J.J. Goodman: Writings, Musings and More

Ok, so I saw something on Facebook that really irked me.   (Just one thing?)   Ok, something in particular , Captain Literal. I saw a meme that read "a woman can't change a man because she loves him, a man changes himself because he loves her. "   *blink blink*   No. Wrong. Absolutely not. The second part of this statement is without question, unequivocally, undeniably, a piece of unadulterated bullsh*t.   (Uh, tell us how you really feel….)   No. Wrong. Absolutely not. The second part of this statement is –   (Okay, okay! We get it…. Total BS. I can't believe I'm going to ask this question, but why?)   I'm glad you asked. The answer, which I'll state simply before prattling on for multiple paragraphs in further explanation, can be summed up thusly:   No one should have to change themselves for love. Ever.   Here's the thing – I've been married. Twice. I'v...

You are my sunrise. I'm lost without you. My world, my life. You and me, always. Alexandra wiped her tears and placed the notes back in the shoebox from which she'd removed them. There had to be hundreds of them; these reminders of how much he'd cared for her. "Love isn't a four-letter word, it's a four-word letter," he'd said to her once. "Love was overrated."   He didn’t' mean the notion of love, mind you, but the word itself. It was far too easy to simply tell someone that you loved them.   Far too… conventional. In the time they were together he uttered the words "I love you" three times: The first time they expressed their feelings for one another; their wedding day; and the day he died. Each and every other time, he did so with a four word letter. "Words are powerful. Love is more so. How can we be limited to one particular word or phrase to express how we feel?" And thus it bega...

And now for something completely different! It's been a while since I've written any prose fiction here, so I thought I'd take a stab a some first-person noir.... Let me know your thoughts. Is it worth continuing? Enjoy! ****   I could hear my mother's voice in my head the second I pressed my thumb down and made the tiny blue flame dance. "You're gonna give yourself cancer!" Yea, I know ma , I thought to myself as I drew a breath in and pulled the flame to the cigarette dangling between my lips. The acrid smoke burned my lungs. I didn't care. How long had it been? A year? Maybe two. It didn't matter. After the week I'd had, I needed a smoke. "Thanks," I said to the hipster kid who let me bum one from him as I handed him his lighter. He nodded and went back to his little group of hipster friends to, I don't know, talk about their beards or Bernie Sanders or something. Whatever. I got what I wanted. And I appreciat...