Choir Explosion!

Fuck if I don’t find myself  in the the strangest places. I like to think of people’s emotional statuses like bellybuttons; you’re either an innie or an outie. Well, I’m bipolar so it really depends on the time of the year, but for the most part, I’m an innie. I don’t answer the phone. I gather courage, drink some wine,  and call back. I don’t do lunch. That’s a nightmare. I do dinner, in dark restaurants, with liquor.  My daughter,  on the other hand, is a hard core, kick ass outie. She sings. In FRONT of OTHER PEOPLE. Last night we went to her choir performance. The show was fifteen minutes late to start, and I was fifteen minutes early.  I was wedged in beween my husband and bona-fide strangers. The sing songy talkative type. It made sense that they had spawned confident children who wouldn’t rather walk on poisonous snakes than sing in public. The rapid heartbeat was in full force. My palms were sweaty. Where WAS my daughter,  anyway?  I asked my husband over and over.  The nice man next to me said “hello” and that was the motherfucking last straw. Who did this smug little camelhumper think he was talking to? Do I LOOK friendly? No. No, I do not. I leaned into my husband and whispered ” please bring me my wine from the car.” I’ll stop and explain here, I have an emergency thermos of Merlot for situations such as this. Or if I’m bored. Or sad. Or happy. So, husband says ” there’s no food or drinks allowed in the auditorium.” Then he returned to Pokemon Go. Cause those little  monster fuckers are more important than me. I looked around and spied an old lady with a water bottle. “Robby, psssst, see, that lady has a drink.” We both examined her for a minute before she got all uncomfortable and put her bottle away. I made a mental note that when I’m that old, if a couple of hippie fuckers stare at my bottle I’m gonna tell them to go fuck themselves right in the ASS. Well, Robby ignored me. ” Psssst, pleeeeeease?” “NO.” ” Why not? ” “I’ll be all uncomfortable, Lindsay.” “But you married me dude, you’re always uncomfortable, come on.” “No.” I sat back in my chair and pondered getting it myself. “Psssst. Robby, Pleeeease (insert childish pouty face)” “FINE. But I’m not comfortable with this.” He stalked off down the stairs , and I sat back in my seat. It would be terrible to say I was smug, so I won’t say it. The rest of the concert was amazing. I’m still in awe that my crazy, overly medicated, wine dependent, person created such a songbird. I might have screamed my daughters name several times as though I was attending a Greenday concert, but my family expects that type of behavior from me.

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Maybe It’s All A Joke

Have you ever wondered if your place in life is just some pretty little space filled by a producer playing a fucking prank on you? All the while, the real action is taking place just beyond your grasp…out there taunting you? Like a puppet show, or a symphony. Soft and visceral. Just a thought at the start of a dream?

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Death By Numbers

Christina Grimmie was shot down last night after after her concert. My daughter loves her music. She looks up to her. Last year for her birthday, I bought tickets for my daughter to see Christina in concert. I love the fact that the message of her music is strong, not sexy. Two days before the concert, it was canceled. My daughter was sad. Today, as I read the news, I can’t help but imagine, what if? What if we had been at that concert? What if my child witnessed the bullshit insanity of some fucked up fan?  It’s not the first time I’ve marvalled at the vicious nature of my own species either. When I ask myself what the problem is, the answer delivers itself in bold italics…. there are too many rats in the cage. An overpopulated society with an underwhelming sense of compassion breeds killers.

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You know when you’re laying in bed wishing to all hell that your brain will just shut the fuck up and let you sleep? Then you feel a little guilty, because, you know, at least you’re alive. But THEN, you’re like, fuck THAT,  at least dead ass corpses get to fucking rest! Me neither.

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As I opened my eyes this beautiful morning on the Oregon coast, I stretched my arms high above my head and thought,  In a world filled with Trump supporters and high heels, don’t we all need a good rub down and a shot of fucking poison?

 

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