Dear Miss Meddlesome,

Recently reconnected with a boy I had a crush on from 4th grade through most of my school years. Haven’t talked to this boy since we were 14! We started talking recently and there was a connection! Only thing is he has 3 kids, and works out of town a lot. I agreed to go out with him when he came back to town, only when he came back he never hit me up. This happened twice, and this last time he texted me, I texted back, and then poof! Nothing. He sees all my things on Instagram but I’m sure I’ve been ghosted! Should I hit him up to see what happened, or accept my state and move on??

Dear I Know I’m Not Just Building Up Someone From My Past,

Congratulations. You’ve found your soul mate. Though your last serious interaction with this boy was when you were just fourteen, it’s important to recognize that at that age, we’ve really come into ourselves as people, defined definitively who we’re really going to be, and know everything there is to know about ourselves. Your memories of this boy and your current expectations of him are perfectly sound.

I’m assuming from your submission that texting is your primary form of communication, so it makes sense you felt a ‘connection’, as you say. Many a deeply formed friendship has occurred over texting, and your case, I’m sure, is no different. There’s nothing more meaningful than stilted conversation full of emojis and acronyms. GIKHCAMBHSMAWSF! (Girl, I know he cares about me because he sent me a winking smiley face!)

Him: Yo
You: Hey, old classmate, whom I haven’t seen in fifteen years. How are you?
Him: Good. Good. Just busy.
You: It’s been awhile. You must be exactly the same.
Him: I’m exactly the same, yeah. I mean, I did get married and stuff, but my old lady was a drag so I was like, peace out, yo! lol I can’t be tied down to this! I’ve also got a couple of kids too. So in that way, I guess I’m different. Also, I’ve got a few priors, but, again, no big deal. Pleaded out, so I’m good. Still on probation, but I’m on the up and up. Oh! I also have this weird fetish that would put me in jail if anyone found the images, but other than that, I’m exactly the same.
You: Like, oh my gawd! You haven’t changed a bit! So funny! #Revertigo
Him: Yeah, you know me!
*Five hours later, 2 a.m.*
Him: What are you up to?
You: Watching a movie.
Him: Cool. We should really hang out soon.
You: Yeah, let’s go out! What are you doing tomorrow?
Him: Well, I’m headed out of town tomorrow so…
You: That sucks
Him: Yeah, I work out of town a lot and really just have late nights available. We can hang out tonight, if you want
You: I’m about to go to bed, but hit me up when you get back?
Him: *radio silence*

You totally have not been ghosted. A guy saying he’ll take you out once he returns from out of town, then doesn’t call you, doesn’t necessarily mean he won’t eventually call. I’m willing to bet when he’s exhausted all other options for fun and companionship, he’ll finally give you a ring! How exciting!

This is what you need to do. Text him over and over. Ask him why he didn’t call and what you could have done differently. Tell him you’ll let him copy your homework in Biology! Just please, please, please pay attention to you!

When he calls and I have no doubt he will, keep your schedule as open as possible. Make yourself as available as you can, foregoing legit meaningful relationships. I mean, you guys had an online/text connection! Meanwhile, to pass the time, shop wedding dresses online.

Good luck! So excited for you!

Submissiveness is key,
Miss Meddlesome

p.s. Don’t forget! Self worth has no place in modern society anymore.

Dear Miss Meddlesome,
I have 4 kids, but my mother in law treats only one as her favorite. With every birthday card, she will send her favorite some money on the side. She sends packages of gifts addressed only to her favorite. It breaks my heart when my boys (who aren’t her favorite) check the mail those days. She has 8 grandchildren. I wish her favorite was not one of mine. And so does her guilt-ridden favorite. I need advice on how to handle this.

Signed, The floor is lava

Dear Hater,

Throwing shade on granny, huh? Listen, everyone has their favorite, okay? It’s not a big deal. So what if your boys have to watch their sibling open gifts and receive cash, while they don’t even get a phone call from their beloved, sweet, benevolent grandmother. They need to understand that life isn’t fair and now is as good a time as any to learn that lesson.

Frankly, your MIL sounds like a saint to me, but whatever. Why not let her bestow her generosity where it pleases? You want things to be “fair” and “principled,” but what is fair? What is principled? Aren’t these just subjective ideologies, really? Morals aren’t meant to be defined so stringently. Gaw!

This is my advice to you. Call the old hag up and apologize. Tell her you appreciate how she’s singled out your kid for the Hunger Games, I mean gifts, that you’re ever so grateful she’s volunteered your kid as tribute, and let your little Katniss compete for the heart of the sponsor. Have her thank President Snow profusely for her generosity. Don’t argue. Don’t present fact. Don’t offer rational thought. This is forbidden!

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention how important it is that your husband not say anything to check his mother. Men should have no responsibility when it comes to their children or their parents, so he absolutely should not show his mother how ludicrous you/he “thinks” she’s acting or how her unfair treatment of her grandchildren will give them all complexes. It’s also extremely important for you to give every gift your child receives to said child. It would be crazy to stem it all from even becoming an issue by keeping the gifts from them. I mean, it’s not like your husband would be able to explain to his mother why you’re both uncomfortable alienating the rest of your children, right? Right.

So, to recap, send your MIL a pound of Nightlock berries as a thank you, you ungrateful cur.

May the odds be ever in your favor,
Miss Meddlesome

Dear Miss Meddlesome,

I filed for divorce in January. Since, I’ve basically become my husband’s girlfriend. It’s mostly a secret. My reasons for filing are super legit and important (alcoholism/scaring the kids/not holding a steady job), but I love him. His family thinks I’m playing him and should let him move back in, so they’re causing drama on Facebook and won’t let him stay there. And now he’s practically homeless. I can’t cave because all he’s fixed is the drinking, though I have trust issues regarding that now. So.. what should I do?

Dear After College Rory Gilmore,

I don’t understand what the problem is. Listen, he sounds like a winner to me, okay? His family is absolutely right here. You need to put aside all your needless fretting and invite the poor bloke back home. If he gets into a drunken rage after buying alcohol from the money he stole from your purse and starts to scare your children, just lock them in a back room with the television on full blast until he sobers up. It’s better to have this gem at home than to give your kids a stable life.

You say you love him and I can totally understand this. What’s not to love? It should be easy to look past someone with substance abuse issues. I mean, it’s not as if he’s scaring the kids when he’s sober, right? Take a chill pill, baby!

There is one thing I am a little confused about, though. Why won’t his incredibly kind, perfect family let him stay at their homes? I mean, he’s obviously such a great guy and you are truly playing him. It makes perfect sense that they tout his saintliness all over Facebook, probably alluding to the fact that you are the devil himself, but aren’t allowing him to stay at their houses, I guess. I mean, the only explanation is that they’re trying to teach you a lesson, which I can totally see. There’s no way they’re pushing him your way and vilifying you online to keep him away from themselves and their homes. They’d probably be more than happy to let him live there for free, you know, not paying rent, not contributing at all. They probably wouldn’t have a problem with this at all. It’s really about getting you to come to your senses. You’re the one who needs to change.

He’s not taking advantage of the fact that you love him or anything, either. These past six months he may or may not have quit drinking, so there’s that. In five years he might have a job! In ten, when the kids are gone, he can’t scare them anymore. See? It’s fine!

Let’s face it, you’re not going to get any better than a jobless guy who drinks to excess then scares your children, okay? His family is not bullying you at all. They’re just trying to do what’s best for themselves- I mean, him- I mean, you and your kids.

Self-worth is for suckas,
Miss Meddlesome

Have a personal problem you really need help with? Miss Meddlesome will try her hardest to ruin your life with spectacularly bad advice. Submit here! It’s 100% anonymous! 

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When Miss Meddlesome isn’t meddling, she’s writing as Fisher Amelie…

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Dear Miss Meddlesome,

I got a dog and people are being really judgmental about it because she’s not from a shelter. I have allergies and had to choose a specific type of dog. I looked for one to adopt and couldn’t find one. I do feel guilty, and their hateful comments make me feel even worse. How do I tell people to mind their own business so I can enjoy my new pal?

–Stop Judging Me *sneezes*

Dear Murderer of All That is Holy and Pure,

I think it’s time you came to terms with the fact that everyone around you must have a say in every aspect of your life. I mean, really, it’s a little ridiculous you haven’t understood and adopted this concept yet. You, who adopt so carelessly.
First, I think you need to send handwritten apologies to every single person on your friend’s list, begging for their forgiveness. If social media has taught us anything, it’s that we have a responsibility to account for and publish every action we take. When someone demands you tell them personal aspects of your life, then you must divulge them, then endure their bitter scrutiny of every minute detail of every single thing you do. After all, though you searched for a compatible adoptable dog, you didn’t actually adopt one that has the potential to blow your face up to the size of a watermelon and this is wrong according to the well-informed, sanctimonious, and virtuous members of Facebook. These people are perfect and you must be subject to their inspection.
You need to return this dog now. Allergies be damned! Who cares what will happen to it now. Then, go to the shelter and get a dog that isn’t compatible with you. As we know, shelter dogs don’t deserve owners who can properly take care of them. So what if you won’t be able to pet it, sit with it, stand near it, share a room with it. Dogs aren’t beneficial companions and don’t deserve genuine affection. Your dog is there to represent you! Brand! Brand! Brand!
If  you can’t say, “My dog is from such-and-such shelter, which means I am so socially conscious you should build a freaking statue in my honor!” then you aren’t a real person.
In the immortal words of the incredibly talented Black Eyed Peas, Packaged up with incense sticks. With them vegetarian meals. To you, that’s righteous.
And it is. So, take a selfie with the new shelter dog- oh, wait, you can’t, can you? Well, just Photoshop a duck-lips selfie with your new dog and post it for the world to see because that world has a right see. Remember that. You must keep up appearances.

You’re Abe Froman? The Sausage King of Chicago?,
Miss Meddlesome

Dear Miss Meddlesome,

I pooped myself at work at my desk and had no idea what to do because there were people around everywhere. It clicked in my head finally that my only option was to get up and run as fast as I could to the exit of the building. I work on the 5th floor which requires me take an elevator down. I got up as quickly as I could and ran past 10 to 15 desk and other co-workers on my way out. I’m not sure if anything was left behind. I unfortunately was wearing a thong and a skirt this day. I had to wait for the elevator and my worst nightmare came true, 5 other people were on as the doors opened. I got in and kept my eyes to the ground. I’m sure they noticed the smell. What should I do?! This happened on a Friday and I don’t even know if I should return to work. Please help. 

Signed,
Captain Underpants

Dear Todd Packer,

I’ll be honest, when I first read this, I thought, this chick is full of crap.
So, it’s a shitty situation, no doubt. Let’s dump everything aside, though, and get down to the brown, so to speak.
I believe you did the right thing by running away from your problem. I’m a big proponent of running away from your problems. There isn’t a better way to avoid responsibility, in my opinion, and since responsibility is the debil, it’s a win/win!
Let’s address how to handle returning to work. I’m confident that whatever trail was left, was more than likely looked over on the way out. And, I mean, let’s be honest, poop isn’t an overpowering smell or anything, so I doubt they even noticed. Besides, R.Kelly’s Ignition Remix is on a constant loop in their heads by this time. Except for that one guy Tom. Tom has R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet on loop in his head and, well, that explains a lot about Tom. Anyway, it’s the freakin’ weekend, baby! They’re about to have them some fun! Lumbergh’s having a barbecue and he serves up a mean burger. #JumptoConclusionsMat Basically, they were distracted, I’m sure of it.
So, on Monday, when you walk in, I would go for casual. Waltz in there in the morning like you hadn’t shat yourself, that runny excrement played no part in your day that Friday. More than likely your chair is gone and the carpet removed in a specific line that goes directly from your cubicle to the elevators, but it’s best to pretend that doesn’t exist. Play if off with a casual hum as you balance on that yoga ball you bought years ago but let sit underneath your desk instead, because you looked stupid balancing on it and it was hard not to fall backward.
When your co-workers ask what happened to you that Friday, say, “What? Huh? Oh, Carl, you’re crazy! What in the Sam Hill could you be talking about?” Then you run. Every time someone comes up to you, run. Eventually no one will wonder what happened anymore, but start to wonder if you’re insane or not. It’s better to appear insane, as opposed to someone who can’t hold their bowels.
Strike fear, not laughter, I always say.

It’s Rosy the nosy neighbor (A side of Pepto, if you get that),
Miss Meddlesome

Dear Miss Meddlesome,

The hubs and I are considering offering to take one of my sister-in-law’s children with us next year when we go to Walt Disney World on family vacation. She’s a single mother and cannot afford to take her children. The problem is, the SIL is an ungrateful a-hole and we can only afford to take one extra child. She has accused us in the past of playing favorites with her kids and caused a huge family kerfuffle that won’t be forgotten any time soon. We would want to take the 10-year-old with us because we feel it’s her last chance to enjoy the magic of Disney before she outgrows it. The 5-year-old will have other opportunities, I’m sure. Is there any way we can do this without it backfiring in our faces or should we just forget it?

Sincerely,
Hoping to Avoid Disney Disaster

Dear Auntie Dearest,

Of course, you are most definitely in the right here. In no way is excluding the five year old the wrong thing to do. I feel like I can’t reiterate this enough. Your generosity should really be the main focus here as well and I’m shocked this mother has issues with your willingness to alienate one of her children. Back to your generosity, though, because this is the most important factor here. You’re magnanimous beyond belief. Your sister-in-law is indeed an asshole, if she dares to find fault with your logic. So what if her five year old will be stuck swimming in the local swimming hole while their sibling is gallivanting about Magic Kingdom, rubbing shoulders with Mickey Mouse. It’s not like you can afford to take both! You are in no way playing favorites. Why can’t she get this through her thick skull?
The solution is an easy one. Sit both the ten year old and the five year old down together and explain that you aren’t playing favorites, but you want to take one of them to Walt Disney World! When you reveal it’s the ten year old, after jumping up and down and screaming in excitement, turn to the five year old and say, “Maybe if your deadbeat mother wins the lottery, you’ll be able to go one day, but this year isn’t your year, kid.” End your proud speech with some cackling. I believe this will really send home how you’re not playing favorites, but, again, just trying to be generous. Explain to the five year old that it’s not that you don’t want to take them, but you can only afford one and your favorite, I mean, heh heh, the ten year old may not enjoy it as much if they went later, which should make perfect sense to the five year old. When they start crying, and that is, I think we can both agree, like, totally annoying, tell them they need to stop being so selfish already! Tell them to be rational. After all, offers for Disney World trips come around all the time and they need to stop their belly-aching!
When you really think about it, your blatant exclusion of the younger one is an important life lesson every child needs to learn and you can’t put a price on that. Leaving them both at home, blissfully unaware of your nefarious, I mean, generous plot, is absolutely not an option, either. Also, it’s not like you can get other family members to pitch in to pay for the five year old’s tickets and incidentals or anything. It’s better to leave the younger child at home with their shattered hopes. Disney World is for dreamers.
I commend you on your disaffection for the five year old. It’s not anyone who can callously toss aside a kindergartner for a trip to Disney that may or may not ever come. I mean, it’s their fault for having a mother who can’t afford to take them!
So take the ten year old to the greatest place on earth and maybe buy a little trinket for that other one.

Have a magical day!
Miss Meddlesome

Have a personal problem you really need help with? Miss Meddlesome will try her hardest to ruin your life with spectacularly bad advice. Submit here! It’s 100% anonymous! 

Disclaimer: Under no circumstances should you actually follow this crap advice. If you do, you’re an idiot.

When Miss Meddlesome isn’t meddling, she’s writing as Fisher Amelie…

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Hey, Miss Meddlesome, I am in labor with my first baby. Yay! Problem is, my husband keeps making dad jokes in the delivery room. Should this have already started? I thought he was supposed to grow a dad bod before the cheesy jokes started or at least wait until the delivery of the baby himself?

-Ain’t Nobody Got Time For That

Dear I Didn’t Grab No Shoes or Nothin’, Jesus!

You seem a little busy so I’ll keep this short. From what I can tell from my very minimal online research, my light skimming of headlines, and investing in articles written by people with no expertise whatsoever, I’ve come to the conclusion that Dad Jokes are the result of a serious medical condition known as “Daditis.” Symptoms of Daditis include mowing lawns in short shorts and dress socks, wondering out loud why everyone wants to go to McDonald’s when there’s lunch meat and individually wrapped slices of cheese in the fridge, wearing promotional t-shirts from Yahoo, recording five minute videos of squirrels eating bird seed from their bird feeders, driving $2 worth of gas to avoid a $2 ATM fee, keeping the thermostat at a balmy eighty degrees, and every time someone opens the back door screams, “We’re not paying to cool the outside!” These are just some of a myriad of symptoms that can manifest with Daditis. It’s a common misconception, though, that dads grow a dad bod before Daditis afflicts the part of the brain that keeps their foot out of their mouths. Although similar to Foot in Mouth Syndrome, it is not the same, and misdiagnoses have been a problem. Symptoms of Daditis can show up as soon as the mother’s second trimester, but is rare, and could be attributed to the father’s age.

This is all moot, though, if your husband is just naturally cheesy, which is what I suspect in your case. Tell him to “Cut! It! Out!” That’s a Full House reference. If you aren’t familiar with this reference, just ask your husband, he’ll be able to explain it and probably better than I ever could. #BobSagetisSurprisinglyDirtyForHavingHadSuchAPopularFamilyTelevisionShow

Some suggestions for gifts for Father’s Day:

- A cheese knife

That’s all I got.

Get the Epidural,
Miss Meddlesome

p.s. Contractions suck thumb tacks. Just had to put that out there. Camaraderie.

Note to my readers: She had her baby. He is SO cute!

Dear Miss Meddlesome: My sister is always flirting with my husband. I don’t know how far she’ll go to get his attention. What should I do?

Dear Sister Wife,

“It ain’t no fun if the homies can’t have none. ” ― Snoop Dogg

Seriously, though, ew. I’m sure you’ve heard talk of the importance of open communication with family. To that, I say, duck no. Go to your mom and dad and tell on her, throw in a foot stomp if you have to, ’cause your sister needs a time out. In a vat of mayonnaise. Because it’s gross. And she’ll smell disgusting for a minimum of three days, no matter how many times she showers. If mom and dad won’t lay down the law, though, I’ve an alternative.

Feed your husband sardines with raw onion every meal and right before your sister comes over for visits. Dress him like Bret Michaels on Rock of Love. Make him memorize, then regurgitate, in a monotonous tone, endless variations of blackjack card counts, the statistical evidence behind the practice, and the intimate details of every card counter that’s ever been banned by any casino, ever. When your sister tries to run from him, which she surely will, because he’ll smell like old fish and onion and rankle her like Screech bugs Lisa , encourage your husband to follow her around, carrying on the conversation. Even if she goes to the bathroom, have him stand in the hall and speak through the door.

Once she’s escaped, I mean, left, have him send a series of texts citing facts about the MIT Blackjack Team of 1980. Have him continue these updates until she blocks him.

Eventually she will lose interest and you’ll be left with a man who knows entirely too much about card counting and smells of sardines and raw onion, but he’ll be your man who knows entirely too much about card counting and smells of sardines and raw onion.

Good luck in Vegas. You might as well put that knowledge to use.

I also like to live dangerously,
Miss Meddlesome

Dear Ms Meddlesome,

I am an elementary music teacher (relevant to the problem).  A new place opened up close to my house that does personal grooming, you know nails, pedi’s, waxing, etc.  I decided to take the plunge and get a wax for summer.  And I don’t mean my eyebrows. I was gonna get the full monty, if you know what I mean.  So I go in and tell the lady at the counter what I want.  I whisper it and hope God and my dead Grandma can’t hear it.  She takes me back to the little waxing room.  It has soft lighting, candles, etc.  Very relaxing place to get your most private little hairs ripped from your body. She tells me to strip, put on the robe and how to get on the table on my hands and elbows.  In a few minutes, there is a quiet knock and a “you ready miss?” When the waxer comes in, I keep facing the front, head down. After she has done her thing and I have bitten a hole in my lip, I turn around to lie and say “it wasn’t that bad”. And who is at the business end of my whoo-ha but the mom of one of my students. Neither one of us took it well. Now I have to face her again when school starts back because I have her son and daughter for the next several years. Should I quit my job, put a for sale sign in my yard, change faces with Nicolas Cage? Help!

Signed me,

Bald, Breezy and Embarrassed

Dear Steve Carell in 40-Year-Old-Virgin,

Welp. This is probably the worst position you could have put yourself in. Tee hee. Let’s address the fact you didn’t immediately say, “You saw mine, now I get to see yours.” This is unfortunate and would have alleviated a lot of future issues, but what’s done is done.

First thing you need to do is call this woman in for a lengthy chat. Face to face. I feel like I need to clarify that. Sit her down in your classroom, remember to get close to her, uncomfortably close. This will make you both face your discomfort with one another head on. Ask her the following…

How did you get into waxing?
Is this something you’ve always wanted to do? You know, wax people’s stuffy stuff?
Do you ever get wax stuck on your fingers? How do you get that stuff off?

Now, throw in a random compliment…
Little Billy is doing really well in my class. He’s only peed his pants twice this year. Quite the improvement from last year.

Then back to the interrogation…
Would your family like to come over for dinner? I make a nice shaved ham. As do you, I must say. (Another compliment.) #NailedIt

In doing this, you’ll prune away all future awkwardness.

I think I’ve sufficiently sheared this down.

Miyagi out,
Miss Meddlesome
p.s. When all else fails, remember “hell hath no fury like a woman shorn.”

 Dear Miss Meddlesome,
I recently found out my boyfriend of 6 years has an online dating profile. What do I do? We share everything. Money, car, house, nothing is just mine. I’m a little scared and a lot of pissed.

Dear Craigslist For Sale: Torture Devices,

Roll your sleeves up, ’cause it’s on like Donkey Kong. Channel your inner Sandra Bullock, baby, we’re going for the blindside.

Create a profile on this dating site for slimeballs. Make it, like, someone he would never turn down ever, right? Since Dim-Wit is a douche, it probably needs to be someone who wouldn’t know the difference between a veterinarian and a vegetarian. You know, someone who asks questions like, “Is this chicken that I have, or is this fish?” Then, acting as this knock-off handbag, approach Dim-Wit online. Get him to agree to meet you at a certain time, at a certain place. When he confirms, and you know he will, because, as we know, he’s a dillweed, send out invites for every single one of his family members saying it’s a surprise party for him. This is where it gets tricky. If it’s close to his birthday, then you have your out. If it isn’t, make something up, like “Hey, I’m proposing to Dim-Wit and I want you all to be there, but it’s a surprise! Shh!” Then, when he shows up, expecting to meet Made Up Hot Pants, you bring him in to meet all his family! Have a microphone handy, letting everyone know what you found out and why he’s there with everyone, hand the microphone over to him and let him do some explaining.

As in every delicious revenge recipe, though, there must be some prep.

It’s common knowledge that online attorneys can be trusted implicitly and according to Ditch, Hymn, Quick, & Hyde, you cannot legally remove yourself from a lease without the leasing partner and the landlord approving. This is a problem. You know, because we don’t want him to see this one coming. Because, again, he’s a dillweed. It’s okay, though, because I found a loophole. Though you are legally and financially responsible for your half of the lease, usually, there’s nothing that says you aren’t able to find a subtenant.

Step one. Find a subtenant so nauseating, he puts Edgar from Men in Black to shame. “Sugar. Water.” This alleviates you from all financial obligations in a roundabout way and provides you with the utter relief that Dim-Wit will have to suffer living with a disgusting stranger. In your ad, mention men with foot fetishes are welcome.

Step two. Pick a day for the showdown.

Step three. On said day, empty your bank account, save for one penny. #Mwuahahaha

Step four. Sell your car. To a friend. For a $1. Leave a copy of the bill of sale and fifty cents behind in an envelope. Have Edgar deliver it when he moves in, if you want.

Step five. Hire movers. Hot movers. Have them take all the furniture, every piece of food, every belonging in the whole damn house. All of it. Even the dust.

Step six. Go live yourself one beautiful, gosh damn life. Without Dim-Wit.

Have a personal problem you really need help with? Miss Meddlesome will try her hardest to ruin your life with spectacularly bad advice. Submit here! It’s 100% anonymous! 

Disclaimer: Under no circumstances should you actually follow this crap advice. If you do, you’re an idiot.

When Miss Meddlesome isn’t meddling, she’s writing as Fisher Amelie…

Find Fisher on Amazon!

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Before I dive in, I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you all for joining me here today. It’s the maiden voyage for Dear Miss Meddlesome and I’m honored you joined me. I also want to add that a lot of these submissions were pretty brave. I wasn’t expecting such serious subject matter for some of them and I hope you can see the sarcasm through everything I’ve responded with. If you submitted, I think you’re all pretty bad ass, actually, and just want you to know how thankful I am that you decided to play along. It just goes to show you that every single one of us is struggling with stuff, yet we power through with determination and a sense of humor.

Let’s jump right in, shall we?

Dear Miss Meddlesome, 

My parents separated after 40 years of marriage and now my dad lives on my couch. It’s been over a year and he shows no signs of leaving!!!! Between the toilet seat and him controlling the TV and thermostat I feel like I’m 12 living at home and not a grown woman whose name is on the mortgage!!! Do I tell him to find a different place or let him continue sleeping on my couch?!?!?

Sincerely,

Daddy’s-Little-Girl……. :/

Dear Little Girl,

How dare you. The man’s wife just left him! He’s entitled to a year’s worth of couch surfing at his daughter’s expense. Those braces weren’t free! So what if you fall in the toilet every morning, groggy, and downtrodden from missing your favorite show the night before because the remote was welded to his hand. Yeah, he was audibly snoring but he’s just “resting his eyes.” It’s a small price to pay when you think of the money he’s saving you by setting your thermostat at eighty degrees. What about the pony he bought you when you were six? What about your quinceañera? The five hundred yards of tulle for that dress wasn’t cheap, missy! Let’s not forget the Aston Martin he bought you when you graduated. I’m making some safe assumptions here.

Since you came to me for advice, though, I suppose I should formulate a few plans to help you get him out. I do love a good ousting, so here we go…

Plan A: The Chandler Bing

Tell him you’re moving to Yemen. Have him help you pack up your house. Once he’s left of his own accord, have him drive you to the airport to make it look convincing. Somehow get a phone number with a Yemen country code that forwards to your cell. Learn a few greetings in Arabic. Park your car in your garage every night. I know it’s a sacrifice, but no family get together’s for at least a year. Who are we kidding here? This is the one silver lining. And remember, you’re in Yemen, and visitors are expected to give pens or sweets to the local schools. Your dad will probably know this, so make a big showing out of buying these things to “take with you.” This is not a big deal because you can never have too many pens and candy, well, candy is the greatest gift to man next to Sonicare toothbrushes and agitator washing machines, which have nothing to do with Yemen, but felt necessary to mention. They never get the recognition they deserve.

Plan B: If Mama Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nobody Happy

Have your mother move in. This feels self-explanatory, but it’s important to mention one key point. You must force them to share a room. In doing so, you run the risk/reward (depending on how you look at this) of them getting back together. Either way, though, he’ll be gone prrrrreeeeeeetttttyyyy quick, yo.

Plan C: The Slow Method

Big plates of bacon every morning. Krispy Kreme for lunch. Fried chicken every night.

You’re welcome,
Miss Meddlesome

Dear Miss Meddlesome,

My husband is the worst kind of douche canoe. 

That’s right. He’s the asshole who leaves the shower faucet on, so when I get in to take a bath later, I’m blasted in the face with ice cold water. Usually on days I don’t want to wash my hair. I’ve asked him time and time again to please to turn the faucet off when he gets out, but he still hasn’t listened. 

How can I resolve this without simply murdering him when he sleeps?

Sincerely,

Doesn’t-Want-To-Go-To-Jail-Yet-Preferably 

Dear First Degree,

You’re high maintenance. High maintenance and a little stabby, apparently. I haven’t missed the irony in that this is a shower scenario. #Pyscho Anyway, I get it. You want to be able to slide into your tub without the rude awakening that supposedly inspires murder (or pregnancy). A slight overreaction, but fine. Listen up, Buttercup, grab a Sharpie. Then, while he’s sleeping, write ‘Drench Mensch’ on his forehead. If you’re not sold on ‘Drench Mensch’, get creative. Try ‘Shower Power’, ‘Water Boy’, ‘Drizzle Dizzle’, ‘Patter Splatter’, maybe ‘Pissed Mist’. These are all acceptable alternatives. Anyway, when he gets out of the shower and glances at his reflection, he’ll see your message and know exactly what it means. He’ll think, “Wow, my wife is so helpful!” Then, after he pushes the diverter back in (I had to look that up), he’ll think, “Should I get her roses or lilies or maybe the bones of my ancient ancestors as sacrifice today?” The added bonus is that the Sharpie will stay on for days. You’ll only have to reapply once or twice a week. It’s foolproof.

If this doesn’t work, it’s helpful to know that stripes are, like, totally in this year.

Sincerely,
Miss Meddlesome

Dear Miss Meddlesome,

My ex husband is living with his new girlfriend. When my kids come home from their weekend visits, I’m finding out the new girlfriend is doing things like teaching my oldest how to use tampons and taking my youngest to get haircuts, without ever discussing it with me first. I think this is crossing the line.

What should I do?

Signed,
Thank God I’m Single Again

Dear Hold My Earrings!,

I said hold them! Does anyone have a hair tie! She better recognize because I am not playing.

It’s time to plot annihilation…I mean, heh heh, revenge. It’s time to plot revenge. (Wait, that’s not that different.) First thing’s first, I’m the realest. Compile a list of where she works, where her parents and friends live, and places she frequents. Once you have this, it’s important that you troll her Facebook page. Find a picture she’s been tagged in, one she would have never approved of if she’d been able to veto, one where she looks like absolute dog poop. You know, her natural state. If you’re handy with Photoshop, brush up those skills. If not, find a graphic designer who has no qualms with shady because things are about to go down, Miss Brown.

We’re going to be making a few posters. Poster number one, “This lady gave me the herpapees!” Poster number two, “This woman stole $500 from my grandma!” Poster number three, “Caught in a compromising situation with a llama!” Poster number four, “Former Miss America stripped of her title as videotaped evidence was found of her claiming the earth is actually flat and we, as a people, can’t be associated with such utter nonsense.” (That one might be a little long.) Poster number five, “Eats her own toe jam!” Poster number six, “Can’t pronounce the word reconnaissance, let alone knows how to spell it.” Add the subtitle for that one, “Doesn’t know what it means, either.” Poster number seven, “Drinks pickle juice. That’s disgusting.” Poster number eight, “Plays mom to my kids and witch’s gotta go!” Poster nine, “Doesn’t comprehend appropriate boundaries.” Poster ten, “Has never heard of Toxic Shock Syndrome.” Poster eleven, “Poor choice in men.” (I’m assuming here.) And Poster twelve, “Trying too hard.”

Now, it’s time to post these suckers in their neighborhood, at her work, at the stores she frequents, and her family’s neighborhoods.

No one will know it was you. I’m sorry, no one can prove it was you.

I plead the fifth,
Miss Meddlesome

Dear Miss Meddlesome, 

I’ve recently found myself back on the market after nearly 15 years of marriage. I haven’t dated since I was 19, so it’s safe to say I’m fairly rusty in the flirting/dating department. There is a certain someone who I see at work that caught my eyes several months ago and things have progressed to a little flirting and some not-so-innocent Snapchat exchanges. My issue is that he is very wishy washy and I never know if he’s going to give me a big hug when I see him, or if he’s going to ignore me completely. Lately, he only acknowledges my presence if no one else is around. I sound like a teenager, but my relationship experience is on par with a 7th grader at this point lol! I need help! What do I do? How do I not come off like a 12 year old? 

Signed, 

 Desperately-NOT-a-tween-seeking-clarity

Dear Desperate,

So you’re out there! You’re a part of the ocean again and you’re swimming around with the other fish and they have duck lips and are taking thousands of selfies and you’re like, what the hell is this? I’ve never seen this specific species before with their shaved chests and pomade hair, but okay, whatever. You’ve jumped in and the water’s cold as crap but you’re in.

First off, I want to commend you on your very excellent choice of sending naughty Snapchats to a flaky workmate. I think this was a good choice on your part and couldn’t possibly backfire on you. Plus, nothing demands respect from a man like reputation damaging screenshots he learned how to take secretly through wikiHow.

Now that we’ve acknowledged what great footing you’ve established, let’s explore his waffling approach to your interactions. Whoo! How hot is this? Somebody get me a glass of lemonade! I love a man who pretends I don’t exist one minute then deigns to do so the next. #Maturity Add in the fact he only seems to notice you when no one else is present and you’ve got a recipe for a match made in heaven.

This is my very sound advice for you. Keep all of this up. Many will tell you that you should stand up for yourself, demand that a potential significant other openly and respectfully recognize you among your peers, but I think this would be a mistake. I believe, with time, he’ll build enough respect for you via these sneaky rendezvous to chase you down the corridors at work, shouting your name in reverence. This seems inevitable to me. Everyone knows a man who refuses to acknowledge you unless it’s under his terms is a man to be trusted.

It’s time to let his inconsistent behavior be your guide. Dependable men are boring so let this gem have his cake and eat it too. When he ignores you, overlook the pit in your stomach. This means he’s starting to respect you! When he hugs you privately after making sure absolutely no one is around to see you both, don’t be offended by the fact he appears to be ashamed of you. It only means he’s building genuine admiration for you!

And whatever you do, do not recognize your own worth. Do not demand respect. Do not let him work toward earning you instead of the other way around. Do not let yourself think you deserve more.

Your meddlesome,
Miss Meddlesome

Have a personal problem you really need help with? Miss Meddlesome will try her hardest to ruin your life with spectacularly bad advice. Write her at: MissMeddlesome@gmail.com

Disclaimer: Under no circumstances should you actually follow this crap advice. If you do, you’re an idiot.

When Miss Meddlesome isn’t meddling, she’s writing as Fisher Amelie…

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And yet I don’t really want to do it.

Because it will also leave me sterile.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “But, Fisher, you already have kids.” I know and I’m very grateful for the children God gave me. In fact, I couldn’t be more surprised by the miracles that are my children, the gifts He saw fit to give me. It’s truly humbling.

For those of you who don’t know, I have had rather difficult, high-risk pregnancies that risked not only my life but my children’s lives in the third trimester. It’s a rare condition that increases the risk of prenatal death in all carried infants in the last four weeks of gestation. It’s also why all my children were born prematurely and why I looked like a walking zombie for eight months with all three of them. It caused my liver to stop working altogether and I was forced to take toxic meds for hep c patients so I didn’t keel over while carrying them. Once my children were born, though, within hours, my body would bounce back as if nothing had happened. My liver would regenerate quickly and I didn’t look like a jaundice cancer patient after a few weeks. It was astonishing, really.

God gave me three children. Three. Three incredibly beautiful, unbelievably intelligent, outrageously creative children. And they are walking miracles. In a way, I am too.

A few years after Matt and I married, I got pregnant and was flabbergasted. It was scary, but I was so excited. Weeks flew by, the vomiting was atrocious, I started to show signs of gestational cholestasis, but didn’t know it at the time. Fifteen weeks in, the unthinkable happened. My baby died. And it was… devastating. I’d made huge announcements to my family and friends. I’d bought furniture and clothing and it was horrifying to look at them and the things I’d purchased. It was a stabbing pain to the heart and it was inexhaustible. It’s hard to put into words the pain of miscarriage, but I’m just going to put it out there. It’s death. It’s death and it’s terrible and it’s a mourning process that you deal with alone, because most people just don’t get it. They never held the baby, they never saw the baby, so, to them, that baby wasn’t real. The baby was real but only I knew them. It was like a private hell and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. My only comfort is that they are in heaven waiting for me. In GREED, you can listen to Cricket tell Spencer her motivation for reaching heaven. If you read between the lines, you can see I am talking about the infant I never got to hold.

Soon after, though, I was given a peaceful reprieve in my oldest son. It was a rough pregnancy, as you know, but he was my finish line and it was a beautiful achievement. I had trouble conceiving for a few years after him and decided that it was what it was. If I was meant to be the mom of one, then that was spectacular. But God wasn’t done yet. He gifted me a second boy. Another extraordinary light in an otherwise dark earthly world and he made me feel even brighter, which was astonishing when I thought I could have gone blind from the resplendency that was my oldest. I was open to more, but because it took so long to have my second son, I assumed it would be difficult for me to get pregnant again, but I was wrong. My third baby, a girl, was born fifteen months later, and when I saw her shining face, I discovered a pattern.

Children are addicting. You don’t just love them, you fall in love with them. They are peace in chaos. They are wonder in gloom. They are reason in decay. They are new, unblemished souls and they change you. My children saved my life.

As a human, I am inherently selfish. I was lackadaisical in most areas of my life, especially my dedication to God, but my children broke through those hard set, limestone layers of selfishness, narcissism, and self-seeking that prevented God from entering my heart and soul. They shattered the shale and my eyes were suddenly uncluttered. Truths are deeper, dishonesties are clearer, and all because I started to worry about something bigger than myself.

Which is why I am grieving.

I’m grieving the loss of hope. I’m grieving the loss of possibilities. The children that will never be. The abrupt end of it all.

I will never be able to pick up one of my infants again, bury my face in their new, warm neck and breathe in the life they give off.

And that kills me.

Which brings us to the meat of it all. They found a tumor in my uterus. Don’t worry, it’s benign. I’m lucky. My physician told me that it was now or never if I wanted to have at least one more. That was back in September. The tumor has grown so large so quickly, though, that my stomach measures six months pregnant. I get asked all the time when I’m due. Innocent curiosities on most people’s part. I don’t blame them at all. I look decidedly pregnant. It’s disproportionate. Although the questions are innocent, it still crushes me to hear them, because now the tumor is too big to carry a baby safely. I’m not even sure I could get pregnant at this point.

It is what it is.

I used to explain to people what was really wrong with me, but it just became awkward and uncomfortable. I can’t even hide it anymore. If a stranger asks me my due date, I just tell them June and move on. I can barely discuss what is going on with close family members. It’s a constant reminder of what will never be for me.

My doctor could remove the tumor, but the tissues is there, and it grows rapidly. I could be back under the knife every few months. So after a few weeks of prayer, I have decided to take my doctor’s advice and have a hysterectomy. I don’t want it, but it’s what’s best. I don’t want it but I have accepted it.

The entire point of my confession is to let you in on my world right now. A lot of readers ask what took so long with FURY. I felt so badly that I haven’t been as prolific as I’d like to with my novels, but it was simply too difficult to explain what was going on, especially since I didn’t really fully know.

I’m an intensely private person, so it’s hard for me to open up in my public life. I wanted to share this all with you anyway because, as a fellow human, I want you to know that I am aware that you suffer more than you let on as well. We all suffer in a our private worlds and I get that. I feel for you. I love you for it because I understand.

Life is full of sacrifices so I have decided to give mine to God. At least then it will all be worth it. There can be worthwhile meaning in anything, right? We just have to choose.

I write but I’m more than a writer.

I hurt but I’m more than the pain.

I exist but I’m more than my existence.

I love but I’m more than a lover.

I’m Mom, but I could NEVER be more than a mother. There has been nothing greater than that for me. It’s a microcosm of heaven, motherhood.

Keep me in your prayers. Love you all to the moon and back five times.

Peace and Love,

Fisher

FURY is out now! And it’s only $1.99! This week only! Get it now while it’s hot!

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iBooks: Drops May 6th!

From best selling author Fisher Amelie… FURY
Revenge is an euphoric thing. Trust me on this. Nothing compares to the release you get when you ruin someone’s life. When they’ve stolen important things. Things that didn’t belong to them. Things I revel in making them pay for.

What? Have I offended you? I’m not here to appeal to your delicate senses. I have no intention of placating your wishes or living within your personal belief system nor do I care if you hate me. And you will hate me. Because I’m a brutal, savage, cold-blooded murderer and I’m here for my revenge.

I’m Ethan Moonsong…And this is the story about how I went from the world’s most sacrificing man to the most feared and why I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

*Can be read as standalone.

***
“I looked back at Cricket. She brought her hand up to Spencer’s back. He followed suit and tucked his hand into her back pocket, incensing me. Immediately, I walked to my truck and opened the passenger side door. The knives sat in their sheaths in the glove box. I hadn’t touched them in months, and my hands itched to hold them again.

I reached for them but paused a few inches from the handles. My hands shook and my heart pounded.

“What are you doing?” I asked myself.

I shut the glove box and sat on the bench of my truck, my booted foot resting on the concrete below. I ran my hands through my hair and rested against the back of the seat, shocked I’d been even contemplating what I’d been pondering.

“What were you going to do?” I asked myself. “MURDER him?”"

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Part One

Ethan

I was running late. The parking lot was full so I had to park my piece in the furthest space available. Why is it when you’re running late your problems always compound? I grabbed my bag out of the bed of my truck and sprinted toward the double doors that entered into the hall of my first class.

The bell at my high school rang five succinct times. I made it to the door just as the fifth chimed.

“You’re late, Mister Moonsong,” Mr. Levi said, absently flipping through a textbook.

“Sorry,” I told him.

Everyone’s eyes stayed on me as I walked past lab table after lab table finally tossing my bag on the floor next to my seat. I fell into my chair.

“What’s up, Fin?”

“What’s up?” Finley Dyer asked, lifting her head a bit.

She closed her Chem book and drummed her fingers on the cover. I noted she’d chosen green nail polish that day. It had a purple shimmer to it, reminding me of a mermaid.

Finley crossed her long legs and I averted my eyes. She wore her usual cut-off’s with flip-flops but neither did anything to detract from the provocativeness of her freaking long, lean legs. My eyes traveled to safer sights over her shorts, briefly held a private laugh at her t-shirt which had a picture of a hedgehog and read, ‘Hedgehogs. Why don’t they just share the hedge?’, and settled on her face. A face I found a little too beautiful, a little too flawless, a little too NOT Cricket.

I cleared my throat and focused my eyes at the front of the classroom, staring at the markerboard Mr. Levi was writing on.

“Do anything fun over the weekend?” she asked.

My head whipped her direction. She wore a genuine smile

“Nah, you?”

“Not really,” she said, wiggling her shoe back and forth on her foot. “Well, I did go swimming at Hungry Horse with August Hunt.”

My brows furrowed. “August Hunt,” I repeated in disbelief. “He’s so much older than you, though.”

She snorted. “By two years, Ethan.”

August Hunt was Caroline’s cousin. I knew him very well. I liked him just as well but that didn’t mean I’d want one of my friend’s hanging out with him.

“Uh, August Hunt is bad news for girls like you,” I told her.

“Girls like me?” she asked. Her face did not look at all pleased. “What does that mean?”

“I just mean that August isn’t interested in your mind, if you catch my drift.”

“So what if he isn’t?” she said, sitting up a little. “What’s it to you?”

The words ‘I don’t know!’ sat at the tip of my tongue.

Instead, I told her, “You don’t want to get a rep, dude.”

She sat up completely then and I regretted the words instantly, wishing I had just kept my mouth shut.

“And what kind of reputation would that be?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

Part Two

Ethan

“And what kind of reputation would that be?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

“The kind August Hunt doles out.”

She rolled her eyes. “Nothing is ever as it seems,” she explained cryptically. I couldn’t disagree with her.

We sat silently for five solid minutes.

Say something. Anything. Fill the silence. Talk to me. Divert me from my taxed soul and mind.

But she didn’t. Instead, she ran her pen over the tattered paper cover of her Chem book. Eventually a feather emerged. She took out her highlighters and colored the feather expertly and I was successfully called away from my pressing worries.

Finally, I breathed.

Part Three

Ethan

*Finally*, I breathed.

The overhead speaker crackled the way it usually did when they were about to do the morning announcements. Fin and I looked at each other in confusion.

“They’re early,” she said, her brows furrowed.

We heard someone inhale quickly. “Finley Dyer, please report to the principal’s office. Finley Dyer, please report to the principal’s office.”

The class “ooooh’ed” before bursting out in laughter.

“What the hell?” she said, sitting up. She laid down the highlighter she was coloring with and stood. “Welp! Guess I’ll be right back.”

She left her books, bag, and purse, walking toward the door, her flip flops slapping against the linoleum loudly.

“Hey, Finley!” Nate Mitchell called out. I rolled my eyes. “They must have heard about us behind the bleachers yesterday.” The three morons who were friends with Nate started snickering.

Without missing a beat, Finley replied, “That’s probably it!” she exclaimed in mock surprise. “They must be recognizing me for my outstanding charity work!”

I choked on my laughter. She winked at a bright red Nate and left the room.

“You want some ice for that burn, Mitchell?”

“Shut up, Moonsong.”

Part Four

Ethan

“You want some ice for that burn, Mitchell?”
“Shut up, Moonsong.”

The entire class period, I watched the door for Finley, expecting her back within ten minutes. But when ten minutes passed, twenty minutes, then thirty minutes, I actually began to worry about her. About thirty seconds before the bell chimed to signal the end of class, when we were all packing up our stuff, Finley walked in. I opened my mouth to tease her but was struck mute when I took in her appearance. Her eyes were rimmed red like she’d been crying for a long time. She hung her head low to hide it but there was no mistaking it. She’d been crying.

“Yo, Finley!” Mitchell called out, his earlier humiliation forgotten or, perhaps, *not*. “What took so long? Get lost on the way back?”

“Shut the hell up, Mitchell!” I yelled, startling him. He turned around and faced the board without another word. I fought the inexplicable urge to run to her, to comfort her but instead stayed where I was, waiting to speak to her until she’d reached her books.

“You okay, Fin?” I asked.

She began piling her books and Five-Star’s into her bag. “My grandma died,” she said, tears spilling anew.

“Shit,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she seemingly said to no one. She piled her pens into the front pocket of her bag and pushed the strap over her shoulder. Then she looked at me. “I have no one else in the world, Ethan. No one.”

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And so, without further ado…

FURY, the third standalone in The Seven Deadly Series releases May 4th!

FURY…
Revenge is an euphoric thing. Trust me on this. Nothing compares to the release you get when you ruin someone’s life. When they’ve stolen important things. Things that didn’t belong to them. Things I revel in making them pay for.

What? Have I offended you? I’m not here to appeal to your delicate senses. I have no intention of placating your wishes or living within your personal belief system nor do I care if you hate me. And you will hate me. Because I’m a brutal, savage, cold-blooded murderer and I’m here for my revenge.

I’m Ethan Moonsong…And this is the story about how I went from the world’s most sacrificing man to the most feared and why I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

We start where we left off from Fisher’s last excerpt. If you’d like to read it, you can go here!

FURY, Excerpt Two

“Ethan?” she asked. “Is that you?”

“Hello, Finley,” I answered.

“How are you?” she asked, somehow devoid of the pity I’d often heard in so many greetings since Cricket. I was grateful to her for this.

“I’m fine,” I slurred, lifting my head a bit to meet her eyes.

A grin met her lips. “You were always a terrible liar.” Her smile fell a little. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m drinking.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You hate drinking.”

“I learned to love it,” I said, downing the remaining contents of my glass, letting it burn.

She looked me up and down, making me feel self-conscious. “But apparently it doesn’t love you.”

“Thanks,” I snorted, acting like I didn’t care. But I did.

“You look terrible,” she said, ignoring me. “Are you even eating?”

“I’m consuming the daily recommended calorie intake,” I hedged.

“Ah,” she answered, examining my empty glass.

I shook my head and signaled to Vi for another.

Finley narrowed her eyes once more. “Can I get a basket of chicken tenders too, Vi?” she added.

“Sure thing,” she said, ringing up Finley’s food before grabbing the bottle of Jack and filling me to the top.

Finley examined my glass but didn’t say a word.

“What?” I asked, feeling defensive.

“Nothing,” she answered, looking at her hands.

“Judging me?”

“Not at all,” she said sincerely and looked me dead in the eye.

This look froze me, and the glass slipped from my fingers and back onto the bar top, spilling a little from the rim.

“I’ve done that very thing,” she said, gesturing toward my glass.

“Drink ’til you’re numb?”

“No,” she said, “succumb to a vice in order to forget.”

I leaned forward, stunned by this admission, and my eyes found hers. “What, Finley?”

She hesitated, started to open her mouth, but someone called her name and she turned around. It was an ex-classmate of ours, couldn’t remember her name, the one she’d been dancing with, and I found myself feeling anxious all of a sudden. I hadn’t felt anxious in a long time. Hadn’t felt anything, really, other than severe pain and shame, in a very long time. Huh.

“Finley, Chris is gonna give me a ride back home. You cool?” the girl asked, eyeing me. She knew. The whole town knew about my tumble down the rabbit hole.

“Yeah, Holly Raye. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she answered, her brows scrunched in confusion.

Finley was surprised by Holly Raye’s apparent worry which I found odd.

“Okay,” Holly Raye said, kissing Finley’s cheek.

Chris was waiting by the door for her, and we both watched them leave, afraid to speak, our earlier moment gone.

Vi walked up with Finley’s chicken tenders and set them in front of her. Her fingers found one but lifted up quickly with a tiny gasp.

“Hot,” she whispered, resting her fingers against the side of her water glass.

She let them cool for a few moments and we sat in awkward silence. I wasn’t sure what she was still doing there. I didn’t have any clue why she had even started to talk to me either. I mean, I knew in high school she’d had a crush on me, but I figured it was long gone. She used to stare at me a little doe eyed, and I had always done my best to be kind to her but not too kind. I’d considered her a friend but nothing more, even if I did take solace in my conversations with her. I’d never admitted that out loud to anyone then, though, not that I was ashamed or anything. It’s just, I was in love with Cricket.

Cricket.

The ache in my chest burned deep, a restless reminder of all I’d lost. And suddenly I felt guilty for finding Finley attractive even when I thought she was a stranger. Even after Cricket left me for Spencer.

“You should probably leave,” I told her.

She looked at me like I was crazy. “I’ll do whatever I want,” she said, sitting taller, pitching me that confident Finley attitude I remembered from high school.

“Whatever,” I said, then called out to Vi for another round, which she served up quickly.

Finley tore apart a few tenders then handed me half of one.

“Uh, no,” I said, downing my glass.

“Uh, yes,” she mocked, shoving the piece in my face.

“Stop,” I said, swiping it away.

“Eat, damn it,” she said.

I looked at her and the expression on her face told me she wouldn’t quit, so I roughly took it from her and took a large bite. She bit into her own piece, a smug look on her face. She practically hand fed me every piece in the damn basket, but I didn’t care. I knew what she was doing, but it wouldn’t work because the liquor resting in my belly was too substantial to be worked against.

“What have you done with your summer?” she asked me.

“This,” I said, gesturing to my glass.

“What the hell, Ethan?”

“What, are you my mother?” I asked, immediately regretting those choice of words. I closed my eyes.

Mom. My heart dropped into my throat. Must remedy that.

“Vi,” I said loudly to her at the other end of the bar. “One more.”

Vi walked the length of the bar and filled my glass again, much to Finley’s obvious horror.

“Vi, can I get some mozzarella sticks?” she asked.

“Of course, darlin’.”

Finley smiled at me.

“I’m not eating those,” I told her.

“Oh, you’ll eat them.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“I sure as hell will not, Finley Dyer.”

She leaned closer and my head began to swim. Her signature scent of apples and wild daisies swarmed around me, making my heart race. It’d never bothered me before. It’s the liquor, I told myself.

“You will or I’m taking your ass home right now.”

“You can just kiss that ass, Fin.”

“That’s the Jack talking.”

“No, that’s me. I don’t want to play anymore. I want to be left alone now.”

“You see,” she said, settling her elbows on the bar top, “I think- No, I know you’re lying. Like I said before, you’re a terrible liar. I think you’ve lied so often about wanting to be left alone, though, that you’ve convinced your head it’s the truth, but you can’t convince the heart, Ethan. You know why? Because the heart can’t ever be lied to, and yours beats the loneliest I’ve ever heard.”

I didn’t answer her. Couldn’t answer her.

“What have you done this summer?” I asked, ignoring her spot-on observation.

She played along. “I’ve had a temp job here in Kalispell answering phones for Smith Travel, trying to earn cash for my trip.”

My brows furrowed. “What trip?”

“I’m heading over to Vietnam for a year.”

This shocked me. “What in the world would you go to Vietnam for?”

“Charity work,” she answered, making me laugh.

“Why?” I asked.

“Don’t be an asshole,” she replied.

“No, really, why?”

“I’ve wanted to do this for close to five years now.”

“How come I don’t ever remember you talking about this at school?”

“Ethan,” she said softly, “let’s not pretend we ever really talked in high school deeper than filler conversation.”

This wounded me a little, though I’m not sure why. “What the hell, Finley? You and I were friends.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “We were most definitely not friends. I may know everything about you and you may know everything about me because we grew up together, but we were not friends. You had a constant bodyguard in Cricket.”

I sat up at the mention of her name. “Don’t ever say her name again,” I gritted.

She raised her hands in concession. “Fine.”

There was a pregnant pause as she let me calm myself down.

“I talked to you a lot in the classes we had,” I offered.

“We talked a lot about the upcoming football games or class assignments. Once or twice, we took the seventy-year-old route and discussed the weather.”

I fought my grin. “Okay, so it was always surface observation, but we were kids.”

“No, Ethan, that’s not what it was.”

“Well, you were in love with me,” I bravely spit. “I couldn’t take it further than just below the shoal.” Thank you, Mr. Daniels.

“Full of yourself, are we?” she asked. “Listen,” she continued, “I had a crush on you in high school. So what? Lots of girls did. But I was, am, a human being. You didn’t have to treat me like some leper. Trust me, Ethan, we all know who you belonged to,” she said.

She stood to leave, but I grabbed her arm. The heated warmth of her skin shot straight to my heart. We looked at one another, wide eyed, our chests panting. I shook my head to recompose myself. “I’m sorry,” I told her, encouraging her to sit back down. “I’m- I know you deserved better.”

She hesitated but sat back in her seat. I stared at her, a little too intently thanks to the Jack. She nodded once and we sat in a comfortable silence as I had five more shots.

The whiskey made my body heavy as hell, the weight of its honeyed venom deadened the ache inside me pleasantly.

I sighed and smiled to myself.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

I looked up at her though it felt unusually burdensome and leaned toward her. “I’m going to get them back,” I admitted to her.

She narrowed her eyes. “Who, Ethan?”

“Them,” I said, bringing a tired finger to my lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”

I fell back into my chair. I brought my fingers to my empty glass and tilted it, balancing it on one finger. She was quiet for a moment.

“Ethan,” she began, whispering, “that’s not like you.”

I smiled. “I’m not who I used to be, Finley.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, “because you used to be wonderful.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Do you know what they did to me?”

“She left you for him,” she said matter-of-factly.

I let the glass tip over onto its side at her bluntness. “Exactly. After all I did for her. After all I was to her. She left me for him.”

“She wasn’t meant for you, Ethan.”

My skin burned with hatred at that statement. “No one is meant for anyone, Finley. You choose someone and then you make a commitment.”

She shook her head at me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.“

“She chose me, convinced me that she was all in, and I was willing to die for her because of it. She convinced me she actually loved me. I thought she loved me.”

“She did love you. I believe she, you both really, would have been somewhat happy if Spencer had never shown up.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re not hearing me. You both would have been somewhat happy. Neither of you would have been utterly happy.”

This infuriated me. “I could have made her happy!” I yelled, earning a few glances from around the bar.

“Yes, you could have made her happy, but not as happy as Spencer does.”

My blood simmered in my veins. “You are cruel,” I bit.

She leaned forward. “I’m being honest with you. Someone has to since you’re not being honest with yourself. I saw them together, Ethan, and she never looked at you like that.”

“Stop,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Stop.”

“Ethan,” she said, resting her hand on mine. I yanked it from her. “Don’t you want the same thing for yourself? Don’t you want forever with someone who burns for you the way you burn for her? You deserve that just as much as she does.”

“Shut up,” I said, bringing my hands to my hair and fisting it at my ears. I didn’t want to hear it.

“Fine,” she said, sitting up. She looked around her and asked Vi for two cups of coffee.

I couldn’t breathe. Finley voiced everything I’d worked so hard to drown out, I’d attempted to numb. I hated her for ruining the struggle to suppress it. I just wanted to pretend. I wanted my hate, wanted it to live close to me. It was the only thing I felt could keep me alive. I couldn’t let her go. I didn’t want her to be loved by anyone but me. I didn’t want to be reminded that someone else really did love her better than I did, that someone else made her happier. Because I had watched them too. I saw what Finley saw, and my God did I hate Spencer Blackwell for it.

I wanted bitter.

I wanted sadness.

I wanted revenge.

FURY Trailer

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Fisher Amelie resides in the South with her kick ace husband slash soul mate. She earned her first ‘mama’ patch in 2009. She also lives with her Weim, Jonah, and her Beta, Whale. All these living creatures keep the belly of her life full, sometimes to the point of gluttony, but she doesn’t mind all that much because life isn’t worth living if it isn’t entertaining, right?

Fisher is the author of The Seven Deadly Series, The Sleepless Series, and The Leaving Series, and was a semi-finalist in Amazon’s Breakthrough Novel Award.

Prepare Yourselves.

Synopsis

Revenge is an euphoric thing. Trust me on this. Nothing compares to the release you get when you ruin someone’s life. When they’ve stolen important things. Things that didn’t belong to them. Things I revel in making them pay for.

What? Have I offended you? I’m not here to appeal to your delicate senses. I have no intention of placating your wishes or living within your personal belief system nor do I care if you hate me. And you will hate me. Because I’m a brutal, savage, cold-blooded murderer and I’m here for my revenge.

I’m Ethan Moonsong…And this is the story about how I went from the world’s most sacrificing man to the most feared and why I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

The new cover for the first standalone in The Seven Deadly Series, VAIN.

The new cover for the second standalone in The Seven Deadly Series, GREED.

And now for an excerpt from FURY, due out May 4th, 2015…

I heard a snap and the light cracked on, piercing through my closed lids. My head pounded and I groaned then rolled over, pulling my cover over my head to drown out the source of my pain.

“Get up,” a deep voice commanded. “Get up,” he continued, kicking my shoe.

“Dad,” I rasped. “I’m hungover and feel like shit.”

He was silent for a moment so I pulled the cover down just enough to see his face. He was not amused.

“Ethan, watch your language, get your butt up, and find a job.” I didn’t answer him. I had nothing to say that would please him. “And while you’re at it, stop this ridiculous drinkin’, son.”

I sat up, ran my hands through my long black hair and wrapped the length around my fist. I sat back against the wall, reveling in how cool it was, and tried not to vomit.

“Did you see them today?” I asked him, unable to help myself.

My dad removed his hat and leaned against the jamb, scrubbing his face with his free hand. “You like to torture yourself,” he said, shaking his head then sighing. “You remind me so much of your mama.”

The mere mention of my mother sent me spiraling down once more in depression. We’d lost her a few years before and I was still in agony. That, coupled with the fact that Spencer Blackwell stole my girl right out from underneath my nose, was enough for me to drink to excess every night. I hate him.

“Are they,” I swallowed, afraid of his answer, “are they together now?”

My father sighed again. “Ethan, get dressed.”

“Are they?” I asked again, letting my hand drop to my side. My hair slid with it and cascaded down my back.

“You are a stubborn boy. Yes, okay? Yes, they’re together. All the more reason to move on, son.”

My body suddenly weighed a thousand pounds and I felt my head reeling. So it was true then. They were together and they would probably get married and I was going to have to sit there in that godforsaken small town and watch it all happen. I was going to get a front row seat to my own misery.

I nodded once, rested my hands on my knees for a brief moment, then ran past my dad, shouldering him as I did so and nearly knocking him over before making it to the small bathroom across the hall and retching everything in my stomach into the toilet.

My dad stood in the bathroom doorway shaking his head in disappointment. When I was done, I fell back into the wall. That look shamed me to my core. Any time my dad felt let down, I felt the weight of my disgrace so heavy the only thing I could think to dull the ache was to drink myself into a stupor. It was a vicious cycle.

I let my hair cascade over my face. I heard the old wood floor creak beneath his feet as he left without another word and jumped when the front door slammed. My eyes closed as my head pounded.

The claw foot tub sat to my left so I leaned up and turned on the water, slowly removing my clothing one piece at time. Each movement felt like a hammer slamming into my head.

“God,” I groaned. “I am an idiot.”

I stood then stepped underneath the warm water and just stood in silence, letting the water absorb into my hair and seep into my skin. I breathed in the steam deeply. I was miserable. Not just physically but my heart was the heaviest it’d felt since my mom passed and I had no one to blame but Spencer Blackwell for that.

The asshole who rode into my life under the guise of helping his sister only to yank what I thought was a stable foundation right out from underneath me. He stole from me, a bona fide thief, and I wanted to make him pay. No, I needed to make him pay.

But how?

I finished showering and threw a towel around my waist, stepping from the tub and toppling onto my bed when I reached my room and fell to sleep, not even bothering to dress myself. I fell quickly, fantasizing about my revenge.

I must have slept for hours because when I woke, it was pitch black outside. I rolled onto my side and checked my alarm clock. Eleven o’clock. Perfect timing, I thought.

I sat up and tucked my towel around my waist a little tighter, stood and went straight for my dresser. I grabbed a pair of boxers and socks and put those on before heading for my closet and tossing an old, worn pair of jeans on, a thermal and an old tee. I brushed my teeth, grabbed my wallet and keys, threw on my boots and headed toward my piece of shit truck.

I knew exactly where I was going because it was where I planned on going every night until I forgot about Caroline Hunt.

My truck started but barely and I tore out of our driveway not bothering with my seatbelt, kicking up dust and rocks as my tires spun against the loose gravel. I’d replaced my stereo because I couldn’t stand radio, at least not Kalispell radio, and plugged my phone into the audio cable. Bastille’s Dreams remake blasted and I turned it up, letting the painful lyrics wash over me, fueling my desire to get plastered as quickly as possible.

I entertained myself with thoughts of strangling Spencer Blackwell with both hands then beating the crap out of him with my fists. Bastard. I pulled into the local pub and put my piece into park before tucking my left foot into the emergency brake.

I disconnected my phone and the stereo went silent, reminding me of how alone I really was. I turned the engine off and absolute silence surrounded me. I couldn’t take it. My door creaked with age as it swung open and I slammed it shut, unable not to. The fury raging in my blood was more than I could contain.

Before heading inside, my hand went to the empty space between the cab and the bed and searched for the bottle of whiskey I always had wedged in between. I took a large swig, not wanting to spend too much of my savings on the liquor inside the crap establishment. After all, I was going to need it. Revenge was a costly business.

I took one more swig for good measure and wedged it back in its usual place then wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve. My hair swung heavy in my eyes. It was still a little wet from my shower and I thought about tying it back with the extra leather tie I usually kept in my glove compartment but thought better of it. It helped me hide and I wanted to hide.

I looked around me. The lot was full but I only recognized a few cars this time which was good because I had no intention of making conversation. Regardless, most of Kalispell had stopped trying because I’d rarely done any responding since Cricket cut out my fucking heart and ate it raw. The hair was only insurance.

I took two deep draws of air, gulping it down, desperate for it to soothe me but, of course, it didn’t. I let each escape my lips in shaky breaths and clenched my fists over and over before deciding to head inside.

My boots crunched the gravel beneath my feet as I headed toward the door. When I entered, I ducked my head toward the floor and let my hair cover me, not that it did any good other than to conceal me. I could still feel the heat of their stares, though, still feel the pity in their gazes. I wanted so badly to yell at them to fuck off but I kept as much composure as possible. I couldn’t get kicked out of the only real bar in Kalispell.

I picked a stool at the end of the bar, the same stool I always did in the corner and in the back because it was dark. I sat and met Vi’s eyes. She sauntered over to me, placing her elbows on the bar top, giving me a clear view of her generous chest. I held back my eye roll.

“Hello, darlin’,” she drawled. “You look like shit.”

“The usual, Vi,” I told her as quietly as I could.

“How ‘bout a kiss then first?” she asked, leaning in a bit more.

“Christ, Vi, how many times? Huh? Just get me the gosh damn drink.”

She laughed. “Already worked up then, I see. I like it,” she said, winking.

Vi, or Violet, was thirty-nine years old, had lived in Kalispell her entire life, and had worked as a bartender for over fifteen years. I could tell at one time Vi had been a beautiful woman but I could also tell she had heard many hollow promises from equally hollow men and that she obviously believed them all. Otherwise, why would she still be there? I watched her tired eyes and her slightly too-forced smile. She had the look of someone who used to be chased but had graduated to the chaser. She looked miserable.

She left and returned with an empty glass and a bottle of Jack. She set the glass on the bar and filled it to the brim. She was being generous. She was always this way. She told me once she hoped I would drink it all away and decide to take her up on her offer. I told her that would be a cold day in hell, to which she only laughed.

“Drink up, buttercup,” she said, smiling lasciviously.

“I will,” I told the bar top.

I watched the world around me through the breaks in the hanging strands and six glasses later, I was starting to finally feel numb. I lifted my head a little feeling slightly relieved, feeling like I could breathe a little deeper now that the ache wasn’t so severe. I continued to search the crowd, not knowing who I was really looking for.

A quiet but persistent nagging awareness took residence in my chest for some unknown reason as I watched a girl dance on her own in the middle of the dance floor. Others around her paid no attention to her but she was the first person my eyes were drawn to. I studied her.

Her hair was tucked into a blue scarf, little tendrils peeking through and grazing across her neck whenever she moved. She was extraordinarily tall and her hips and rear end were more indulgent than I’d ever considered before. She turned slightly, giving me her silhouette. Her stomach was flat and her breasts were full. She was beautiful, I could tell, even if I couldn’t see her fully through the low lights.

“Jeez,” I said, swiping a hand down my face. “I’ve had too much.”

But I still couldn’t stop watching her. She wore worn jean cut offs, a fitted button up with the sleeves rolled up her forearms and ankle boots. She rolled her shoulders playfully, enticing someone she knew just off the dance floor. Another girl joined her side and they did the robot. She threw her head back and laughed.

This shocked me almost sober. “That laugh,” I whispered to myself. “That laugh,” I repeated. I knew it but couldn’t quite place it.

She took her friend’s hand and twirled her around the floor vivaciously. She was so full of life. So my exact opposite.

She lightheartedly skipped in place and raised an arm in salute to her friend before turning toward me.

That’s when I got a good, clear look at her. I gasped out loud and placed my hand on the back of my head, my elbow on the bartop, ducking my head down lower to hide myself further.

Please, please, please do not recognize me, I thought, still watching her from the corner of my eye.

She stood two seats down from me. “Vi!” she said, laughing a little. “Vi!”

Vi turned toward her. “Hey, baby! What’ll it be?”

“Can I have a water, please?” she asked, sitting down and releasing a breath of exhaustion. She continued to smile, though, and it ate a little at my gut.

“Of course,” Vi answered and started to pour water into a clear plastic cup. Vi’s eyes pinched a little. “Hey?” she said.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“How come I never see you drink anything harder?”

Her face fell a little but picked right back up. No one would have noticed it but me. “I’ve never had good luck with alcohol,” she admitted a bit sadly.

Vi was quick enough to recognize something there that didn’t want to be said and let it go with a nod, handing over the water without another word.

“Vi!” someone else called out and she walked their direction.

She took a long drink from her water and set it down, turning toward the crowd and surveying the dancers. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, some private joke she shared with herself.

I looked on her for a long time. Long enough for my heart to calm itself. Long enough to struggle with myself in an internal argument. Finally, I decided that I wasn’t watching her because I found her attractive, though I knew she was. Only that I was wondering what she was doing there.

She turned around in her seat after catching her breath and glanced at me. For a moment, I believed she didn’t recognize me but I was wrong. A second scan confirmed it for her. She leaned in and narrowed her eyes. Shit.

“Ethan?” she asked. “Is that you?”

“Hello, Finley,” I answered.

FURY Trailer

Find Fisher on Amazon!

Find Fisher on Barnes & Noble!

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Add FURY to your Goodreads!

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Purchase VAIN, Standalone One in The Seven Deadly Series

Purchase GREED, Standalone Two in The Seven Deadly Series