And pizza. You see, Garfield loves pizza.
In this regard, though, I fail my hero. The only pizza I really like is meat pizza, without the pizza. However, I’ve found a use for pizza. I’ll tell you about it after this word from my sponsor, The Saint of Quarantine Island.
Janet Davis has mindlessly followed the man labelled the Saint of Gilford Island to his hotel room.. Last week she unzipped her dress, asserting herself after learning of her husband’s infidelity with her friend. Skipping the removal of all her remaining clothes — you aren’t interested in stuff like that, are you? — here we see how she feels when the saint doesn’t respond how she expects.
Why didn’t he do something, say something? Wink, even. She’d settle for a wink. Why didn’t he wink?
Because he was a saint and not just an ordinary guy the media had slapped a label onto to capture clicks and views? A real, true saint? Incorruptible?
Which made her what? Jezebel?
I hate to burden you with too much reading (there are a lot more snippets to get to), but here are a few more.
His throat bobbed as he met her gaze. Yet still he sat on the bed, visibly aroused but doing nothing about it.
That was when she knew.
Knew that this was really and truly a mistake. Worse than a mistake — it proved she was dead. Shriveled up and dead.
Janet Davis was deceased.
Or at least old, and that was the same thing, wasn’t it? The beauty who could twirl any man around her little finger with a seductive smile . . .that woman had died of old age.
She closed her eyes and stifled a sob.
Effing Feline here again. Tonight, Mr. Valentine and family are ordering pizza. I won’t eat any of it (sorry, Garfield!), but this pic from the Internet has given me an idea I want to try. But only if the pizza is nice and warm!
Wish me luck!
The Saint of Quarantine Island
Maybe you’ve read about viruses that turn people into zombies. But how about a virus that turns people into madmen, some of whom become creative geniuses?
Spurred by her husband’s infidelity and haunted by abandoned aspirations, a suburban housewife smuggles herself into a wilderness quarantine. By catching the disease, she hopes to write a book that’ll redeem her empty life — and maybe, just maybe, she’ll find love with the man they call the Saint of Gilford Island. She’d once spent a memorable though oddly chaste night with him. Surely he’ll help her build a new life.
But exile on an island of madmen is crueler than any suburban daydream. Instead of a quiet writing retreat, she finds pirates who steal everything but the clothes on her back … an arrogant Cambridge scientist who wants to whisk her away to the London of an alternate Earth … a troubled Indian boy who becomes a surrogate son … a licentious cult leader who kidnaps her.
They’re all periodically insane then sane and back again – and so will she be, if she catches the Fireworks virus. Is writing a book really worth such a risk?
What about true love?