Love Life Found Dead in Home

The Love Life of Weslyn Chavis came to a tragic end on Saturday, September 18, 2010. However, the Love Life's body was not actually discovered until two days later.

As of today, crime scene tape is still up around where the body was found. Police are not publicly saying what the cause of death is. Inside sources are stating that all signs point to strangulation.

"It looks to me like whoever actually was involved with Weslyn Chavis's Love Life might have played a big role in the Love Life's death. We can't say for sure until all the forensic evidence comes back from the lab," a source close to the investigation stated.

Right now, the biggest question facing Weslyn Chavis is: How is she going to survive without a love life?

"I don't think I need one," Ms. Chavis spoke openly with reporters. "I mean, it would be nice to have one. But, if it's going to be this much trouble, I'd rather just do without."

With a murder suspect on the loose, police have advised single women living in the area to take extra precaution with their Love Lives.

"My advice to every single woman out there is to guard your Love Lives closely. Don't just let any person around them. This could happen to your Love Life." Police Chief Henderson said Tuesday morning.

Funeral arrangements have not been announced. Once the autopsy is completed, the Love Life will be received by The Heartbroken Funeral Home on Wayward Street.

Ms. Chavis requests in lew of flowers, monetary donations be made into her bank account.

The Last Exorcism

I am a horror movie fanatic. Ghosts? No problem. Blood shed? Love it. Axe welding homicidal maniac chasing horny teenagers through the woods? Bring it on.

The one thing in the horror movie genre that I have a hard time watching is anything to do with demonic possession. Maybe it's the Christian in me. Maybe it's the fact that demonic possession is thought to be real by some. Or, maybe, I'm just a wuss.

Knowing this about myself, I decided to go see The Last Exorcism at the movies. The film was supposed to take a different approach to demons and those that house them. I can handle it when a movie has more to it than just a little girl laying in the bed spitting out green pea soap. This is why I enjoyed the Exorcism of Emily Rose. The audience was never told whether or not she was actually possessed. It was a drama that forced the viewer to draw their own conclusions. I could handle that. I walked into The Last Exorcism ready to do the same thing. In no way was I prepared for what I watched.

I picked the wrong day to skip church.

The movie follows Reverend Cotton who has made the decision to leave the pulpit. He allows a film crew to follow him on his last mission to exorcise a demon out of a sixteen year old girl, named Nell. However, the good Reverend is not like most that perform these rituals. He doesn't believe in the devil. And because of this, he openly admits to not believing in God. We watch Cotton perform the exorcism. He shows how he manipulates his surroundings by hooking wire to the bedposts and picture frames to make them move. He has a tape recorder with demonic sounds coming from under the bed. He even has rings on that shoot small currents of electricity into the victim's temples. These people believe that an actual exorcism is taking place; even though it's all smoke and mirrors. When Cotton is done with his performance, the father is happy, Nell is happy, Cotton is happy, and I am happy. So far so good.

And then it got creepy.

The whole movie is shot like a documentary. I have seen plenty of movies shot this way. Frankly, I could care less about them. The style is jumbled and most of the time you can't tell what's what. But, for this movie it really worked. I felt the tension build as Cotton and his film crew begin to discover that something isn't quite right with the teenager. I could feel their confusion when they heard multiple voices coming from Nell's locked bedroom. And you can just forget how creepy o'le girl looks when she's asked who she's talking to.

"No one." She says as she stares at the camera. Yeah, ok. Whatever. I'm out.

One of the scariest scenes is when Nell gets the camera and walks out to the barn. While everyone is asleep, she takes a knife and kills the family cat. The camera is out of focus and all you see is blood splattering as poor Snowball meets his maker. And there are also the quiet moments of neck cracking she does that make me want to see a chiropractor.

When it becomes apparent that something is seriously wrong with the teen, her father gives Cotton an ultimatum. Either perform another exorcism or he will kill his daughter, thus saving her from the evil clutches of whatever has her possessed. As Cotton argues with him, I am sitting in my seat cheerfully yelling, "Shoot her! Now! In. The. Head!" My fellow movie goers agreed with me.

This movie really got to me. It creeped me out. It scared me. It made me hurt. Nothing jumped out at me like is the norm in horror films. This was just your basic evil feel of a movie. Which, in going back to what I said in the beginning, is why I do not like movies dealing with demonic possession. It's like the evil in the movie jumped out and tried to grab me.

I ain't gonna be right for a long time.

Tim and Tina

Once apon a time, before the advent of texting and Facebook, men actually contacted women for dates via the phone. It's true. Ask your parents.

This was a good thing. A man would actually have to make the effort to approach a woman and start up a conversation. These conversations usually started with an inquiry as to the woman's name and marital status. Let me create a typical conversation for you:

A man approaches a woman. "Hi. My name is Tim. What's yours?"

The woman would bat her eyelashes and smile. "I'm Tina. How are you?"

Tim takes a step forward. "I'm doing good. You have a beautiful smile. Can I have your number? I'd love to take you out sometime."

Of course Tina says yes. They go out. They fall in love. They get married. They buy a house. They have babies. Tina gains 35 lbs of pregnancy weight. Tim begins to drink one too many beers at night. They go from having sex three times a week to three times every sex months. Tim has an affair. Tina moves in with her mother.

Couldn't be simplier.

These days that scenerio would be played out quite differently. Men no longer approach women in the supermarket, bookstore, or any other place that grown folks may go. I have had men that I barely know contact me through the almighty Facebook to ask me out. My reply: "And who are you?"

Now, let's take the above example and apply it to today's hightech world.

First, Tim is trolling online. He is on Steven's Facebook page. He sees a post from Tina and thinks she looks cute. He pokes her.

Tina pokes back.

Tim requests Tina as a friend. Tina accepts.

Hi Tina! Hope your day is going good! Tina thinks this post fromm Tim is sweet. She replies with, It's going good. How are you?

Tina and Tim exchange these type of posts for a day or two.

Finally Tim catches Tina on Facebook instant messenger.

Hey.

Sup?

U busy?

Nah. Sup?

Wanna go out Friday night?

Um, sure. Here's my number. Text me.

Tim texts Tina. They go to a movie and end up back at Tina's house. They spend the night together. Tina is fairly certain that Tim is the one she should settle for. Tim, on the other hand, promises to text later on that day. But, Tim gets busy and never texts her again. Tina ends up a bitter, man-hating single woman. She begins to collect cats. As Tina grows older, the neighborhood kids begin to fear her. Tim becomes an alcoholic and dies from liver failure at the age of 50.

Trust me. It's much better to accept a date the old fashion way. At least you get babies out of it.

Raggedy

I'm raggedy. There I said it. I'll say it again for those that didn't get it the first time.

I. Am. Raggedy.

Those who know me, know what I am talking about. Those of ya'll who don't, can only imagine. And I say, "Imagine away." You probably aren't too far off from the actual truth.

And that's all fine and dandy. I want to get to a point in my life that when people look at me, they see a good mother. They see a God fearing woman. They see a klutzy, God fearing, good mother.

When people look at me, I want them to say, "I remember when Wes used to go to the clubs every weekend. I remember when she broke so-and-so's heart. I remember her running the roads. But, look at her now. She goes to church. She's good with her kids. Shoot. If she can get her life straightened out, I know I sure can."

Being raggedy ain't too bad.

My Nemesis

There are certain people in the world. Those who can walk through air without problems and those that can't. I am the latter.

I noticed it at an early age. I believe I was about 6 when my little friend asked me to skip with her to the sandbox. We grabbed each other's hand and proceeded to make our way. At the time, I did not know how treacherous thin air could be. I quickly learned as I tripped and went crashing to the ground. Startled, I looked around to see when had caused my fall. There was nothing.

I learned two things that day. (1)You can not trust air. (2)It helps to have a sense of humor.

Things have not gotten any better with age. I went from tripping on my way to the sandbox to falling as I cut grass. I have tried to pull off the seductive lean in a door frame stance while talking to a good looking men. However, at the last minute, the door frame moved and I fell to the floor; causing injury, not only to my body, but to my ego as well.

I blame the air for my troubles. How else can you explain landing on the floor when I was sitting in a chair? Or, better yet, how can you explain the time I went to sit in my car and hit the ground instead? I believe it was the air that moved the vehicle.

It's a terrible ordeal for me. Everyday I am conscious of the fact that the very element that sustains life, is out to end mine. While others can walk down steps or climb up stairs with no worries, I hesitate. I know the air's lurking all around me. It tries to lure me into a false sense of security as it waits patiently to strike. I can feel the grip of its evil clutches, as the air swirls around my ankles causing my to fall as I try in vain to grab on to anything for support.

It also shoves me.

The shoving is the worse. I went to hug a friend of mine the other day. Instead of hugging, I fell on him. Poor thing probably thought I was suffering from an aneurysm of some sort. I have walked along a wall, only to find myself walking into it instead of parallel to it. You can thank the air for that. It likes to shove me into the hardest thing it can find.

I am not giving up. I will defeat air. I haven't exactly figured out how I am going to get the upper hand; but I will. One day, the air will not be such a bully. It will not shove me into parked cars, throw me up against walls, or trip me as I am walking on flat surfaces. One day, I say! One day, the air will do the job it is meant to do. Not the job it wants to do.

Until then, I urge all of you to proceed with caution. The air is all around you. And it is evil....

I Don't Eat Vegetables

I was pretty much born and raised in the country. From early on, my diet consisted of fried chicken, fried fat back, sweet tea, Pepsi, and scrambled eggs. We had home made biscuits made with lard and dipped in molasses for breakfast. Lunch came from a fried bologna sand which lathered in mayonnaise. Dinner saw us chowing down on fried pork chops, fried corn bread, and collard greens cooked with.....ham hocks.

By the way, heart disease runs in my family.

I loved to pull my chair up to the table, along with the rest of the family. The eggs would disappear before the steam cleared out. The pork chops were gobbled up before the pig even quit squealing. This was down home eating at its finest. I ate everything that my Granny put in front of me. Everything except the collards or any other vegetable. I just don't eat vegetables at all. I know. It is very 4 year oldish of me.

And it's not like I have tried various kinds of vegetables and found them not to be of my liking. No. I simply look at whatever earthly concoction that's brewing and turn my nose up at it. I refuse to eat anything that comes from the ground.

Let me tell you why.

I was about 5 or 6 when I first lived with my dad in Virginia. My parents had not long divorced and my dad was in the Navy. My sister and I lived with him in VA Beach. During the day, while my dad worked, we went to a babysitter. I do not remember her name. Well, sometimes we had to stay late at her house. This late night schedule resulted in dinner with the babysitter and her family. She used to cook stuff that none of us kids would eat. Eggplant.....soup that tasted like cardboard.....squid. Where were my pork chops? Where were the biscuits and the Pepsi? She would give us unsweetened kool-aide.

One night the babysitter set before my sister and myself a bowel of black beans. "Try them," she advised. I quickly turned my 5 (or perhaps 6) year old nose up at it.

"I don't wanna," I remember saying. She told me to try it and if I didn't like it, I didn't have to eat it. Fair enough. I tasted the nasty stuff and managed to swallow.

My sister shot me a look. "You didn't eat enough," she said. "You need to take a big bite. How do you know if you like it?"

"I know." I told her. "It's nasty. She doesn't cook good."

"She just cooks different. Try a bigger bite, or I'm telling daddy you're not doing what you are supposed to." My dear, dear sister. Always there for me when I needed her.

So, being the good little sister instilled with the fear of my father, I took a big gulp of the black bean mush. I'm not sure if it was the taste or the texture that did it to me, but I ended up regurgitating the meal back up. My eyes watered as the beans shot across the table.

Instantly, tears sprang to my eyes. I began to hiccup with fear as the babysitter stormed down the hallway towards us.

"What in blazes hell is this mess? Were you playing in your food, girl?" she demanded. I wasn't able to respond. My sister quickly came to my defense and tried to explain what happened. Her words fell on deaf ears.

Now, I don't remember much about the babysitter. She was a black woman with short curly hair. The woman could have stood all of 5'2". For all I know, she could have been a dwarf with only one arm. But, in my memory, she was a massive Amazonian woman. She stood at least 7 feet tall. She was broad shouldered with muscles as big as my calf. She had blazing red eyes and a mouth that was big enough to eat small children.

That's how I remember her anyways.

She snatched me from the chair as she accused me of playing with my food. She marched me into the bathroom. There she ordered me to pull down my pants. I remember going into hysterics at that point. I also remember hearing my sister cry in the other room. With the wired handle of a fly swatter, she whipped me.

Dramatic? Yes. A therapy causing event in my life? Definitely.

Later that evening, I sat in a bath tub. My dad's girlfriend, Rita, had come to retrieve us. As she saw the bruises on my legs and buttocks, she gasped. I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. My terror and shame at being whipped in such a manner had turned to anger. However, I knew revenge would be mine. Soon, that horrible monster would get exactly what she had coming to her. It was inevitable.

See, my daddy was home.

He stood in the doorway and surveyed the damage.

"I'll be right back." was all he said. I can't tell you anything about the exchange between the babysitter and my dad. I can tell you she never kept us again. I only saw her once after that. She would barely look at me as she limped by.

And now I'll hardly touch a vegetable.

The Story of Auntie Wes and Steve

Come, my followers. All three of you. Come and gather around the fire and listen to the tale of Auntie Wes. It is a story full of love, lust, broken hearts, and a possum. Come, I say. Sit a spell.

See, a long time ago Auntie Wes was young and full of life. Not like she is now....A decrepit old hag that is searching for stray cats to give a home to. No! Once Auntie Wes was carefree and looking for love. Like the country song says, it was in all the wrong places. But, she was looking none-the-less.

Well, one night Auntie Wes met a nice gentleman. We will call him Steve. Steve was 6 ft tall with curly black hair. His eyes were brown and he had a smile that was lined with the straightest, whitest teeth one has ever seen. He was what the old timers called a real looker. He was such a looker that Auntie Wes saw him and it was love at first sight.

Actually it was lust at first sight. But, they both start with the letter "l" and have been known to induce sweaty palms, the shakes, and gas. So, who really cares?

Auntie Wes was no slouch back then either. She had long, brown hair and legs that just went on for days. The men liked Auntie Wes and paid her a great deal of attention. Not like now-a-days, where the men only look at her long enough to ask her to put down the liquor bottle and escort her out of the store. Last time she got kicked out of the Piggly Wiggly, a man was nice enough to hand Auntie Wes back her wig that had been knocked off during the scuffle. And who said chivalry was dead?

But, I digress. Auntie Wes saw Steve at a party one night. It was a cookout celebrating the retirement of Old Kay. Old Kay had been a barmaid for 40 years. She finally decided to retire because she didn't have any good teeth left to use to open the beer bottles with. Steve was showing off his homemade tattoos that Bubba had put on him while they were cellmates in prison. Bubba and Steve were the best of friends. Steve kept saying how he couldn't wait for Bubba to get paroled and they could become roommates. Auntie Wes thought Steve was quite generous for opening up his home like that.

Auntie Wes saw Steve first. He was indicating the size of something with his hands when she made her way over to him. Right as Steve exclaimed, "Man! That thing was huge!" Auntie Wes caught his eye and smiled. He smiled back and offered her a drink. Over a shared pint of grape flavored MD 20/20 they talked about life, jail time, and NASCAR.

After a few hours of conversation, Steve proclaimed his devotion to Auntie Wes. Feeling the stirrings of love (along with at least a half a pint of MD 20/20) as well, Auntie Wes invited him back to her camper that she was staying in. It was a brand new used 1975 camper that was kept behind her cousin's single wide trailer.

"I just dig your Spud McKenzie shirt," slurred Auntie Wes.

"Thanks baby," Steve said. "So, tell me.....um, uh......."

"Wes."

"Right. Ahem, Wes. You lived here long? I mean, this is some nice digs you got."

"Not long." Auntie Wes informed him. "A couple of months. It's all I need right now."

As our two love birds began to get to know one another, there came a knock at the door.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Steve asked. Auntie Wes denied any knowledge of who could be at her door.

The newly formed couple began to pick up where they left off. Ignoring the bothersome noise, Steve began to fidget with Auntie Wes's bra snaps.

"Be careful." she warned.

"I got it. I got it." More fumbling. "What the hell is wrong with this thing? Is there a trick to it?"

"Nooooo. Damn it. Let me get it."

"No, I got it," a frustrated Steve said. "I've done this plenty of times."

"Apparently you haven't," Auntie Wes shot back. "Hurry up. I'm losing my buzz."

"Just....damn it! Turn around." Steve turned Auntie Wes around and snatched her shirt up over her head. "What the hell kind of bra is this? What are these? Hooks or snaps?"

"Get this cotton-pickin shirt off my head! I can't see a thing!" Auntie Wes shouted.

Another sound came from the other side of the door. Only this time it was a pounding.

"Who the hell is it?" Steve shouted.

"Don't you yell at my company," Auntie Wes stumbled around the small area that served as a kitchen/dining room/living room combo. "Who's there? I'll be right there. Dag-nabbit, you asshole! Get this shirt off my head. My arms are pinned in it."

"Well, if you just hold still, I would." Auntie Wes knocked into the cabinets, which in turn flew open. A frying pan fell on Steve's head.....knocking him out cold.

More pounding on the door. More screeching from Auntie Wes.

"Steve, now I mean it! Get this shirt off of my head. I ain't playing with you! Steve? Steve?!? Steeeeevvvvvvveeeeee!"

About the time Auntie Wes was figuring out how to wiggle her way out of her newly made straight jacket, Steve was coming to. He was bleeding from his nose and seemed a little out of it.

"What the hell did you do to me?" He demanded as Auntie Wes straightened out her shirt.

"Not a thing! You crazy fool! You have got to be the worst date a girl could ever get a hold of!"

While they stood there glaring at each other, another pounding came at the door. Furious, Steve flung it open.

"Ah, man. Ah, shit. Ah, damnit to holy hell and back." Another string of obscenities flew from Steve's mouth. But, in the interest of our story I'll stick to the basic cuss words.

"Who are you?" Auntie Wes asked the red head standing on her threshold.

"Don't worry about it," glared Red. "Steve, come on. I want to go. Now!"

"Who are you to be knocking on MY door and demanding MY man?" Screeched Auntie Wes.

"Your man?" Steve snorted. "Since when? I am a grown ass man! I do whatever I want whenever I want. I can do anything I want!"

"Really? You sure as hell couldn't get my bra undone, Mr. Man." Auntie Wes shot back. Turning to Red, she shouted, "Now the who the hell are you?!"

Grabbing Steve by the arm, Red drug him out of the camper. "I'm his wife," she exclaimed as she slammed the door shut.

Poor Auntie Wes. All she had wanted to do was find love amongst the crowd. With her head hung in sorrow; she cried drunken tears of broken heartedness. She stumbled blindly into the small bathroom to wash her face. As Auntie Wes reached for a towel in the closet, she grabbed a fury four-legged something.

Dear followers, I am not sure who screamed the loudest. Auntie Wes when she realized that she got a hold of one mean possum, or the possum when he realized he was gotten aholt. Needless to say, Auntie Wes ended up in the emergency room for rabies and the possum ended up six feet under.

I'm not sure where poor Steve ended up.