent Ethan outside in the snow every day from morning to night in the nude and left him without a speaking part for the rest of the story because to him, it was easier that way not to address what he had done, and he hates dominant people. Ethan had a natural dominant/sadistic side. Much like Joy, he used blackmail to get what he wanted. He had never met a girl like Joy. She wanted him to tease her. He thought she was using some reverse psychology. I was hoping he'd learn he could develop his juvenile desires into something healthy with a stepsister that gets off on having her ass slapped and being dared to run around naked and embarrass herself.

I could have lived with them getting something else, but in the end, no one mattered except Leo and Mary. The parents had gone from strict to "You can fuck in our bed " to strict, to not caring at all; it was a mess. So he took it down. We were going to fix it. However, his idea of "Fixing it" was to eliminate the parts of the new setup that meant the most to me - the details.

I said no, and he stopped. If that's all that happened, I could still use another friend, but I'd still have one.

My friend Mike McGifford has been the only steadfast and loyal friend on here, but unfortunately, he's not in a position to help me. He has a DOOZY of a motherfucking story coming out (hopefully soon). It's better than anything I've ever written.

I have a few friends that I won't embarrass with their names, but they aren't story collaborators like these two are (or were in my former friends' case). We've tried writing where I write a chapter and he writes a chapter and that didn't work.In that case, It was another idea I gave him. Imagine an ageing hippychick who used to follow the grateful dead that PREFERS to live homeless and free. She sells ass for money sometimes. She has two precocious daughters who are used to running around topless at the homeless camp because nudity was not a big deal to her, but now they are growing hair/puberty, and they have a little brother. I wanted to explore homelessness. In his turn, writing the story, she immediately gets an apartment and a job. So that didn't work. We didn't try it again, even though I had asked him not to do that to the story. He continued writing it. In that case, since he wrote new stuff, I just left it alone and let him move forward.

However, I had such a sour taste that I never again wanted to write that scenario. I wanted to see how it felt to look up at the stars on the flat ground behind the Dollar Tree and wonder if you are doing right by how you raise them, and your values. Safety was not an issue in this story. I don't write rape or bad shit like that happened to anyone, so I assumed my friend wouldn't either. (He subsequently did in another story).

A year goes by fast, and Mary Christmas and her chubby giggly sister Joy still rides on top of my brain. It's getting chilly, I can picture their first run in the Minnesota snow completely naked again. I start to write a different set up- one that has no blackmail. I have 40 stories or more that I've put aside for one reason or another. Many of which with 20+ chapters with characters that are dear to me.

I was working with my friend on trying to write something (anything) other than Leo Meets Mary, without trying, they fall in love immediately and fuck. I thought, "Maybe he would like a chance at redemption, just like Ethan, and write this non-blackmail story as a more fun story.

I seldom write blackmail anymore. I love reluctant nude females but there are so many more clever ways to get them nude. If I do write blackmail, you have to be willing tocrack some eggs to bake a cake. You have to let the victim get on top to make that work, so you can knock them back down. This time, it was a little different and a more plausible reason was used as the catalyst.

Unfortunately, I had such a bitter taste from last year, that I couldn't continue it.

For this version, negotiated with him to keep going on our second try of Mary Christmas for 2025, but he seemed insistent on changing my words. I felt bad, so I sent him another short idea that he could expand on, and rather than continue it, he wanted to erase me from it. so I told him absolutely to stop.

The third itme I log in "Hey look what I am working on" - it's from a draft of a story I never gave him permission to steal. It's nothing new - just erasing me out of it. No permission given from me.

That's not what friends do. They don't steal your work or erase you. I need a friend, desperately.

So after three times telling him to stop doing that to rewrites of my stories, some of which were quite dear to m, I had to stop being friends after what got me through Covid. The first two times I gave him the stories to work with. One was a story I had 17 chapters on that he said he would write the CONTINUATION OF. I wanted those characters to see an ending and it's a Christmas story, so I said yes.

Instead of continuing, he began to erase my context. If I had her in a Hufflepuff Hogwarts sweater, he'd take out that detail. I had a reason for that at the time, to establish a little about her. I believe in writing exposition into the story through context clues. People who don't follow Hogwarts wouldn't get the clue, but for those who did, they would connect that her reason for buying the shirt was she liked cutie Hufflepuff stuff.

I asked him to stop. He tried to make me a better writer by checking continuity and grammar - the type of stuff MS Word will ignore because it could technically be intended by the author. I tried to help him understand the basics of 9th-grade level show versus tell.

All of his stories follow the same plot; Leo has a sad life. He meets Mary. He doesn't have to try with her at all. She eagerly becomes a dick hound for him and only him. He loves bombing her by escalating the relationship way too fast, and she immediately jumps, with a giggle, "I won't marry you! Today, anyway. It will have to be this weekend."

I have tried to offer my help over the years, and his story "Must Love Dogs" for instance is based on an idea that I gave him. That's what friends do. It's my story. I was going to write it. I gave it to him. That was a choice, no problem.

However, I GAVE That idea to him. The second time recently, I gave him another idea and wrote the start with SHOW, not TELL, to show him how it would be done. He spent the entire time erasing that back out.

I asked him to stop. You would think after that , he would get the hint. After encouraging me to work on a story that he particularly liked in draft form and realizing I want to finish the current one, he sends me my own story back and says "Look, what I've been working on, it's taken my several hours" except it's just the first five paragraphs of my 7-chapter story I already sent him.

I don't understand that, and I didn't end our friendship immediately. I sought to understand why on earth he would do that is what friends do.

His explanation was that he hadn't erased too much of me from this one, and he didn't see why I'd be so concerned about him PLAGIARIZING MY story with just utter permission AFTER I TOLD HIM TO STOP ERASING ME THE LAST TWO TIMES.

If you want to take one of my stories on here and continue their adventures, be my guest. I would be fucking flattered.

Tell me about it. I'll be your biggest fan. If you want to blow out a scene with greater detail, or write the lead up, or jump 20 years in the future - write, write, write that motherfucker. I'd be jumping over the moon.

If you take my story idea and rewrite it as your own, not much I can do about it.

If you take my words, though, and you just start erasing my context, summarizing into a reader's digest version? that's a problem. It hurts more if I thought you were a friend. Life in 2025 is way too shitty for us to get bogged down in internet bullshit, but damn, that stings.

As terrible as he is at writing context, he was a steadfast and loyal friend who helped me by reading over my story and telling me the errors in continuity and grammar that MS Word won't find. I can spot errors in other people's work but it slips right past me in mine.

I can't pay you. I won't use an external email client for a number of reasons, but I can easily just paste you an advanced draft of my story for review and ask that you send back something with the original line and recommended correction or note;


Their was an old lady with a pussy as big as a shoe

There

That's it. commentary on pacing, continuity, etc welcome but you have to like stories involving embaressed nude females, fetish, and you have to enjoy stories that strive to show not tell.

Should go without saying; but to be my friend -

You also can't plagiarize my stories as your own, just write them shittier. Literally verbatim, word for word, go through them and extract all that is Eddie.

I pour my heart out into my stories, I put effort into them, I extract and distill memories about frosty mornings in a trailer with a woman, feeling that cold air on her nipples, and stroking them. To see the details removed and replaced with;

We spent the morning together. It was enjoyable.

I delight in the feelings of warm, comfy sweaters after you pull them out of the dryer, faded Hogwarts design even if you'd like to stick a shoe up JK Rawlings tight ass. I delight in living through the eyes of my protagonist or storyteller, and for that I need the smells, sounds, textures as well as the basic plot. I need to see the arched eyebrow and quizzical look that went along with the dialogue.

I only experience joy writing when I can leave something of myself in that story, knowing that none of us have eternity on this world.

I've said this many times, but I'll say it again:

Am I the best writer?

No.

Am I trying to be?

Also, that would be a no.

I am trying to do the best I can, and appeal only to those dirty minded perverts that like how I spin a yarn, in a down to earth "So no shit, there we were" method like I am shooting the shit with you at a bar and confiding in you the most fucked up or interesting thing that ever happened to me or a friend of mine.

I will never have mass appeal; dont' want it.

I will never be perfect; don't try.

I will never write stories that are "safe" - enjoy taking risks and I like to explore strange what-ifs.

My stories are grounded in the real world most of the time. The one that I have lived in is trailer parks to suburbs. There are no impossible 50 shades of gray Jeff Bezos the bilionaire lifestyle type stories. There is no magic, demons, sci-fi in most of my stories.

I write Kinky embaressed nude females and taboos, mostly. I enjoy BDSM power exchange and the relationships that evolve dynamically because all relationships have different ways of working and usually the kind with domestic discipline, especially if they have blended vanilla family, are fun to explore.

I write Nude in School stories, and I illustrate my stories. I recently feel I "leveled up my game" with my most recent, and I enjoy that probably more than I do writing.

However, I could get the stories out sooner if I had a writing friend. I don't want to say editor because that's not what I need at all.

I lost mine recently. He threw a friendship away for a story I have about nine chapters already written on. He's currently writing a surprisingly similar setup, but it's so difficult for me to read that it's hard for me to follow. The worst part is? He still thinks I would not have minded him erasing my touch from the stories he has done this too.

In fairness (disclosure) I am not asking for you to be involved in that drama. Only to express that I think it's worse betrayal coming from a friend than some internet troll who took your stories and tried to claim them for his own with changes.

I am just trying to share why I need a friend - not an editor.

According to Reacher - Details Matter. Missing them can get people killed.

My stories are not for everyone. The context, the genre, the set up and even how I write. My stories appeal to a particular niche of dirty perverts that I genuinely appreciate.

I often say, "Am I the best writer?"

To which I answer NO!

Then I say, "But I am trying to be?"

Also, I answer "No!"

I will never have mainstream appeal. I do not try for that. It's not my target. To do that, I'd have to change what and how I write and write for someone other than me.

I write the stories I would want to read, how I would want to write them.

I've always had the goal that if I could inspire someone with my stories to write stories like mine, I'd win because I could have more to read.

I also believe that I should read as much as I write. This allows me to stay sharp as an author. I don't steal ideas, but I learn storytelling techniques through examples.

I try to polish my writing and make it pop with "Word pictures"

I don't get into "Decorative" writing, like AI slop or Danielle Steele. You know, "The wind picked up, and on the horizon, the dawn gently fell on my asshole." or whatever, I can't even write a serious example of it, but if you see it, you'll know it.

I write more JD Salinger Catcher in the Rye stream of consciousness. My technique could quite easily be called "Bullshitting".

You know when you are bullshitting with your old pal over a beer and telling them a story?

When I was a kid, my best friend and I managed to meet two hot girls roaming around on new years eve. We convinced them to come back to my old buddy's house and play strip blackjack, and drink some beers we had.

JACKPOT, right?

Not really, you see, we lost immediately and then didn't pay up. That wasn't how the story was supposed to go. It was supposed to end with bare titties and a blowjob at Midnight as our balls dropped, because that would be a clever turn of phrase and I like blowjobs and titties. I can still remember those girls, that night, and all the details. We kept walking up to the Little General (It was like a Circle K convenience store but cooler). You could buy cigarettes then without ID, pretty much. I got some Redman chewing tobacco because I didn't want to smoke, but I wanted to seem cool, and my grandfather chewed it.

Fuck, it's nasty as shit, and we got lightheaded from it and sick to our stomachs. I still remember the weight of the boom box I carried on my shoulder like a white boy imbecile, listening to Van Halen's "Maaarrrge your braking my hearttttt, you better starttttt...." and Bottoms up, Come on baby, Bottoms Up! I am singing, I am dancing!"

What a dipshit, I probably was. I remember those big ass D-batteries and how long they lasted. Rechargable? What the fuck for? These D batteries have been in this boom box since 1982.

Right? And if you ever did something like that, you remember it.

Now that I am old, all I have are thousands of memories about tipping a bottle of vodka straight up and chugging it like water until Bobby Glenn punched me in the stomach and then I puked everywhere in my best friends house - causing everyone to leave and throw me the fuck out of the party too. I still remember taking all my god-damned clothes off for no apparent reason and running my dumb ass through the golf course sprinklers. I still remember seling my best friend shake weed because he didn't know how much it cost, and wondering when he'd figure out it was mostly Oregano?

I can take a thousand strippers I worked with as a DJ, and a thousand flea markets and a thousand drunken adventures and all the crazy shit and merge those into authentic people that I want to write about. I can live through their eyes. I can go back in time and write how maybe it didn't go quite as pathetic as I remember it for my surrogate alter-ego in the story, and tell a story that will transport you with me to 1987, when Dinker and her friend were secretly little whores in those tight French cut one pieces down at the beach, and we dared them to streak around the downtown.

Bullshitting - is the method where I pretend that you are my old buddy. I am sitting across from you with a good beer and I begin "No shit, so there we were..." and I tell you what we did, and how we did it in a 1st person style that includes details, and introspection.

"I thought I'd see titties and pussy, but when she took off her clothes, I saw a dick bigger than mine!"

Right? That's fun, and all those little details about what song was playing when I did, and Wendy's salad bar having Pasta back then, and the size of that prick, and how it curved to the right - they aren't essential to the story.

If you are speed jerking, you don't need or want details. If you have a little attention span the size of my cock, then you don't want to be bothered.

When I tell a story though, In order to go back into that world, I have to see the sights and hear the words. I have to hear that music in the background, smell the elephant ears and beer on the midway, the sound of people laughing and the carnival barker telling me that he'll give me three for five dollars, and "Hey, hey, wait a minute, tell you what..for you, I'll do four for five dollars, look I'll make it easy. I want to give it away, man. I don't want to take these stuffed animals back with me. Come on, just play twice and if you still lose, I'll give you a prize, come on."

Does that have anything to do with the story?

Not the plot.

It has to do with the immersion.

A dear friend of mine helps me edit. I've seen him write well, but usually he writes dialogue like this;

"Hello."

"Yes."

"I am Leo."

"I am Mary."

"I adore you, Mary."

"Let's fuck."

"Okay."

Then we fucked for hours, and when we stopped, we laughed for a while.

"Hey, do you want to fuck again?"

"Yes, I do."

"I as well."

and I have tried my motherfucking hardest to help him the way he helps me by finding mistakes or making suggestions. He will pedantically tell me things like "Church mice aren't actually quiet" when I use a figure of speech, or that "Be back in a minute" he'll ask if it was really a minute. I once told him that they opened the porch screen door.

"Technically, you don't open it, you have to pull it in..." he said.

It's a DETAIL, right? So you would think he's detail-oriented. I spent an hour debating with him and showing him how that in some porch screen doors open out, others open in.

When it comes to writing though, he is in it for speed. He wants the facts, nothign more - no sweetners.

I once read a story about a director asking a screen writer about a scene he wrote. It was just dialogue like above.

"What are they doing?" The director asks.

"Having a dialogue," the writer responds

"Okay, but what are they DOING?"

and what he meant was while that's happening - are they moving around? how are they talking? is something happening? is anyone else there?

In my friend's story, that shit is for the reader to imagine and guess. I tell him it's like a crossword puzzle to me because after 20-30 of those short little dialogues with no attribution, I can't tell you who is talking anymore, I've lost the count.

More so, I've been denied the stuff I READ stories for as well. 80% of all communication is non-verbal. How was it said changes so much. There are people I've known who can arch an eyebrow and say more than I can say in four paragraphs of talking.

The actor who played the coach on the TV show Friday Night Lights (brilliant show, if you haven't seen it) Kyle Chandler plays the coach. He nails the coach's ability to do that with his expressions. That show took risks by letting the actors do their own dialogue and not use a script like Gilmore Girls that prides itself on its pithy phrasing and unnatural conversations (apparently).

A great example for me from that show is at one point the Coach and his wife are walking into a daycare and the wife says "You have to pull up on the little thingy," and shows him how to open the gate. "I..uh know how to open a god-damned gate," he says as he opens it.

FUCK, that moment. That moment right there is my FAVORITE SCENE IN THE WHOLE SERIES.

If I had to pick six seconds that completely encapsulate married life at that age, it's that fucking scene. It was ad-libbed, apparently the actress was giving him direction and being helpful, not intending to make it part of the scene. IF that's to be believed it's even more amazing because that summed it all up for me.

It had ZERO to do with the story overall.

It just made the characters more real. It took me to their world, and it made it feel less like a TV show of shit I will never relate to, and made them real to me. I've seen that scene happen, and I've been in that scene myself.

So when I am bullshitting on my stories, I might take a moment to paint a Bob Ross little tree off to the side, just as background. I want that little moment of how cluttered the house is and how it is lived in, how she smells, and I try to find the balance. I do not rush or hurry.

I'll probably never be appreciated because i wrote how someone in the pasture stepped in dog shit and that made that "Ew, I stepped in dog shit" face, or how the scumbag that ran the Matterhorn ride kept ogling the girls, and trying to keep the ride going after he saw them flash their tits once. "We were on there for an hour!"

"You better show your tits next time!"

There is a concept in story writing called "Chekovs Gun" that states that any detail that does not advance the plot, should be eliminated. I can understand red herrings that piss off readers. The TV show LOST did that by introducing plots or ideas and then just abandoning them. That's not the kind of detail I mean. I just want you to feel that feel inside the strip club with the AC blasting but it still smells like mildew, ass and cleaning supplies and how the day shift stripper looks bored as she bends over and presents her ass, not expecting a tip. I want you to taste that watered down drink, and hear the loud White Zombie warbling out of that speaker even though there aren't but two other motherfuckers in there with you.

When I am bullshitting, I try to show not tell. I try NOT to use the word I am describing in the description. You can't do it always, but giving you the non-verbal about how that stripper keeps looking to the left like she is high, or has a nervuos tic and putting you in that sticky-ass vinyl seat, at that wobbly table with a ashtray that hasn't been cleaned since 1993 is my goal as much as it is to present a plot and write believable characters in interesting situations.

The internet is a very interesting place, though. There are what I call "Arbitarians".

You can say you like Cherries and parfait.

"FUCK CHERRIES, THEY SUCK !!!"

You can say you like this or that, and you'll always find someone who doesn't like it. There are some people that I think are just wired to naturally hate what you like and vise verse.

I listen to a lot of AI music recently. I know - AI sucks. It sure does, and to those that think it's going to hasten the destruction of society, and lead to poverty and misery, I agree - but I will say this, AI sure knows how to jam!

I love sweet soul music, always have - Otis Redding, Sam and Dave, all that stuff.

I love old rock songs, old 80s songs, I've got a ton of eclectic favorites but around 1995 when I stopped working in strip clubs, I stopped following music. It seemed to all turned to Nickelback shit/3 Doors Down, and now if you ask me who is singing, I'd say "Fuck, I dunno, Katy Perry?"

But now, this AI stuff- they combine it. A lot of it is just some asshole with a Suno account who puts the lyrics and types "Hurr, soul music" and blippity-bloppity-bleep, and out comes a piece of shit.

They post that on Youtube and at first when I started searching on it, I would put anything in my playlist and think "Well, it's better then nothing"

Some uninspired Metallica Enter sandman sung by Otis Redding in a soulful way was novel. Nine more get made because these boring numb nuts can't think of anything to do except the same fucking nine songs (Nirvana Come as you are, ONE Nine Inch Nails song, etc)

BUT

https://youtu.be/T-rfu0p3ChY?si=MHzeW2OKPQGsTFbp

Just listen to this motherfucking jammy jam. This is created by Professor Nick Harrison. As far as I know, he's only a professor in kicking ass and taking names, and his license to take names expired, if you know what I mean.

This song is "My chemical romance" The Black Parade. I've heard it done before, but *NEVER* like this. This is not AI slop. This is fucking pure genius.

They say that it takes talent to sing, write music, and play musical instruments, and you won't get any argument from me.

But, the producers and arrangers do not usually do that. They hear the music in a way that elevates it, and that is what the Professor did on this track. You'll hear the scratch in the voice, the emotion. If this WERE a human singer, the producer would have been the one to arrange it - it's a different source, but the same skill required.

It's not just talent to make it. I am sure he didn't just type it into the AI and out this popped. This had to be arranged, and oh my god, I can't stop listening to it.

Now, I'll give you two more, and there is a reason for this. I am not trying to sell you on this music or start a moral debate on the merits of using it on existing songs.. I have an hour and a half commute one way each day. This shit makes me happy and makes me smile and even if its "Stealing from artists"

Not much makes me smile, so I'll fucking take this;

https://youtu.be/mxY9vWTcqW8?si=meGVhnsHcbQHI66_

This is pure fucking juice - out the bottle. I've ALWAYS hated Limp Bizkit. He was a man baby with a red hat, stomping around. The only thing he and I have in common is that I was pure white trash, too, and I love chocolate starfish as much as he did, apparently.

His song Roling is largely unlistenable to me. It's him hurping and durping about how great Limp Bizkit is in the third person. The only Kid Rock/Limp Bizkit macho dickheads running around in hammer pants at the county fair ever did for society would be to drop off the planet as far as I was concerned with his uninspired white boy rap.

But listen to what Happy Dasher does. Shit. The way he says "Tho your hands up" like a real singer might, the way he sings "Back up, Back up" to a different cadence.

https://youtu.be/1axXS_KgU8U?si=U770_Kd1vSPsnwnt

One last one, this is Creep by Radiohead. by my count, there must be at least 17 unspired versions of this song some shithead put on the Internet. This is a Disney version that is truly professional quality and clever as shit.

Here is the thing though, to me - this is the shit.

There are going to be other people on the Internet who think "FUCK THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and they will say taht some obscure horse-shit version of some song I've never heard arranged without change-ups is great.

So, there are people who like stories without rich, descriptive details. I suppose I could have said that there are people who like rich chocolate cake, and people who just want nutrients to absorb, and said pretty much the same thing. I have seen people gush over my friend's stories, so I know he writes for an audience that likes that.

Recently, he "Edited" my story and he removed my voice and basically made it soul-less.

Here is an excerpt

“Precisely,” Joy’s bubbly laughter didn’t come across cruel or wicked. She was clearly enjoying Mary’s embarrassment.

"Why are you making me... do this?" Mary asked out loud, looking straight ahead, with her fingers interlaced behind her head.

"Because it's fun," Joy said, stepping closer to adjust Mary's posture with a gentle push on her back. "And you're doing great. See how easy it is? Stand up straight, Bubble Guppy."

“If it’s so easy and fun, why don’t you get naked, Joy?” Mary scowled, but didn’t make any attempt to hide her lower body. She still wore a heavy gray sweatshirt with a House Hufflepuff logo on the front from Harry Potter, but nothing else.

dly

Is this the best writing in the world? As I said, no. I wanted you to see the Harry Potter sweater in your mind and know this chick would pick Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor because she is the kind of chick who isn't a surface Harry Potter fan that went with mainstream. She went with the more thoughtful cutesy house. That's a DETAIL. That means nothing to the story; the sweater never appears again.

He wrote this and told me he was streamlining it;

o, now I have to strip completely naked anytime my brothers tell me to?”

“Precisely,” Joy’s bubbly laughter showed she was clearly enjoying Mary’s embarrassment.

"Why are you making me do this?" Mary asked.

I will never be that guy who likes the latter.

Today, I was supposed to be working on my stories, but instead I spent 3 hours on adding ONE picture of FIVE paintings showing a sequence of events where a woman marries a man, has a gang bang with a bunch of black guys and his best friend on their honeymoon, cheats on him constantly while they they are married, tries to kill or cuckold him (not sure which) and then they celebrate chopping her up in little bits. The story isn't even about that.

It's a painting inside a homemade haunted house intended to be macabre and illustrate their attitudes about women.

I sat there and put little details like I had her butt stuffed and taxidermied into an umbrella holder, and I put little "Well done" and "Rare" toothpicks into her tits, and I made sure the characters were consistent from painting to painting, and I put litle easter eggs in the pictures and call backs.

I did this because to me - that's the only reason to write stories. I want a creative outlet that lets me share my experiences but also live them with you, through the storyteller's eyes.

I almost never get feedback unless it's to tell me what a fuck up I am and drive me from the site. That's usually some entitled dick head karen troll that never contributes to the site and tries to run off authors that write stories they don't like by sending us snotty grams. It's the only power they have in real life, so they are fairly pathetic.

I might get a one sentence "Hey Eddie, when are you going to write the next chapter to your Twatmas story?" or but no intelligent conversation, no opinions, no feedback, no offers to brainstorm.

I've spent the last six months arguing simply that details in stories are actually good, so today I thought I'd just share my opinion. That's the point of a blog, right?

I work 10 hour days mon-fri, I owe more than I'll ever be able to pay back, It feels like I'll never get my masters degree at this rate (And I should be doing homework but naturally I am fucking around on pictures and blogs). I have an hour and a half commute, and a dozen or so stories half way finished that I should finish.

I cannot with the news. I simply cannot. Every day it's like this outrageous parody of reality, where people are laughign and fucking around building golden palaces while air traffic controllers have to work for free and using it like a game, and I just have to fucking go back to 1987 and write about some place, and some situation I'd much rather be in than this shit.

I could be wrong, maybe my writing details are irritating, boring, needless drek. I don't really want someone to send me that validation to piss me off. I am just putting it out there that even if it is - fuck you.

The only path I can be on where I write a story is if it has some details, some buttholes, some embarrassed nude females, some kinky shit. That's it - gotta have it.

But, sometimes you just wanna talk, and when you got nobody to talk with, then you just write a blog.