I’m a writer, and I’m tired…

Tired of trying to publish, and failing.

Of those close-but-no-cigar rejections you feed on for months – no, years.

Of that desperate hope that a “yes” from a magazine/agent/publisher is still out there, so hold on one more day.

But you know what? I no longer believe this to be true.

And I’m tired of acting like any of this even matters.

I’m going to die.

Someday.

Someday I’m going to die and my stories will live on in the Cloud because no one will think to cancel my subscription.

When my credit card closes and Microsoft fails to book the annual fee then – poof! All those words will become untethered, dissolving back into the nothing from which they emerged.

So, I decided to rename myself after two deranged parrots I once owned and still love.

I have scars on my face from one of them.

I’ll publish my universally rejected stories here from time to time, and maybe an occasional rant or rave.

I’m a nobody no one wants to publish or support

I’m not sure if it because I’m no good or because I have no luck, or both.

But I wrote these things.

If I post them here, maybe someone will read them – my dear phantom reader.

Or maybe they won’t.

Either way, I have nothing to lose.