Dear Life(120)
Much love and boob squeezes,
B>> Meghan
Be kind. Be Courageous. Do good. Own you. And Prove your existence.
THE END
Thank you for reading DEAR LIFE. I hope you enjoyed it! You can find the rest of my books on KINDLE UNLIMITED. See below for a list.
Keep flipping the pages for a SNEAK PEEK of the first chapter of my ROMANTIC COMEDY, The Mother Road.
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The Romance Novelist Series
(Hilarious, laugh out loud romantic comedies)
The Virgin Romance Novelist
The Randy Romance Novelist
Romantic Comedy Standalones
(Full of heart, humor, and heat. Both heroes are sweet, yet demanding)
The Mother Road
Newly Exposed
The Stroked Series
(HOT sports romance with plenty of humor)
STROKED
STROKED LONG
STROKED HARD
The Bourbon Series
(Sassy, erotic romance with a gorgeous, protective alpha male)
Becoming a Jett Girl
Being a Jett Girl
Forever a Jett Girl
Repentance
The Love and Sports Series
(New Adult, college football forms into professional football careers. Love triangles.)
Fair Catch
Double Coverage
Three and Out
The Hot-Lanta Series
(My first series ever. Baseball sports romance with lots of drama!)
Caught Looking
Playing the Field
Warning Track
Hit and Run
The Addiction Series
(Rock star romance, minor cheating and love triangles. Book three still to come, Rehab.)
Toxic
Fame
The Warblers Point Series
(Three Irish brothers, their younger sister, and the drama they get into. Love triangles. Book three still to come.)
Beers, Hens and Irishmen
Beers, Lies and Alibis
The Mother Road
Prologue
“Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands extended, as if he wants to help.
“You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me.
“Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.”
Let’s pause for a second; do you see those three men standing to the side, fear in their eyes, sweat at their temples, with their hands clutched at their waists and their asses tight enough to pop open a bottle of beer?
Yeah, those three, they’re the reason why I’m foaming at the mouth, gripping an axe three sizes too big for my body with my heels dug deep into the wet and muddy ground.
That’s me, Marley McMann, the brunette in the “rustic” orange bridesmaid dress with a bouquet sticking out of my hair and a pile of multi-colored poly-blend barf rags resting in front of me, waiting to be minced into my very own personal hamster shit shavings.
I’m not usually threatening to slice the buttons off of men’s clothing with a lead shiv big enough to cut down a knotty vagina-looking sycamore tree. But I’ve had my limit.
There comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to reach deep down into her soul, clear the pathways of her inner goddess, and let out her nuclear Satan. You know what I’m talking about.
The crazy.
Don’t try to act like you don’t have it; every woman does.
Let me paint you a picture. It’s that time of the month; its shark week, as some may say. The civil war is being reenacted by your ovaries and death is scatted over your fallopian tubes. You’re crippled over in pain on your couch, half a Snickers bar hanging out of your mouth, a heating pad pressed against your innards, and a blanket wrapped around you as if you’re a cocktail wiener in a Pillsbury croissant. The Hallmark Channel is airing that Mario Lopez movie you’ve been dying to see and not because the plot looks good, but because you want to reminisce on your Saved by the Bell days. Mario is the only thing getting you through this time of need, that and the chocolate drool slowly dripping into the back of your throat.
You’re content, minus the battlefield in your uterus, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, the mister in your life flops on the couch, causing a ripple within your cocoon. Your heating pad shifts and your Snickers bar falls to the ground, a travesty in itself. The swoon-worthy shot of Mario with his shirt off gets rudely switched to some stupid sporting game just as the mister lifts his ass in your direction and blasts two large farts.