Although I truly enjoy reading other people’s profiles here, I have procrastinated endlessly about writing my own. I wonder if it’s like trying to come up with a dating profile when you are literally interested in hanging out with anyone and everyone. Maybe not, but here goes nothing —

The non-reality show material:

I grew up in Tennessee, went to college in Virginia, came back to Tennessee for my first job and then, rather randomly, ended up in Southeast Texas. I do, however, love Texas and don’t see leaving anytime soon. My blood has thinned, I’m a wimp about cold…

I’ve been on this platform for about six months now. If Medium is a puzzle, I think I’ve only solved about 15 percent of it as far as what gets seen, and by whom. I have found some great content though, so it’s definitely worth what I’d spend on a cup of coffee each month to have access.

However, it’s not going to be a big moneymaker for me, no matter how many articles I read about “1K in 1 Month on Medium” or “Red Bull Your Way to Revenue.” And that’s OK. …

On the NBC show, The Good Place, torture — in the Bad Place — is played for laughs, with a running joke about a penis flattener. It made me curious about real torture devices used over the centuries.

It is probably not a surprise that none of them are the least bit funny. While more people may know of the Iron Maiden, a coffin with spikes that impaled the victim upon closure, and the Rack, which stretched and broke those affixed to it, there are a number of lesser-known torture tools that aren’t very complicated but just as awful. …

“He had such a chip on his shoulder, remember?”

“Who?” Sheila was a little drunk. The bartender at their 25th reunion kept going heavy on the Jack and light on the Coke.

“Evan Arkman.” Amanda elbowed her in the ribs. “When he didn’t get valedictorian he bailed on graduation. Remember?”

How could she forget? That’s all Evan talked about on their first date, and their second, and their third. She’d heard he moved to California.

“Sheila, long time huh?”

Evan still looked like a hawk, beady-eyed and sour.

Their son had a better disposition. And no idea about his father.

…

Not as rare as a lightning strike,

or the Lotto’s winning mix.

But neither is it commonplace

from a worn out bag of tricks.

Think whooping crane in the marsh,

the Lincoln Penny in a jar,

the weather gauge at frigid temps

the moisture from afar.

It’s the snow in South Texas y’all

but only a dusting.

The snowman you build here,

there’s no way of trusting.

All the snowballs you throw just erode in mid-flight.

Who knew the shelf life of magic would be a delight?

It goes as it must because the freeze is unwelcome

while the power…

There was much to be bothered about in the recent ‘Framing Britney’ documentary, but what most stuck out to me was the clip of a short interview that Britney did with Ed McMahon after her performance on Star Search.

Ed McMahon: “You have the most adorable pretty eyes — you have a boyfriend?”

Britney: “No sir … they’re mean.”

Ed McMahon: “I’m not mean, how about me?”

The idea that an old man would be an appropriate boyfriend for a 10-year-old is especially gross — and if you really want to go down that awful rabbit hole there are disturbing…

After the second alert, we all locked ourselves in Daphne’s office.

“What’s going on?” George hissed. “Cell’s dead.”

Shhhh. Mary mimicked the sound. NO TALKING. NO NOISE AT ALL. REMEMBER ?!? read her scribble on the sales report.

Someone suppressed a sneeze. Someone passed gas.

REALLY PETE? GROSS.

When the silence outside broke, it was slow, like a rolling wave that never quite reaches shore. There was a scream, far off, which abruptly stopped. Megan took my hand and squeezed. The nuditude just beyond us was something hard to describe. Static maybe, or a thousand fingers scratching one door.

Ours.

…

February 14, 1912

My Dearest Rose,

Alas, it seems as if we are fated never to spend a Valentine’s Day together, but I wanted to commemorate the day with a note to you.

It is regrettable that I am writing this missive in Davy Jones’s Locker where I have been consigned ever since I kissed your marble fingers and let go of the wooden raft that supported your lovely frame to slip into the frigid deep.

Do you remember when I promised you that you would die an old lady warm in your bed? …