Shapewear and suffocation

Now, I should have known something wasn’t right when the company name ended with a Z but I’m not one to stifle creativity. I mean really, this blog is called Hoodwrites so I can’t judge.

For the last few months every time I logged onto social media there was a video of a woman shimmying into one of these contraptions. Kudos for making her thicker in shape, thus more relatable to me. Truly, I could see myself in the video.  And with weddings upon weddings in my immediate future, I gave in.


Call me a sheep because, bah.

But before hitting the purchase button I did my homework.

I read the reviews, followed the sizing chart (ordering a size up as suggested) and gave them $100+ dollars of money confident this piece of space aged lycra would do for me what it’s claimed to have done for so many others.

After reminding them to send it to me, I came home to a package at the front door. Excited about this, I ripped my pants off (not unusual) and stepped into the infamous Waist Shaperz.

The first alarm went off when the material was unbelievably tight at my knees.  Shameless plug: While I’m thicker in the middle and on the sides, my knees (and legs) are fairly small. Working the material up my thighs, I ignored the profuse sweating this workout caused by standing in front of my fan. Finally to my hips, I channeled my inner Shakira hoping rhythm was the key bringing it home.

How about, no.

Out of breath and losing self-confidence I was in no position to spare, I found the floor and rolled to my back thinking the material just needed time.

Time to what?

I do not fucking know.

Actually, I was just a hot sweaty mess and needed a breather.


Back upright, I grunt and curse only to realize this was it. This was as far as the lycra went. End of the road…

Which meant the zipper was on one side of my waist while the fastener was on the other. Looking down at myself what startled me wasn’t the four miles of flesh still uncovered.

It was the enormous hole between my legs that exposed my vagina.         I learned the hard way two years ago that ladies should never wear compression ANYTHING where the vagina is left to its own devices.

The infamous Black Hole.

Think on that for a moment, I’ll wait…

So now I’m not only sweating, stuffed into a sausage casing staring at my protruding vagina, I knew in my gut that was also protruding that I couldn’t get back out unassisted.

I needed help.

I needed the Lord.

I also needed to lie down before I passed out so I made my way back to the floor. Lying there trying to recall the simple life before gravity, I attempted to roll the material down only to fail. It was now a part of me like cellulite and coffee stains. Doing an ab curl to sit up, I looked back down at my vagina wondering how it could resemble a can of biscuits that sat out too long before opening the package. I didn’t even have my phone handy and all I could think was, “I can’t die like this.”

Cue in my twenty-year-old daughter who walked in on me staring at my crotch, briefly giving me a once before over asking in a bored tone, “Why?”

“Turn around,” I told her. “You’re too young to process this.”

(Shit, I was too young to process this.)

“You need help,” she insists.

(And for the record, I sure as hell did.)

“I need my dignity and some baby powder.”

“You need scissors and a glass of wine.”

(She was not wrong. I’ve raised a wise child. Seriously, don’t bash millennials.)

Leaving me to it, I eventually found my way out of my Waistshaperz wondering what in the hell just happened. Asking myself how did the terror escalate so quickly? The disappointment was heavy, covering my body like the product was supposed to and I was pissed that I actually felt the need to try again. Because you know, second times a charm…

The website offers a sizing guide. Great, very helpful. When you open the ‘sizing guide’-you choose your height and weight and POOF-size recommendation. It’s like Jesus was one-clicking for me.

So, I followed it.


And nearly died of suffocation and shame because of it.

According to the experts, I required a medium. However, to be safe, I ordered a large. Based on the tragedy that just took place on my floor where my sweat outline resides; I would argue I needed a much larger size judging by the product sent to me.  Does that actual size on the tag matter if the product fits and makes me feel better about myself?

Yes and no.

It really depends on the person.

In my defense, I hate shopping for clothes on a good day when in one store I’m an 8 and in another a 12. For me, it’s not the number. It’s the inconsistency. I never know what in the hell I’m trying on. I don’t possess the patience for guess work. (Don’t even get me started on the ‘cold shoulder’ craze. I’m still not over it.)

Truth: the humans at Waistshaperz are onto something. Because with the proper (realistic) sizing these body/compression/suits could be revolutionary.

My unsolicited recommendations are:

  1. Don’t advertise the beautiful Camila and forget to mention while her love oven is covered, mine won’t be. Maybe point out in bold print that my hoo-hoo will be blowing in the wind like a flapping flag on a windy day.IMG_8619

2. Work on the sizing. Hire a size-scientist. That’s a thing right?

3. Remember to actually ship the product. I needed this ‘before’ the weddings. Not six years and two divorces after it.

And, 4. If the customer is going to front you $133.00 for the product, consider including a free voucher for therapy.

Will I return my Waistshaperz for a different size? Yes. I’m no quitter AND I believe in second chances. Like I said, this product has serious potential. The added glory hole even has my dirty mind wandering with what if’s and should I’s?

Plus, if it can make this 41-year-old look 39 for a few hours?            Hell yes, I’ll give her another go.

Because in the shaping game I’ve got:



Ladies, I would never steer you wrong.

But, I DO take recommendations. If you found the Holy Grail of Shapewear, PLEASE share your wisdom. (Pictures appreciated)

But until the replacement arrives…



All my love and lycra,




Dear Ellen, take my money.

Now, I’m not saying I have a gambling problem.

I’m saying I have an ‘Ellen’ problem.

As in, I’m utterly addicted to her slot machine.

What started out as curiously walking by it, glancing at the human playing and hoping they finish soon has morphed into fighting the urge to bribe and threaten bodily harm to people to get out of my chair.

See, Ellen and all her catchy lines belong to ME!

Why? Because I’m going to play max bet. I’m going to max bet real hard. That means, take your minimum bet strategy so you can drag out your time for no real reason and go play elsewhere.

Ellen is MINE.

I don’t just ‘play’ Ellen.


engage Ellen.

I tickle her face and chant her name. I do this because we’re friends and she likes it. I’m going to rub my cheek, hands and feet all over her machine so she knows it me. (And she always knows) Just as I know Ellen’s responses to every type of win the machine offers. I may know this better than my own family’s birthdays.

( I said, may.)

While the ‘Wheel of riches’ is my favorite, in December the ’12 days of giveaways’ made me super merry. I was the merriest in Detroit. My pores were oozing merriment.

There were presents flying everywhere!

To my knowledge, Ellen is the only machine that makes you happy to lose large amounts of money.

I mean, real Ellen is generous and kind, even her machine reminds us to be kind to others (uh-mazing), so the last time I won a few bucks I gave the woman next to me losing her house to the same machine (not playing max bet) twenty dollars. Gah, Ellen would so love this!

She didn’t say thank you but shoved that bill straight into the machine and proceeded to lost that too… Anyway, I was being kind so I let it go. Plus, it was the holiday’s and if she was this ungrateful at Christmas people probably hate her year ’round. Oh, and I bet she doesn’t even watch Ellen’s show. And I just can’t let folks like that steal my energy. Truly, I cannot. I’m going through menopause and can’t spare it, sorry. When playing next to others who gripe and moan about losing I have no issue explaining, “Ellen will never reward you with that attitude.” I’ve even said, “Your negativity is getting precariously close to Ellen, stop it.” A real crowd pleaser is, “Uh, would you kiss Ellen with that mouth?”

Because something comes over me when I see Ellen’s face.

Life gets…brighter.

Inside a casino.

A mechanical piece of equipment designed for impulsive people like me, actually makes me feel like a better person for sitting at it.

This is either marketing genius or the power of Ellen. (I’m going with the latter) Because I don’t dance at other machines. I don’t high five and spin around in my seat at other machines. I don’t carry on conversations and tell other machines about my life. I don’t have to literally be drug away from other machines either.

It’s Ellen.

She’s magical.

Her voice, smile and little body dancing across my screen in snappy clothes send me to another time and place. Where it’s just us and we’re having espresso and she’s showing me the reviews she left for my books under an alias. I get this because my material isn’t suitable for Ellen viewers. But Ellen and Portia secretly love my stories and take turns reading the POV’s and it’s adorable.  I never accept money for books either because their company is priceless. Then suddenly my eyes open, I’m brought back to reality and broke.

So I run to the ATM, take out more cash just to have a little more time with her. Just so we’re clear, my foray into gambling is recent. Just a few months in fact. I started off bringing $100.00 and if I left with the same, I was happy. All that changed when I heard her voice from a few rows over.

“Wait,” I said to a total stranger. “I hear Ellen.”

“It’s a slot machine,” she said leaving off the ‘idiot’.

Being the nice person I am and new to the casino game, I wished her luck and followed the voice. There sat an empty chair and I’m pretty sure angels hovered above it, beckoning me. I’m certain she even said, “This is the closest you’ll get to heaven, Kelly. Come, sit down and play a while. By the way, I love your hair.”

Looking left to right, I slid in and from there let nature take over. In truth, what happened that night is still a haze of happiness and flashing lights.

Now, I hear her in my sleep.

I hear the BUM BUM BUM of the bonus multiplier and I hold breath wondering will it be 2x, 3x, 4x? (Can you imagine hitting the 10x?)

 I feel Ellen’s eyes on me. As if she’s waiting for me to find her. It’s comforting and cajoling. I’m helpless to resist it. I cannot resist Ellen. She’s a penny slot seductress!

I should mention I have rituals before I play.

If you’d like to get a pen and paper to write this down, I’ll wait.

Okay so once seated, I reintroduce myself by saying, “Hi Ellen, it’s me Kelly. How are you? You look fantastic.” Because casino’s are loud and I don’t care for miscommunication. It’s the polite thing to do.

Then I slide in my players card and twirl my hair once.

If I’m using cash, I blow on it.

Voucher, I kiss it twice.

Then I slide that in too and tap my toes four times each while it validates.

After my warm welcome and before I hit the blessed button, I close my eyes, rub the screen and promise Ellen, “If I win, you’ll hear me in California.”

Exhaling, I let ‘er rip.

From there all the touchy feely stuff happens and if Ellen were actually present, she’d probably call security.

But she’s not so I continue on uncaring of the looks from strangers and poachers waiting to steal my seat.

How about no. They get no piece of Ellen! Not today!

Between the oxygen pumping through the ducts, religiously reapplying hand sanitizer, the vodka and my determination, I am not leaving. I will not be moved! Even my friends go off without me, checking in hourly. When they return it’s with a drink and encouragement to keep going. (I have good friends) They know I need this. A small break from the daily grind, an escape, a small staycation. An opportunity to disconnect and be silly. Whether it lasts twenty minutes or hours, playing along on her machine gives me endless entertainment and joy.

Alas, I have managed to give myself a limit on my spending and when I reach it, I push through the range of emotions before taking my card back and walking away.

And when she says, ‘Aww I’m going to miss you’, a little part of me whimpers. Because Ellen, I’m going to miss you too.

Until next time…

All my love and luck,


Hi, I'm K.S., wanna party?
Hi, I’m K.S., wanna party?

K.S Adkins is a Detroit native, a lover of the wine, Spanx, the Golden Girls, Ellen and loud music.
She can’t wear heels with dignity, speak without swearing or watch commercials without crying.
She also sucks at writing herself in the third person.

You can find K.S. anywhere alcohol is sold. Not a drinker?
You can also find her on;
Facebook @ K.S. Adkins
Insta and Twitter @ Hoodwrites
Blog site @
Email @

What happened when I realized I didn’t marry my best friend

At the top of the list of ‘Shit I cannot stand‘ is the masses attempting to convince me that true happiness is marrying your best friend.

Listen, had I married my best friend he’d have great tits, a minor Starbucks addiction and 10,000 meaningless texts from me on a daily basis that are heavy on the memes. He would go for pedi’s with me every two weeks, he would take me dancing, make every happy hour and he would read my books (with feedback). He would sit for hours and listen to me talk about absolutely nothing and he’d like it.

And before the ‘experts’ weigh in on the fact that I have no way of speaking for the entire married/committed population this is me telling you, I’m not.

I’m speaking for myself and women like me who did not marry their best friend and are sick of being led to believe we’ve committed a crime.

When I hear ‘he’s my best friend’, I’m the asshole when I raise my hand and say, yeah ‘well mines not.’ For the life of me I cannot understand why this is met with weird looks.  As if by not doing this I’m somehow less… That we aren’t as committed. That we’re frauds.

So what that we run in completely different directions, intersecting often but not constantly? Neither one of us needs to be in the others presence 24/7. You could straight up ask him what he thought about spending all of his free time with me and you know what? He wouldn’t answer you with words. You’d know by the look of horror on his face.

For us, being together too much is a bad thing. (Especially when I’m drinking) We need our apart time and you know what? It’s healthy and it’s OKAY.

He’s fun, I’m fun on crack and an empty stomach.

He’s quiet, I’m not.

He likes sports, I like chaos.

He hates concerts, I hate Two and half men. (Fucking awful)

While we both hate most people, he’s good at playing it off. I’m not.

We like being apart. We like this a lot.

We like what comes after we’ve been apart. We like this a lot more.

We have mutual friends, we have separate friends. We have lives.

I like rap and metal and he likes… it doesn’t matter because his taste in music sucks. But he thinks mine does too so it works.

I don’t watch TV. If he had the ability, he’d become a TV.

He has his crew, I have mine.

For me, my husband doesn’t need to be my best friend nor do I want him to be my best friend because my girlfriends give me something my husband never will and quite frankly, he shouldn’t have to.

We share a commonality as women that is powerful, hilarious, unbreakable, therapeutic and sometimes felonious but that’s not the point. While he is many things to me, he is not my sister. When I need to vent about women shit or the mysterious black hair on my chin and oh yes, even about him, my girlfriends provide this for me. I’m not putting every single emotion I own in his lap because the weight would be too much for him. This I learned the hard way. Not his fault either. It’s just that I am a handful and to deal with me he needs more hands. Hence, the sisters.

Again, if you and your hubs have this, rock-the-fuck-on. But understand that I don’t have this and I don’t want this. I’m not the easiest woman to be married to. I am impulsive, I bore easily, I cannot sit still, I am impulsive, I get pissed easily, I am impulsive, I repeat myself, I stew, I sometimes need to fly and I need him there when I’m ready to come back down. And he’s always there and for a solid half hour he listens to me talk about it but I know when he’s done. I respect that he’s done and when we reach that point I phone a sister.

My friends and I fill a gap for each other that men, (at least ours) cannot. And that’s OKAY.  Being my best friend is a full time fucking job with shit pay.

We have enough daily shit to sift through without my nagging that he doesn’t get me or that he should want to go see Rihanna when I already know he hates concerts. When he says, take one of the girls it’s not a brush off, it’s him loving me enough to know I’d have a ball with or without him. Only in this, his suffering doesn’t begin until I get home and I recap the entire night.

And I do, recap that is.

It is not his responsibility to be my everything all the time. It’s not mine to be his either. To be each others everything is too much pressure.

This is our balance and over the years I have heard so much I’ve stopped counting, “I don’t see how you two work. You’re so different.”

Different is good and anyone that tells you otherwise is full of shit.

We make beautiful memories together, we laugh, we share and we bond in our own way. We rarely tell each other no and I excel at giving him reason to say no but he doesn’t. Because he gets me, he knows what I need, what he can provide and he sees how important sisters are to me. Sisters are important to our marriage just like brothers are important to our marriage.

He is my husband.

I am his wife.

We are not best friends.

We are mates.

We are connected.

We are balanced.

My husband and I chose to marry, to commit but even if we hadn’t made it legal but chose to stay together it doesn’t make what we have less valid. My sisters and I chose to be friends, to fulfill each other in meaningful ways. Like my husband, we are choosing to grow old together, make memories and laugh. To have a husband who understands this, to have sisters who need this like I do, brings me riches beyond measure. For me, it’s the very best of both worlds.

Two healthy loving relationships that bring me a peace and balance where both compliment each other perfectly. He loves my friends, my friends love him. They all love me.  I’ve been with him nearly twenty years and at forty that is half my life. So when I’m told that happiness is marrying your best friend I roll my eyes because what works for one doesn’t work for all. And quite frankly I’m tired of the term best friend being applied to every solid relationship I have. I don’t have best friends, I have relationships. But I only have one husband and that part of my life is cared for in an entirely different way than the other. He gets a part of me they don’t. A part exclusively for him. He makes me better, he drives me nuts and he’s who I fall asleep with every night. On a night when we’re apart he is on my mind before I crash and I think of him when I wake up.

But make no mistake, in the beginning I wanted him to be my best friend, thought he was too. That was an uphill battle for both of us when neither could get it right and spent more time fighting then enjoying our life. The day I realized we weren’t best friends felt like a physical blow to my heart. I had failed him, screwed us up.

When what I needed was perspective and to think for myself, about what worked best for us. Following others examples was killing us especially when I never agreed with it in the first place! Because all I’ve ever heard was, you marry your best friend.



Someone made it a rule and it stuck.

Yes well, fuck the rules, listen to each other, argue about it and make adjustments as needed. When I took the weight from his lap and divvied it up between sisters we both flourished. Odd things started to happen like; I stopped being resentful, giving him grief for not understanding what I needed and expecting him to read my mind. Because he was already providing for me. What was missing was what I needed from my sisters and holy shit am I lucky I figured that out.

This is our balance.

This is something beyond best friends.

To this day he is the only man I see.

Isn't he the freaking cutest?
Isn’t he the freaking cutest?


So I did not marry my best friend.

I married the man of my fucking dreams.


Hugs -n- shit,





The “Me” in Menopause


Warning: If you aren’t a male with an open mind and sense of humor close this browser then promptly punch yourself in the dick.  You’re hopeless! If you are a male wanting disgustingly honest insight to what it’s like to lose control of your own body, by all means…read on. Your woman will thank you later, you know after she’s done crying.
  1. the ceasing of menstruation.
    • the period in a woman’s life (typically between 45 and 50 years of age) when this occurs.

    Simply defined as that moment in every woman’s life she’s conditioned to fucking dread, to fear, to hope like the holy mother of sanitary products it forgets about her.

    Only it doesn’t.

    True story, happened on 12/8/2015: Picture it, stirups, low lights, ice cold lubricant and a steady hand. He leans in, smiles and whispers, “Relax Kelly, it’s normal, you’re normal. It’s just your body preparing itself for menopause. It’s nothing to worry about, you’re doing great.” It’s a miracle I didn’t slice his throat with the speculum.

    True Story.


    Some women come to it naturally, falling into that 45-50 year old gap. Some, like me, fast track the process. Years of reproductive health problems, miscarriages, surgical procedures with no relief. You’ve come to the end of the line, that time when you sit down with your uterus and gently explain, “You’re a whore and I refuse to let you destroy me, therefore you gotta die.”

    So you have a hysterectomy, you even get to keep an ovary. This is great news, something to celebrate. Time passes by and you begin having the highly anticipated hot flash the gals rave about. It’s not painful or anything, just inconvenient. But in your mind you shrug it off because it still beats a period bitches. You have these a lot.

    Month after month your lone ovary beats like the little drummer boy listening to Metallica’s For whom the bells tolls after three lines of choice smack. But again, still not bleeding and counted as a win.

    You adapt, you live and you kinda forget.

    Until you hit 40 and strange things begin to happen. Sudden bouts of burping, bloat, ass blowing and yes, the feels.

    ALL the feels.

    Laughter turns to tears, tears turn into anger and that anger morphs you into motherfucking Chuck Norris who listens to Metallica while doing blow. You burp for no reason, you expel air FROM YOUR ASS without so much as a heads up and through all of it? You are sweating like a whore in church. No one loves you but you love everyone. No one gets you but you get them. Ellen’s show is the highlight of your day because god dammit, she’s so generous! If given a chance you’d even towel whip a Kardashian with the sham-wow you dab the sweat from the back of your neck with because it should serve more than one purpose.

    I bet it sounds like I’m complaining, right? Yeah, you if know what’s good for you, you best not say yes…

    Actually, I’m not complaining.

    Because to me, it’s something I have little to no control over and ? It’s just funny. Knowing an explosion’s coming and sprinting to the bathroom to sit on a towel so no one can hear you is funny.

    (And, let’s be honest genius)

    It’s a natural thing whether a few years ahead of schedule or not. These atrocities happening to me at the worlds worst times means something very important.

    It means I’m healthy.

    It means my body is doing what it’s supposed to even if I don’t agree with it. (Best believe, I don’t)

    It means I sit on the phone with my girlfriends while each of us discuss the disgusting  laws our bodies broke that day. It means I ask my husband to leave the room before I kill him but I do it laughing. Granted, it’s an evil laugh but he knows it’s an evil laugh of love.

    It means I ask my mom, how did you not kill people? It means she blinks and says, “I honestly don’t know…” (because odds are good she did and my dad hid the bodies)

    It means it’s real.

    Which makes it real for men too. Most women I know excuse themselves to another room to burp or ***gasp*** fart. I know, I know, how dare I say the F word? To this day I pee with the door closed, water running and if possible music playing because for me it’s a private thing. So what happens when you’re privacy is stolen?

    You freak the fuck out, that’s what.

    Men you need to remember you’ve always been disgusting. Burping, farting, scratching your balls and ass is natural to you. Picking your noses and even with hair growing in your ears we still love you. So cut your woman some fucking slack while she/we come to terms with our bodies doing something we’ve spent our whole lives trying to avoid.

    Embracing gross bodily functions.

    Because there’s nothing like standing in line and having it happen and whipping around in a circle three times to see who it was then having it register it was you. You did this offensive thing. In public!

    Yes, all of the things I mentioned are normal. TO YOU. Not to us. It’s going to take some getting used to. So if you value your genitals and the tires on your truck, laugh with us not at us. Don’t roll your eyes when we cry at the grass being mowed. Don’t diss Amy Schumer because she’s our hero and you don’t get her. You’re not supposed to get her, she’s ours! When our makeup melts off tell us we’re pretty and do so believably!

    When we scream at you to leave it’s code for never leave me but buy me some fucking ice cream while you’re out! Explain to your friends, your children and the mail lady that your woman is working some shit out. Further explain that she’s not nuts, just prioritizing. Finally explain that she will straight cut you if you look at her funny.

    Knowledge is power people.

    For me, menopause means I’m healthy.

    But don’t mistake it, when I get caught I’ll always blame it someone else. Because yes, farts are funny. Just not when they’re mine.

    You’re welcome,



Welcome to forty, shorty.

I woke up at 5 am on the nose this morning.

At first, I was pissed being that I had another hour and some change to snooze. But then I rolled over smashing a boob and groaned. Oddly enough the pain went from annoying (because I know better) to kinda hilarious.

Today is my birthday.

One I never thought I’d see, let alone find the humor in.

With breast in hand I whispered;

Welcome to forty, shorty.”

Because at thirty-anything, rolling over onto your own boob isn’t funny. It’s just another staunch reminder that your body isn’t what it used to be. That you aren’t what you used to be. We believe this, fear this and deny this when we should be embracing this.

So a few hours ago, I didn’t lie there with it in my hand suddenly pondering the worlds problems or what gravity, alcohol and lack of exercise has done to my body; I just looked down and grinned.

I earned this shit.

I earned the right not to give a fuckity-fuck what anyone else thinks. I like that I’m changing. That my face doesn’t look like it did twenty years ago.  I love that my friends and I have built relationships based on mutual respect, trust and really bad decisions. Jealousy, envy and spite have no room to grow because we’ve moved beyond it. This did not happen over night.  It was a long and difficult process that started with scars the teen years gave us. Those painful years where the bitches sharpened their claws on your fragile soul using it as practice for their future failed marriages.

And you know what? It sticks with us, hardens us.  Forcing us to keep our circles small because let’s face it; no one likes nails scored down their back.

Sadly it doesn’t end when you’re 30 or 40, either. The predators are still there in the shadows waiting to pounce. Except I’m older now, armed with weapons that time and experience have given me. Solidified by the strength from those that love me, that I love in return.

Simply put, I’m powerful.

When I see 20-somethings and 30-somethings struggle I want to tell them; relax girl, it’s all temporary.

I want to beg them to stop buying the magazines, watching the reality shows and believing the hype. It isn’t real, it isn’t healthy, duck lips are never appropriate and photoshop should only be used to remove flaws in a background, never your face.

Then I exhale, reminding myself their time will come. One day they’ll wake up after smashing their own jugs and worry about more important things like, happy hour, cotton underwear and pizza.

You can’t explain forty. You can’t even explain life leading into forty.

You can’t explain that every success, every failure, each pound lost, every five gained, was all leading you to this moment when you wake up and realize you’re thirties were good but this is better. At five in the morning looking your absolute worst with a sore boob you shrug it off, tuck it in and pour your coffee. Just yesterday you thought you were killing it at thirty nine.

But, you were wrong.

You’re crushing it at forty, shorty.



Great Lakes Book Bitches

Normally I steer clear of social situations where a large amount of women will be present.

Venues like, Taylor Swift concerts, martini bars, public restrooms and Victoria’s Secret just to name a few. I’m not an introvert or raging bitch even. It’s just that women in most social situations disappoint me. They stare, whisper and judge. I’m also not one of those women that can ignore blatant bitch behavior. So I avoid it. Let’s be honest, you want me to avoid it.

Which was why I had my concerns about signing at The Great Lakes Book Bash this weekend. My close pals even considered an intervention because clearly I’m abusing meth. I mean, I willingly gave money to sit in a room full of women.

On purpose.

Not just fellow authors of whom 99% I did not know, but readers too. Readers who have expectations, opinions and have other friends that they’ll talk to about the event. I’m not lady bashing. Don’t mistake me. Men can be absolute dicks too. But that’s not what this is about. Imagine my surprise when I didn’t need to throw walls up. Further imagine a scenario where I met women and liked them.

Color me slightly buzzed and confused when these women started complimenting me. (For free) Look, I get it; people have a certain perception of me and while they aren’t wrong (I am a wild card) they aren’t right either. People look at me or my Facebook and think ‘yep she’s a nutty bitch’ but they’d be wrong. Just because I don’t walk around singing somewhere over the fucking rainbow or watch the Oxygen channel doesn’t mean I’m a total asshole.

Years of being judged I will admit has jaded me. Not only that, it took away my ability to care at all what people think. So meeting you ladies who were not only complimentary but genuine… really fucked with my head in a good way.

You’ve given me hope that there are others out there like you.

All women have been in judgey situations and none have liked it. I could never figure out why such a kick ass clique like the sisterhood could be so brutal to each other.  And they are, fucking brutal. We knock each other down instead of lifting each other up. Women can be quite honestly, bitches.

But not this weekend.

Not a single bitch in the bunch.

And for that, I’m grateful because prison doesn’t look good on me.


Rock the fuck on,

KS Adkins



Losing the love of writing

I can’t speak for published authors, but being a self published author can suck. Between editing, formatting, cover art, promoting and dropping the ball on the fucking synopsis… for me, all this takes away from my love of writing.

Granted, I pay and editor/formatter and cover artist but it’s not a cut and dry process. Publishing a book is a constant set of changes.  This doesn’t even include uploading the fucking things.

Plainly put, it’s fucking exhausting.

I don’t like a single part of the process.

I like to write. That’s it. Nothing more nothing less.

I do it for fun and after a while the fun vanishes and it becomes work.

I’m fortunate to have help, do not get it twisted. But writing is the easy part, it’s the rest of it that chips away at me. Many authors I admire have this down to a science. Sadly, science was a shit subject for me and I barely passed it in high school.

If you’re reading this, I feel I should be upfront about the decisions I’ve made going forward. I’m going to continue to write because I can’t not write. But I don’t plan to promote, upload my book(s) to goodreads months in advance or even branch out to other platforms like kobo or ibooks. Why? Because that’s work and we’ve already established I don’t like work.

I like writing.

And really, if you don’t like something don’t fucking do it yeah?

If you stick with me you’ll be rewarded with a lot of stories and some free books but that’s about it. I don’t want to lose the love of writing and because of that, I decided to lay low, drink and enjoy the process my way.

In early 2016 I’m releasing two sets initially: One will feature 6-8 stories (could be more, who knows… I’m winging it) the other will feature 4 stories and both will be about 50,000 each.

Seriously, that’s a lot of fucking books.

And it’s my goal to make certain not a single second of it feels like work.




I need Ellen’s phone number, please.


We all have those moments when we need to take a step back. We have those moments where life hurts, we can’t seem to make the right decisions and we feel like the world is working against us.

We have routines. Family, work, bills and if we’re lucky… a vacation.

We get lost in the grind.

We become standoffish.

We become jaded.

We log on to social media and get bombarded with negativity. We turn on the television and there it is; negativity. It’s nearly unescapable. Personally, it’s the biggest issue I have with social media. Like a hammer to my temple I’m struck repeatedly with all things wrong with this world.

Show me some good dammit!

Give me a reason to look at the other humans I share this planet with and simply say, Hello, my name is Kelly. How are you? Give my daughter a reason to look at her peers and say, Hello,  I’m Allison. How are you?

Race, sexuality, religion, politics, hate, violence, opinions, offendments… it’s shoved down my throat and I can not stand it.

We’ve become complainers.

We’ve become so judgmental, so cruel that if we don’t agree with each others opinions; instead of respecting another’s view we’ll shun them. Separate ourselves because we feel our view is the right view. Hell, we may even cut you, beat you, shoot you or publicly humiliate you. Or if we aren’t feeling violent that day we’ll just bully you from behind a keyboard or picket your home or building.

When did it become okay to be mean?

So last week my friends and I were sitting on a boat. The sun was baking us, we were drinking beer, making sandwiches (Ham for those who care). You know, enjoying life. My first thought was I want more of this. I need more of this. I need happiness, joy and more human interaction.

We decided to head north.

I hate sitting still.

Road trips make me antsy but the payoff was tubing down the Au Sable river. To pass the time I played Soda Crush. Level 171 is beast! We made it to our resort and immediately ran to the beach. Drinks in hand, we all exhale and smile.

Ahhh….We made it.

Life is good.

A band was playing.

There was a 1985 class reunion, a reminder I wasn’t nearly as young as I pretended to be. (But I was still adorable thank you very much!)

Two weddings with the odds pretty good that one couple wouldn’t make it to their first anniversary. (But would split the debt from said wedding over the next five years.)

And I had my girls, my feet in the sand and a smoke in my hand.


Then the band says “Randy here is walking across America, give it up for Randy.” That was it. Yes it was loud. Yes people get preoccupied. But seriously, you hear a man is walking across the US and all he gets is a few claps? She may as well have said, Randy here just broke the record for eating cheese sticks with no ranch. Are we that self absorbed that a man walking ON FOOT PEOPLE across OUR country is lost on us?

So we introduced ourselves to Randy.

Thinking to offer a quick hello, maybe even a how cool is it that you’re doing this before leaving him to enjoy his night was not what happened. What happened was, one man, Randy Montgomery; looked up and smiled.

The first thing I noticed was that he had a firm handshake. I for one, appreciate this. It says a lot about a person when they give you a serious grip. Second, he made eye contact when he did it. He did not lose contact once during our chat. He also spoke with passion and humor. Randy is a convicted man, one who was fed up with the negativity and bullshit. He wanted to leave a legacy behind for his children and the proof he was, was in front of me.

As a mother, (and even if I wasn’t) I thought this was beautiful.

This man does not know my child. He does not know your child. Yet he walks for them. He walks because he believes in our children yet fears the world we’re leaving them with.

Let’s face it, these kids have their work cut out for them because we ‘adults’ have not made their futures easy ones. I’m guilty of it, you’re guilty of it, the media is guilty of it.

Randy took his palm and touched his heart beating inside of his chest 17 times during our conversation. He shook my hand four times. He never lost his smile. His journey is not an easy one and this includes relying on the kindness of strangers. That night after leaving for our room, I worried for Randy.

My first reaction was; would a stranger harm him?

Would someone try and steal from him?  Is he safe when he sleeps? Is he eating enough? Does he check in with family? Does his tent have a security system?

These were my concerns. Because I live in a world where people do hurt each other for material things. We want what the other has and some are willing to obtain it at any cost. We steal what does not belong to us. We covet.

Why wasn’t my first thought; is randy finding joy in this? Is he keeping a journal? Does he tell himself jokes to pass the time? Is he enjoying Michigan? Has Ellen heard about this? Because it’s Ellen, she’d dig it. Maybe I should call her…

You know, because Ellen is like the most positive female eva. She’d meet Randy and ask all the cool questions I was too slow to ask. Ellen does inspirational shit. Yeah, Ellen needs to meet Randy.

He’s probably going to pass by her studio anyway…

Back to Randy! Only he knows the answers to these questions right? Only he knows what it’s like to travel great distances with only his own thoughts to keep him company until he runs into other people.

People that may or may not embrace him.

People that do not know what this man with a backpack is doing in their town. But I  know, my friends and family now know too.

If you’re reading this, now you know.

I envy this man and his vision. His passion for peace and friendship. His love for all the children of the world. His love for all of us. The three of us, my girls and I said hello to almost every person we passed at our resort. The majority gave no greeting in return. On the river everyone said hello. Some offered us food, or spirits and even offered to take photos. Some danced with us, made jokes and one asked to see my breasts. That man needs a little Randy in his life but I just kept floating hoping one day he found what he was looking for. Because it wouldn’t be my breasts.

Now I stare at the window taking in Michigan’s wonder while it whizzes by me. It goes by so fast I can’t memorize it because there isn’t time. But then Randy comes to mind again. He’s out here walking, alone. He left hours before us. He’s taking it all in. Memorizing it. Hell, he’s even mapped it out.


I couldn’t read a map if there was money involved.

But this man, no longer a stranger but a new friend; is having wild adventures. Crazy adventures! He’s seeing things most of us will never see. He’s learning things about himself most of us will never learn. He was a man that will deny NO ONE friendship. Honestly, if I had the time to hold interviews for potential new friends I would. It’s the cynic in me. Not him though, nope. The guy loves everybody.

Taking a note from his book, I decided I would make friends with everyone who embraced me. Lord have mercy, I’m going big y’all! I’m actually excited to be friends with the whole world! Except that so far no one besides my pals will talk to me. Sigh… It’s okay, I have to believe this is a process. I mean, the looks I’m getting alone tells me I’m freaking people out and you know what? I like it.

It’s Sunday now, work waits for me in less than 24 hours. Plus, I just found out my wifi is down. How does that even happen? Why am I so upset by it? What if I miss something? How will I get my edits done if I don’t have wifi! How will I get Ellen’s number without wifi?

This was my worry.

A wifi connection.

My books.

What’s interesting is I write books about violence and corruption. Yes, the hero always prevails and justice is meted out but I’m also asking myself; Why is that content so easy for me to write? And trust me, it’s easy.

I suppose it’s because my creative side comes from my environment, what I see and hear. What I surround myself with. The negativity is always there prodding at me, I relate to it, channel it. My books may have happy endings but for 300 and some pages I’m romanticizing violence for readers enjoyment.  We as readers, as human beings, root for the good guy. Maybe that’s why I write the way I do. Maybe that’s why I will never forget meeting Randy.

Because he’s the good guy. He stands for something. Randy is the most positive human I have ever met.


I encourage you to follow Randy’s journey and cheer him on. As he makes his way to Detroit I find myself getting giddy. I want my family to meet him, friends to meet him. I want to throw him a fucking party.

Most of all, I’d like to shake his hand again and say thanks.

Thanks for reminding me of the good. That it’s out there, it’s everywhere and it will embrace you when you slow down long enough to see it.

Click the link to follow Randy on Facebook and tell him KS sent you:

Peace & Friendship,

KS <3

PS: If you do have Ellen’s number I’d love you forever.

Why I do’s what I do’s

Recently I received an email from an author (via social media) asking me why my books are only $.99… She went on (and on and on) about an authors time being worth more than $.99.

Actually, she also went on to say a lot of other shit but I tuned her rambling out. Because it started with a question and ended with a verbal beat down. While I agree an authors work IS worth more than $.99 the problem is this:

Until I establish myself as an author who can toss out $2.99 or $3.99 releases and have the masses go ape shit over them, to get noticed I’m trying it this way. Is it worth the investment per story? Absolutely not.

I lose my ass.

But… I’m confident one day that won’t be the case.

But today, it is.

I don’t promote much. I don’t have unlimited hours to dedicate to promoting. I write because I like to write. I spend my own money and if I want to charge a buck, I’ll charge a fucking buck.

I don’t have a street team or pay people to do things for me. I have a day job. One that takes a lot of my time, one that pays da bills. When an author or anyone really, takes aim at my methods it pisses me off. You don’t agree with a book being a buck, then charge more for your shit.

If you could see me you’d see me clapping for you and your success!

If you can charge $3.99 and have the masses not bat an eyelash because you are known to be that good, then kudos. As for me, my following is small but loyal. For them and for any new readers that may come along, right now… my books are $.99

My advice to any author who feels this way is to step off your fucking soap box stacked high with your best sellers and take the time to show us novices the tricks of the trade. Do not berate me or my methods when you haven’t bothered to teach me otherwise.

Try being a sister, not a bitch.

Lend a hand, don’t slap me with it.

Unless you’re afraid of a little competition… Which in that case, bring your A game.

Until then, I offer you this finger.

for you

You can sit on it, spin on it or gag on it.

If you’re like me, you like choices.

I’m offering you three because I’m a god damn giver.

The moral of why I do’s what I do’s is this: There is no such thing as trying to succeed WRONG. Trial and error is not a bad thing. Failure doesn’t suck, mean people do.

I do not begrudge you your success. Do not attempt to derail mine.

Love & Lap Dances,




Just say anal and watch what happens…

When someone asks me what my books are about two things happen. 1) I freeze up like I was caught with a prostitutes hands down my pants and 2) Ask how many hours they have to spend listening to me babble.

How do you explain to someone in a few sentences that your head works in mysteriously violent ways? Uh, you can’t. At least I don’t have that ability. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried and by the end of my spiel most folks are seeking the exit. While I’m not a violent person (normally) I have this affinity toward violence that I am certain one day will lead me to go Michael Douglas on someone’s ass.

Falling Down circa 1993
Falling Down circa 1993

Seriously. It’ll happen on a Tuesday because weird shit happens on Tuesdays. I’ll be in line at Starbucks, waiting patiently for my venti nonfat 5 shot caramel macchiato and some asshole will cut in front of me or comment on my hair. This will cause me to snap. I’ll reach for my 9mm and light everyone up minus my barista. I mean she gets me, she’s good people. But yeah, on a Tuesday I’ll lose my fucking mind and become a statistic.

How do you explain to someone that your stories, hell your entire thought process is based on your girlfriends and our adventures? Unless you’re one of  us, you won’t get it. You’ll just smile assuming I’m either crazy or full of shit. I won’t correct you or try to sway you either, because they’re my friends and I’m protective. But when it comes to friends, I hit the mother fucking lotto. We do crazy things, obscene things and we laugh, a lot. My books feature strong females and the one liners and troubles are all us. We go through life as a group. Venting, sharing, giving and taking. They have my back and I have theirs. They inspire me. Well… and go to strip clubs with me and really we should all take inspiration where we can find it.


How do you explain to someone that women are super resilient, smart, bad ass humans? While women like to be saved on occasion many times, we save ourselves. My characters have vulnerabilities but they are also fearless and brave. Of course, I exaggerate the violence (I mean duh) but I have a thing for alpha females. I like the idea that a woman would kick your ass to save her own. That she will go momma bear on that ass if you threaten what she loves. As a reader, I love all types of romance but I wanted to write the GI Jane’s and the Lara Cross’s. I wanted to create a fictional side of Detroit where women didn’t only stand up for themselves but for it’s citizens too. I wanted to write women who may look like a dream but could be your worst nightmare.

How do you explain to someone that it’s ‘over the top’ fiction? That my love for Detroit and it’s history is why all of my stories are based in one place. As a woman, there are times where I find myself the underdog in situations. Because I have great hair and wear makeup, I’m not on par with the boys. (You’d be wrong but whatev’s) Detroit is the underdog too. Outsiders have nothing valuable to say so they belittle a city they know nothing of. So I wanted to shed light on the things that are important to me.

The sisterhood

Female empowerment/

Unconventional love stories

and The D

I don’t write because I think I’m better at it than anyone else. I write because I have something to say. How do you tell someone any of this in a few short sentences? I have no fucking idea. But what I can tell you is that I do not care about writing a formula book. Don’t get me wrong, I could. I just don’t want to. I also do not give a figgity fuck about tenses or showing versus telling. I’m not big into conforming which is me nicely telling you it isn’t going to fucking happen. 


 Speaking of promotion, I suck at this too. Hell, I forgot I even owned this blog. How’s that for self promotion? So basically what I’m saying is the next time someone asks me what my books are about my answer will be: “Anal.”

Because that’ll either earn me a fan or put me on a prayer list. Well, as long as it’s not on a Tuesday at Starbucks.

So to you reading my babble, thanks for giving me a shot.