The Monster Next Door


I have spent literal years, and I mean literal years going back and forth about whether to write about my life. I love telling stories and I have done a considerable amount of living in 33 years. Often, when I would attempt to write about my life, I would trigger myself, which is kind of amusing in hindsight. My subconscious mind was a proverbial minefield, and I routinely blew myself up walking around it. I would then stop, shelve the project for a few months, forget why I stopped in first (and, second, and third, and) place, start writing about my life again and well—boom.

After a whole lot of trial, error, failure, self-destruction and reconstruction, here I am again. Writing about my life. Walking through my subconscious mind to share tales from a life that often feels several lives all happening at the same time. The field has been swept (countless times), but who knows, there is always the possibility of something insidious lurking in some corner of my mind left unchecked. I have no fear about this possibility any longer. For the first time in my life, I accept all in its totality—the great, the good, the bad, the ugly, the beauty, the horror, the trauma, the humor, all of it. 

So, welcome reader. I am Countess Blackwell, and this my life. Unfiltered. Uncensored. Unapologetic. Full disclosure—details like names, dates, and physical descriptions have been altered because the only person I have interest in exposing is myself. Other than that, everything you read in these stories is, to the best of my memory, true. With that out of the way, it is time to begin the show.