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Dear Writer, Bribery Can Be a Good Thing

For those of you with writers block… A reward system šŸ˜‰

Live to Write - Write to Live

The first week of January is behind us. Our good intentions and resolutions are still written boldly across our hearts and days in what looks like indelible ink, but past experience has proven again and again that those fresh, black statements are less permanent than they seem.

In a few weeks time, itā€™s all too likely that our commitment will begin to waver, our resolve will begin to crack, and reality will insert itself into our daily rounds in the most inconvenient (not to mention inconsiderate) ways.

This is when you need to do whatever it takes to hold your ground.

This is not the time to let a little stumble send you sliding down the slippery slope of Iā€™ll-get-back-on-track-tomorrow.

Donā€™t wait. Bring out the big guns.

When your inner writer begins to wobble, skip the pep talk and the whip cracking and go for the bribe.

Thatā€™s right. Bribeā€¦

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HE LIFTS US UP: ā€œForgotten Victimsā€ā€¦ Dedicated to ALL Victims (women and men)

Anyone can be a victim. It takes such strength and courage to face your demons, your past, your abuser, your family, your friends. You are not alone.

ChristianBlessings

I dedicate this poem to all those victims out there who are still afraid or ashamed to speak out about the abuses that they have suffered, whether as a child or an adult..

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Time Travel with Nicki: Ep.1 “The Fistfight”

OMFG I am in the middle of the ICU (i work here) and I am laughing my ass off.. i think i may have peed a little…. great great great story!Add your thoughts here… (optional)

The Nicki Daniels Interview

BeckyĀ BraunĀ wanted toĀ beat me up because she was jealous of my new perm.Ā It was 1986,Ā I was in the fifth grade, andĀ the permanent wave was EVERYWHERE. Everyone from my parents to my MTV idols were rocking crowns of massively poufed and hairsprayed curls. In retrospect, it is hard to believe that people were paying good money to look like electrocuted poodles, but at the time, I wanted one. Desperately.

My mom was a hairdresser who worked out of a tiny salon in our basement. On lazy afternoons, our little Cape Cod house would slowly fill with the wafting fumes of chemicals and cigarette smoke as she coiffed the manes of friends and neighbors. After months of begging, it was my turn in the chair. I watched as she tightly wrapped my baby-fine hair in the brightly colored plastic rollers and applied the stinkyĀ solution. After what seemed like 7 hours, she rinsed meā€¦

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