Some tattoos are worn to symbolize the individual, some to boast, label, or revere individual characteristics, circumstances, or people in the person’s life. And I’d venture (though not speaking with expertise on the subject) some are even used by gangs.

But what is the allure? What do we find so intriguing about a faded anchor, entwined with a thorny rose, inscribed with the name, Lulu? Or any of the elaborate tribal bands that encircle biceps or calves, the Kanji symbols adorning the backs of necks, or the assortment of colorful spreads of flowery designs and mythical creatures spread shoulder-to-shoulder or hip-to-hip that we must inquire their origins from the owners?

In one of my current WIPS, my surfer turned P.I. sports quite a number of distinctive tats himself, because that is who he is, at least according to him. I never stopped to ask him why, though I know how and when, he got them. If I think about it, I’ve never inquired but simply admired quite a number of beautiful tattoos in my life, never questioning any owner . . . until now.

Now . . . well, last week to be more precise, when an eight year old little boy came crying off the school bus, rushed into the house—then into the bathroom to furiously scrub away at his face, neck, hands and arms with some funky concoction of rubbing alcohol and baby oil. When I inquired to the reason for his behavior, he simply replied through the tears that he didn’t want to get kicked out of school and . . . “I think we need more baby oil.”

Apparently, his four packages of child’s vanity tattoos that he so proudly pulled from his Christmas stocking and later splayed over and across nearly every inch of available skin, trying in vain to impersonate a number of characters at once from the Anime, Naruto, didn’t go over well with the teachers. He had violated “dress code,” his teacher had told him. The tats had to go or he’d be suspended.

Cut the kid some slack, I thought. For Christ’s sake, he’s a child—a little boy ecstatic about a simple (and cheap) gift, who wanted nothing more than to enjoy it. They’d gotten my attention. My hackles were raised. I couldn’t recall reading anything about tattoos in the school’s dress code. I sat down with David and we looked it up.

Never mind that tattoos of any kind are not addressed in the code, and never mind that the code does not apply to Third graders or younger, the disclaimers were obvious and clear. “An item of dress, article of clothing, or accessory should not be deemed ‘approved’ simply because it is not listed herein” . . . and “The administration reserves the right to address inappropriate clothing on an individual basis in all grades.”

According to the teacher, David was being disruptive, drawing attention to himself, distracting class.

Oh, the mystical allure of the tattoo . . . .

Such power to command every gaze in a room. I think next year, I’ll have Santa put ten packages of those “apply-with-a-damp-rag” tats inside the boys’ stockings.

Bryl R. Tyne is a wrangler by nature and a writer by choice, published with Noble Romance Publishing, Ravenous Romance, Dreamspinner Press, and STARbooks Press. You can find out more about Bryl at: bryltyne.com

This post is X-posted to The Rainbow Studio, Defying Description, and Bryl R. Tyne’s author blogs.

Writing has been an interesting endeavor. Surprisingly, one of the things I’ve noticed is that it’s more of a family affair of late. Sugar Daddy’s constantly throwing his two cents into my stories, with his “How ’bout this one?” And the boys are forever questioning, “What’s this one gonna be about?” and “Can we read it this time?”

Of course, the answer to the latter is always an explicit, NO. But they still hound for details, and I usually end up giving them a brief verbal synopsis.

Turns out, my latest wip seems to have inspired the youngest. So much so, I must share his antics for fear if I don’t, the moment will be lost to tale (since SD in all his wisdom, amidst outrageous and spontaneous laughter, forgot to grab the camera).

So, I’m glued to the laptop last night, spilling the words onto the pages of my Western, when our youngest ambles from the mouth of the hall, toy gun belt strapped to his side. To appreciate the vision, you must know also that he is eight, gifted, very creative, compassionate, loves to make others laugh, wears size – Husky, and last night, had nothing on under his gun belt save a worn pair of crew socks and his Fruit of the Looms. Okay, got the picture of an eight year old Chris Farley in mind? Good.

With a wide stance, hands readied at the hip, he looked me in the eye. “All right. I’m through talkin’.” And he pulled a chocolate-chip granola bar from his right holster, tore the wrapper open with his teeth, and bit off a huge chunk before shaking it at me. Without as much as breaking a smile, he swallowed, patted his other holster, and said, “Don’t make me eat this other one.”

I wanted to touch on a subject that, as writers, affects us all.

LIFE.

First, as humans, we often are compelled to do what we like. That’s our prerogative. As writers though, our preferences usually border on obssession. As “published” authors, with the deadlines, the promoting, and the required socializing, all of the above merges together into something akin to insanity.

To add to the ever-expanding list of ‘published author’ must-do’s, most of us have families and the evil day job to contend. We can feel overwhelmed quite easily and quite often, and when life sets out to interfere with our plans and our agendas we don’t often handle the disturbances with eloquence. Though we attempt to perfect this wondrous but oftentimes inconceivable balancing act with all that we call LIFE, we sometimes do not or cannot live up to even our own expectations.

I wrote this because one of my fellow authors is going through a bit of a rough spot. She’s feeling bad for missing out on a scheduled author activity. On top of her blossoming career, she is facing some newly discovered medical issues. Perfectly understandable, to step back, even if for just a day or two, to deal with something as important as one’s health. I, for one, understand more than I let on most of the time, as I am often far too busy to explain myself if I were inclined to do so or not. However, she is struggling to push back the guilt of missing this group activity.

Give me a break. Give her a break.

Choices, Obligations, Obsession, or Insanity…regardless of the reason, should we allow ourselves to embrace guilt over uncontrollable circumstances? Where do we, as authors, draw the line? I want to know, what do you do, when life gets in the way?

Funny how these interviewers draw this crap out of us.

http://tinyurl.com/ng33g5

OR

http://www.theromancestudio.com/blue/who5.php

Go ahead, check me out. You know you want to.

Busy to slightly insane, with the possibility of sudden bursts of bewilderment…

Yes, and this is the upside of the forecast. When once Summertime meant, I pitched a tent in the mountains, lounged along the bank–pole cast, or spent a lazy, BBQ filled afternoon with friends and family, I now work…to be a child again.

So much for daydreaming.

Yay! It’s Pride month! Ugh! I’m busier than I’ve been in awhile. Hang with me, check me out, stop by, leave a comment, tell me what sucked about my latest book. Whatever, just find me online if you have time. Anyway, here’s my June agenda-to-date:

JUNE  Featured Authors @ The Romance Studio Blue — ME! (I’m 1 of many) Drop by anytime this month!

Tuesday, June 2 – I and other authors from Phoenix Rising Promotions will be at Author Raine Delight’s Yahoo Group

Wednesday, June 3 – I join my fellow authors and friends from Noble Romance Publishing at PromoPRP Yahoo Group

Friday, June 5 – Phoenix Rising Promotion managers & Authors celebrated GAY Pride at Beth Wylde’s Yahoo Group

Tuesday, June 16 – Guest Author on Author Raine Delight’s Blog

Thursday, June 18 – Noble Romance Authors at PromoPRP Yahoo Group

Somewhere in the chaos, I graduate. I can finally wave that BS degree, that 40 thousand dollar scrap of paper that now, PROVES to the world that, which I’ve been trying to convince them of for years--I KNOW what I’m talking about.

And don’t argue about the number of candles on my cake. I’m only as old as I feel–Yes, I must endure another birthday celebration also. Dread.

Anyhoo…If you can, come celebrate June, Gay Pride, Pride Month, MY Month with me. Hope to see you there!

~Bryl

Join my group — Pan-Rainbow Seas…Dive into something new!

Check out my Favorite Videos! AuthorBrylTyne @ YouTube

Check out my poem, I Would be Naive. A 2009 Mother’s Day Tribute to my mom. Down load free from Smashwords.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1845

My third trip along Enlightenment Lane, I discovered open mindedness was not for the weak of will.

The next four years of my young life were a blur. First, I was busted making out in my closet with a girl from the neighborhood then, a younger boy, on down the line to an older boy in my bed, and then a girlfriend from school. Shunned, bullied, and labeled a tramp, I miraculously acquired an actual steady boyfriend, only to find he cheated on me with his ex girlfriend’s brother.

Forbidden to love whom I wanted, when I wanted, or how I wanted. With broken dreams, I reasoned running away would erase the mess I’d, unknowingly at the time, forged myself. At sixteen, I vowed to snare the next person that came along. Oh, and I snagged myself a real winner.

My first clue should’ve been when he slapped me across the face for teasing him, my second, when he beat the shit out of me for not empathizing with his ignorance to seek a dentist. And my third, when he, clad in cowboy boots, kicked his car full of dents, while ranting some insanity about “No one cares about him,” but no. I was too young, too pissed, too desperate, and by the time I realized all that, I was pregnant.

Broken and beaten, the last of my remaining self and will severed, I resigned to him and his convoluted ways. Dressing, walking, talking, eating, and fucking like the “lady” I should have been. Over the course of thirteen years, I believed his every word, took to heart, his every command, and shamelessly struggled to rid myself of my demon and its wanton behaviors. All, with his carefully guided fists and twisted logic to keep me on the straight and narrow.

Enduring life with the devil, I was blessed with three beautiful children, the most diplomatic way to state the fruits of an unwanted, and most often then, an unwelcome union. With age, came a touch of wisdom. At twenty-nine, I faced my forty-something image in the mirror. “Just who’s the crazy one here?”

Pretty much goes without saying that he was, of course. But, my answer to myself differed little from the numerous times I’d gazed upon my reflection. I knew my impulsiveness, selfishness, and insatiable desires had left a trail of misery for all involved. For my entire life had been formed through my unhealthy relationships. At the expense of others, I’d sought a definition, an identity, recognition that a person can only afford him- or herself. I realized for the first time in my life, I had to fix me. When he refused to listen, I followed my instinct. I tried having the best of both worlds. When meeting needy spouses in rented motel rooms under aliases and carrying on trysts in the gym parking lot were discovered, once again…I ran.

Running from him was little different from when I reasoned avoiding my hometown would solve my woes. Labeled a whore, a tramp, and admittedly, I was. I took on numerous counseling sessions – anger management, rational thinking classes, and countless group therapies for depression and anxiety, to name a few. All while maintaining a full-time job, running my own business, attempting to earn my GED, frequenting the clubs every free night, regrettably disrupting a relationship or two with my wanton carelessness, and somehow managing to pay child support, faithfully. The while, I argued relentlessly, as my councilors tried to convince me of my sanity.

I wasn’t crazy? Well, that was news to me. Thankfully, I had one councilor patient enough to help me lay it to rest.

“That’s impossible. You know the mess I’ve created throughout my life. If I’m not crazy, then what am I?” I asked.

“Who are you?” she asked.

God, I hated playing the sounding board game, especially that line. “I don’t know. I don’t fit in anywhere, no matter how hard I try.”

“You shouldn’t try. Not everyone fits into a category. In fact, most people don’t,” she said.

“Right.” Easy for her to say. Miss prim and proper, married, sexy-as-hell for a fifty-something year old, lady. And, I told her so too.

“What do you want to be known as?”

What the hell kind of question was that? Suddenly, the sounding board game seemed more palatable. It took me some time to think about an answer to that one. I didn’t want to be a lady, by any means. But could I reveal to the world how I felt? I eventually answered. “I want to be known as, a person who is dependable, kindhearted, and a hard worker.”

“That’s it?” she asked, and I nodded. “But, you already are all those things. I don’t see the problem.”

I looked away, unable to admit the rest. The risk felt overwhelming. Instead of pushing the issue, she enlightened me with her life story-which I will not elaborate because of the personal nature. Point being, both of us tugged at the last tissue in the box by the time she’d finished.

“So…You’ll understand if I tell you I feel like a man trapped inside this body? That, “cheerleaders” and the like make me nauseous and I feel like a drag queen when forced to wear a dress? That, I don’t understand how women think, or how they feel, or shopping, or the desire to domesticate things in the slightest? That, I hated every second of being pregnant, though I love my kids? And, that I view men as intellectual equals? That, I pitted myself against the every intelligent boy in school, equaling their math and art skills, coming in a close second in science, and ranking higher in every other subject, including drafting and shop, and would’ve joined the football team if allowed?”

“What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why, if you view women as you do, why you’re willing to have sex with them.”

Even I had a chuckle at that statement. Right then, I’d realized I was not only a man, but a sexist man…Sheesh. “Truth is…it’s always been easier for me to woo women into bed. Given my desire for sex, well it kind of goes without saying I’d take whatever’s available, no?”

“But, if you’d rather have a man-”

“The men who want me aren’t what I’m after. I don’t want to be some man’s sex object or wife, but I don’t want a man who is a wimp either. Anyway, the size of my balls scares the hell out of the ones I’m attracted to, figuratively speaking. I guess I intimidate them.”

“Well, who are you then?” she asked, looking a tad agitated.

“I guess, I’m…just me.”

She ended the session with a hug. “You won’t need to make another appointment. Have patience and just learn to accept yourself.”

That’s it? Well, her simple act of empathy helped me understand there are probably no two people alike and I am special, just because. Her kindness also helped me to recapture my will. I left her office anticipating where my journey would lead next, but wondering if I’d ever be accepted, just for me.

Disclaimer: Any names used in this series are purely fictional to protect the privacy of all involved.

I’m not comfortable with labels, never have been. Although others tell me that I fit somewhere within the GLBTQTQI… spectrum, where exactly, they find hard to define. To me, sexual identity, sexual preference, gender, who to love, how to relate, what, where, when, how…why, etc, etc…while all aspects of how we define ourselves, have little bearing on the whole of who I
am, and hold no weight in whom I befriend.

Many times we find solace in the label, the brand, the belonging, the acceptance. We’re all human. I can attest to the debilitating pain of loneliness as much as the next person can. Sadly, that abiding want shadowed my real need for many years. The need for self-acceptance.

Who or what am I? Where do I belong?

I am what I am. I am myself, and I belong wherever my feet wander. For I refuse to blindly
follow, defy being led, and abhor the very fact that labels exist.

Human. Every one of us, with our inquisitive minds, always thinking, reasoning, seeking to define, to classify and sub classify, to put “things” in perspective…in their proper place. It’s true. We’re not happy until we’ve applied that label. Claimed. Owned?

Personally, I refuse to resign myself to definition. For the simple reason, I espouse to relativism, believing in an infinite time line, a perpetual movement to all life. Where, as long as I, you, we, and even they have breath, change will happen. Perspectives shift, such as anything kinetic. Albeit differently within the diversity of milieu, change is undeniable.

How can any one of us label another in midst of dynamics?

From what I’ve seen, labels have accomplished only division. My natural tendency as human is
to embrace survival. But, with so many labels enhancing boundless divisions, basic needs, such
as survival, are relegated troublesome at best, and at worst, near impossible.

However, possessing the same qualities as any human, I think, I reason, and I am most inquisitive. Regardless of my needs, it is that humanness I blame for my wonderment, my fascination, and my desire to search.

Seeking those of like mind, this past week I discovered an assortment of commentary on how people label themselves. While similar overall, none of the viewpoints identical. Yet, each solidify the never ending presence of change in all our lives, and most importantly, the relativity of perspective.

Rowan McBride posted an introspective blog on what it means to be, gender fluid.

Jessica Hoffman has a 2007 post on The Bilerico Project blog entitled, Why I Don’t Do ‘Bi’.

Nancy R. Nangeroni authors an informative article on gendertalk.com called, Transgenderism.

And, one of my all time faves…

Helen Boyd, author of the en/Gender blog in a delightful, 2004 repost by Elizabeth Cline on gender deconstruction.

While it seems as natural to label as to favor tastes in desserts, when was the last time you allowed someone else decide for you – your favorite flavor of ice cream, your desire for that second slice of pie, or your longing for anything, as long as it contained chocolate? Simply put, when was the last time you allowed someone to dictate, you?

In a world awash with divisiveness, surely we’ve progressed beyond derogatories or choosing sides, haven’t we?

Nothing is more touching than real stories from real people. People, like myself and I’m sure,
many of you, who have “been there, done that, and sadly, got the t-shirt” whether we wanted
it or not.

Horror writer Rick R. Reed said it best in his Myspace blog today. With his permission, I am reposting his enlightening piece. From his heart to yours…

Parallels: Coming Out and the Fight for Marriage Equality

The other day, I posted a YouTube video of commentator Keith Olbermann’s wise, common
sense, and compassionate words on marriage equality. His was one of the best arguments I’ve
ever heard in a loud and often insane discourse on the topic.

But one part of his talk really shook me up and I haven’t been able to get it out of my
head, because it really hit home for me personally. It might have gone by too quickly for
you to ponder, so this is what he said:

“And uncountable in our history are the number of men and women, forced by society
into marrying the opposite sex, in sham marriages, or marriages of convenience, or just
marriages of not knowing, centuries of men and women who have lived their lives in shame
and unhappiness, and who have, through a lie to themselves or others, broken countless
other lives, of spouses and children, all because we said a man couldn’t marry another man,
or a woman couldn’t marry another woman. The sanctity of marriage.”

I am one of those people he’s referring to. I can be counted. For seven years, from age 23
to age 30, I was a married man…in the kind of marriage that’s legal in all fifty states. We had
a son during that time. And we worked hard and created a life that was pretty much the
American dream: the two car garage with attached house, the kid in kindergarten, the cute
puppy, and the circle of straight friends who were pretty much like ourselves.

But what those straight friends, the child, nor the puppy knew, I was living a life “in shame
and unhappiness.” Make no mistake: I dearly loved my wife (and still do); my son was my world
(and still is); those friends meant a lot to me (and some were even surprisingly supportive when
this perfect-looking little world began to crumble). But I was living a lie. All of my friends were
straight; my coworkers at my job were straight; my family of origin loved the son who was now
a husband and father. And all the while, I was wrestling with these desires I naively assumed
would go away when I married. I believed the Christian right’s assertion that being gay was a choice…and that was the most damning belief of all. That belief messed up not only my life
but the lives of people whom I dearly loved.

It took me a long time to accept myself for who I really was, to be brave enough to show
the world my true face and say love it or leave it. And it took years to understand how I could
have known something so fundamental to my very being and to not accept it.

I titled this blog with the word “parallels” and I think there is a parallel with my struggle to
accept myself as a gay man and the broader fight the LGBT community are fighting as a whole.
See, the more I pushed myself down, the more I beat back the urges I couldn’t deny, the more
I tried to be someone I simply was not, the stronger, it seemed, that person beneath the mask became. That person behind the mask, with all the pain he was suffering as he was scuttled
into the shadows of the closet, grew angrier and angrier and more despondent at being told:
“No. You cannot be. You are sick and diseased and not worthy of the love you are
now getting.”

I think, in the end, a lot of that beating down (mostly by myself) only made the gay man
behind the mask stronger, so that when he did finally come out of the closet, he was finally
ready to accept himself and his new life, with all its own problems, pitfalls…and yes, joys. But
it was his life…and not a life he thought society thought he should have.

I think the parallel to me personally and the larger fight going on now is that these setbacks,
these right wingers beating us down and saying: “No. You cannot have what we have, even if
we lose absolutely nothing by giving it to you” is making the whole community at large stronger,
more mobilized, and more determined. With each beating down, we rise up stronger and more determined, just like my own gay self did, back when I hid from who I was. What these right
wing haters do not realize is that their efforts are harming us only superficially: they are making
us more willing to stand up and fight for what is right and what is ours. That little core, both
inside a closeted person living a lie, and an oppressed community, can go only two ways: the
first is to give up to despair and the second is to finally stand up and say: “There’s nothing
wrong with me. I am as deserving of love and acceptance as anyone else.”

Author Rick R. Reed: Web site or Myspace

Enlightenment Lane: Trip #2

On my second trip down Enlightenment Lane, I discovered open mindedness is not for the weak of stomach.

Despite family, I held a special relationship with one male relative during my elementary years. For the sake of this beautiful man and his family today, my relationship to him will remain unspoken, and all names are fictitious.

Exploring. Yep, that’s what we two embraced every time we were thrown together, every chance we got. From following muskrats down the near by creek, to nearly setting the neighbor’s horse pasture ablaze when we decided with all twelve years of wisdom that an old tire would work just fine to contain our light-the-match-box-on-fire-all-at-once experiment, there was never a dull moment.

On one such excursion, we cased the shoulders and grassy banks of the town’s bypass. What we searched for, we hadn’t a clue, but what we found opened our eyes and our pants…

“What’re you lookin’ at up there?” I knew it had to be interesting if Cole stopped. He never slowed down, not even his mouth. Yet, at that moment, he neither moved nor replied his attention transfixed on something in his hands. Scrambling up the incline, I noticed the object of his ignorance appeared to be a magazine.

Some magazine! I’d never seen an adult male fully naked, or fully hard for that matter. I think I joined in his awe at that point, amazed to discover a mutilated stack of similar magazines at his feet. “Help me!” I snatched the book from his hands instructing him to help sort through and find the good ones before someone caught us. We scavenged five that weren’t too weathered and scurried off to our favorite hideout in the woods.

Pages turned slower as the minutes passed. “Whoa! Back up.”

Cole flipped to the previous page. We cocked our heads trying to take in the gist of the depicted scene…Red knows how he likes his cock and Kev aims to please…

“Damn, think they’re really doin’ that?” Cole asked.

I further read the picture book…pointing to Red’s chin. “Yep.”

Cole’s nose still glued to the pages, he flashed me his sinister stare, quickly accompanied by a smirk.

“Oh, hell no! Find someone else for that one, dude!” I backed away and soon found myself sprinting for the safety of my house, courtesy his earnest pursuit.

Halfway home, we bumped into one of my neighborhood friends. Bent at the waist, I struggled to catch my breath while Cole caught up. “Hey, Eugene…” he said, trying to hide the magazines behind his back. Of course, he hadn’t dropped a one of them.

“Cole.” Eugene eyed him funny. “Whatcha got?”

Cole looked at me, and I said, “Just show him.” Three words I would live to regret later. Cole did as told, and soon he and Eugene were wandering off. “Where ya goin’?” I asked. They paused, and Eugene bent to whisper.

“Alright!” Cole turned to me. “Come on, he wants to show me somethin’. He says you can come too.” I hurried after them.

Eugene told me to watch TV for a while. He and Cole needed to talk in private, fine with me. I think there was a Star Trek rerun on at the time. Never seen or heard his parents once, must’ve been checking out yard sales or playing pinochle at their friends across town.

Cole wandered into the front room about half an hour later, more than a little dazed looking. “You know I’m tellin’ if you’re smokin’ pot again.” I said.

“Just shut up. I didn’t do that!”

I stood, took his chin in my hand, and inspected his eyes. “Well, you been doin’ somethin’. I can tell.”

He grinned, waiting for me to inquire, which I did. “You should’ve been in there…we jacked each other off…” he said.

“What!”

“Man, it was great!” He grabbed my shoulders, guess he thought I was going to bolt again. Being the influential party, the oldest child in my family at the time, the one solely responsible for my visiting relative and his actions, I had to play the part. “You should’ve seen it…I never shot so hard in my life…my load hit the ceilin’! Swear to God!”

Damn, I missed it… That could’ve been interesting, not Cole, but Eugene? Oh yeah, that would’ve been worth it, just to watch.

“Hey, Cole!” Eugene yelled from his room. “Tell Bryl to come here for a sec!”

“What’s he want?” I asked, as Cole began pushing me toward the hall.

“Just go, he ain’t gonna bite or nothin’.”

“You’re comin’ with me,” I said grabbing his elbow. Perched on the edge of the bed, Eugene smirked. “What?” I asked, holding Cole’s arm like a vice.

Eugene glanced at my white-knuckled grip. “Go watch TV for a while, Cole.” I backed up as Cole pried out of my hold. But, taller and faster, Eugene clutched my wrist, closed the door, and led me to the bed. Maybe he thought fear is why my body shook so violently, because he said, “I’m not gonna hurt ya, just wanna show ya somethin’.”

After my literary session in the woods, and then being privy to Cole’s account of what’d transpired in this room minutes earlier, I was well aware of why my body trembled. What I didn’t know was how I would react, but Eugene’s actions – one hand turning pages, while the other loosening his pants – answered that question, and with no uncertainty, I dropped to my knees…

No, I’ve never regretted my first experience at mimicking the men in those magazines. It was the aftermath. Cole happened to walk in at the least opportune moment…well, maybe not for him. Of course, his big mouth contributed to my pseudo-popularity. While I thought my life, busy before that day, my tasks only multiplied whenever Cole came to visit. For each time, he’d show up with a one of his friends in tow. “Hey, Bryl…This is…”

Months passed, and I realized that not a one of them “knew” me if we happened to pass on a busy downtown sidewalk, nor did any of them ever call, or stop by, but for one reason.

Cole hadn’t shown up for about a month when he phoned, saying his mom had discovered our pastime, but finally being ungrounded, was coming over later that day. Some young teen in tow that I’d never laid eyes on, Cole strolled up the walk and started to speak-

“Save it,” I said, holding my hand like a cop directing traffic through a busy intersection. “Introductions are a waste of time.”

Disclaimer: Any names used in this series are purely fictional to protect the privacy of all involved.