There's something to be said for the simple life . . .

Often I find myself tangled up with the craziest fools. One fellow, he really needs to get a life. For fiction's sake, I’ll name him LeRoi. He's getting divorced and he's read all my books and somehow he tracked me down and got my phone number. For some reason, LeRoi thinks we're best of friends, calls all the time, says he wants to come hang out with me in Firenze. That’s all I need, him showing up on my doorstep, announcing "Honey, I’m home," give me a great big hug and dump the boring saga of how his ex-wife is screwing him over, when in fact, he’s the one putting the screws to her.

He’s loaded, one of them trust fund babies that hasn’t worked a day in his life. He's actually soaking her for alimony, and honestly believes he's entitled to this! Sure, he’s pretended to work, made it look good but never showed a profit. It's all sheltered in the business he'll inherit one of these days. That's right, he's still dangling from Mother's tit and Papa's billfold.

Anyway, I quit answering his calls, so he actually contacted my parents, and asked them for my phone number. Mom emailed, asking what to do. I told her not to worry, told her to give him my phone number because he already had it anyway, and then I told her to tell him I was in Venezuela. Mom thought that was the funniest thing she’d heard in a long time. And to tell you the truth, I thought it was a pretty good one myself!

Hell, I'll lie to people whenever the need arises. People deserve to be lied to when they go asking impertinent questions and sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong. They also deserve to be lied to when they want to use me as their shrink, when they should be enlisting the help and paying a professional. You hear that LeRoi, if you need to piss and moan, go hire a counselor and dump all your crap off at their doorstep. They get paid for this sort of thing, and that way you don’t have to go and spread your goodwill out onto the rest of the world, you selfish buzzard, you!

Fifteen minutes after sending the email to Mom about saying that I was in Venezuela, I received another call from LeRoi. “Hey, Mel, heard you’re in Venezuela. Send me some pictures of the hot babes down there. The ex-wife bought out my half of the house, so I’ve got lots of cash. Do you think I’ll need a visa for Venezuela…”

He ought to be ashamed of himself! Making his ex-wife pay him for half the house. Hell, she’s raising his three children and working full-time and a half just to make ends meet. With as much money as LeRoi's got, he should have given her the house, or at least put it into a trust for their children.

A few days later, another phone call, “Hey, Mel, hope you’re not starting a revolution down there in Venezuela. I’ll have internet in a few days and I’ll send you an email…”

Keep calling, LeRoi! Send all the emails you like, 'cause I’m not gonna answer a one of them and I'm gonna write about your rotten ass self, that I promise to do!

Another kook… well, she bought and read my books. She's a real stalker, and crazier than a loon to boot! Ah, heck, I’ll save that story for another time. I suppose this sort of attention goes with the trade, but… well, they serve me just fine when I'm writing a book. Bring on all the kooks you can find, I'll find a place for them in a novel, or most certainly in my blog. Other times... well, there's something to be said for the simple life.

If you'd like to buy my books, check out my website: www.melmathews.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ©2007 Mel Mathews