Holy epiphany, Batman.

I just figured it out. Hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. Why I’m craving to be social. Why I refuse to hide myself away anymore. Why it’s like a breath of fresh air, even in the otherwise oppressive city fumes.

It was him. That gingerfuck. I was cloistered, sequestered, denied, hidden for over a year.

And now that I’m free, motherfucker I’m free. And I’ll be damned if I hide anymore (corners, notwithstanding). And damnit, I’m loving every. fucking. minute. of it.

Don’t ya just love a good epiphany?

More to come.

Dichotomellaneous

It occurs to me that I’m living a plethora of dichotomies, all at once. And as I sit here, my mind is racing with unformed thoughts. So brace yourselves for a rambling mishmash of assorted mumbojumbo. Let’s start with a song to enjoy while you read this bullshit, mkay? Mkay.

With the music sorted, let’s start with… Oh. I know. Music. Duh.

Musichotomy

As I was listening to a song earlier, on the way back to work from the post office, it struck me as how different it was to my usual proclivities. I was listening to Jake Bugg’s Lightning Bolt. Now, here’s the thing, y’all. This Louisiana-born-and-raised chick loathes country music. Loathes. I’ve refused to date country-music-fan dudes, because music is too important to me to compromise that harshly. (Yeah. I said harshly.) I mean, super recently, too. Within the last couple months, I let a good dude pass me on by, because – while he shared my lust for live music – he was all and only about country. Major. Serious. Country. Everything else about him was cool as shit, but we just couldn’t hang, because he was always listening to some ear-bludgeoning nightmare – and proved equally unwilling to listen to my jams.

And yet. There I was. Jamming out to Lightning Bolt. Singing along, for fuck’s sake. Alarm bells went off in my head, and then I just said fuck it and went with it. Granted, dude is hardly country in the traditional sense (or even in the modern sense), but there’s a palpable country vibe to it. I tried to forgive myself because of his obviously overwhelming influence by Bob Dylan, one of my all-time favorites.

But yeah. One day, I’m listening to Fugazi’s brief discography. The next, I’m going all out on some Trombone Shorty and Keb Mo. Following that with Wax Taylor and Portishead. Then, I’m all up in some Pharcyde and Mos Def. Let’s not forget my love of the Peppers. How about Leon Bridges or Band of Horses? Fucking hell, if I could only stop listening to Clint Mansell and Damien Rice. Then, there’s my new little occasional metalbar haunt, and Church of the Cosmic Skull, for fuck’s sake! So, should I really be surprised by yet another style of music? No. And yet I am.

Lifestyle stuff and stuff

I’m also contemplating my sudden love of Downtown. The whole downtown scene appeals to me, on a visceral level, really. I love the sites and sounds, the absurd snippets of dialogue as random passersby, well, pass you by. I love the snatches of music, the invisible notes and melodies losing the chase as you stroll on down the sidewalk. The various aromas, at once arresting and enticing, alluring and repulsing. Thai spices and incense. Rose petals and cat food. Greek salad and craft beer. Gasoline and perfume. Sex and vomit.

But it’s so fucking weird to me. To like it, nay love it, the way I do. It pulls me, draws me, keeps me locked in when I give in to the call. And it makes no sense, because I’m a trees girl. I’m a sky girl. I’m a mountains and rivers and stars girl. I’m a birdsong and wind girl. I’m a bubble over with giggles and laughter at the sight of a tiny woodland creature girl.

I’m a fuck society girl.

So, no, I don’t get it. This sudden fascination, even obsession, with downtown. Or do I? I think it’s part of me coming into my own. My self. One of the many parts of me that I denied for all of my life: being social. Not hiding myself away from people and society and the sorts of experiences only exposure to a place like “downtown” can bring. And damnit, I’m loving every second of it. Even the ridiculous, frustrating, maddening, and absurd. I’m fucking loving it.

My favorite bar is a jazz club. They have live music all the time. All. The. Time. Jazz, funk, blues, soul. And I’m in fucking heaven, every single time. I sit at the bar, smiling, and clasping my hands in joy, and groovin’ to the music. I stand outside, on the sidewalk, and laugh and dance in the rain. It is so…freeing…and perfect.

I also strangely enjoy the metalbar. It doesn’t have live music, and it doesn’t necessarily have the kind of music I dig (generally speaking). But I appreciate it for precisely those reasons…it’s different; it’s new; it takes me out of my comfort zone (but not to an extreme level). It’s great for culture-learning/people-watching. And I really fucking like their pineapple cider.

Another little spot is a wine bar; a friend of a friend plays his trombone and keys, while we drink wine, snack on an appetizer, and talk about meaning and purpose and music and books and life and whatthefuckever. People meander on down the sidewalk, occasionally stopping to drop money into the tip bucket or chat with us or peruse a menu.

This amorphous entity that is downtown has me in its grip, and I love it.

It doesn’t stop me from going kayaking, checking out nature trails, spending an entire afternoon reading beside the lake. But there is less of that than I would have expected of myself. Not because I’m holed up, depressed in bed, but because I’d rather be downtown. (Then, there are those brewery crawls. A whole ‘nutha story!)

Fucking weird.

~

I’ve suddenly talked myself out. So I’m calling an abrupt end to this particular post.

But I’ll be back.

I will.

 

 

M is for That’s Like So Metal, Ohmygod Becky look at her butt, I mean blood

So I’m at this bar, right? I’m not actually in the bar; I’m standing outside, hiding in this little nook, waiting for someone. It’s cold. It’s fucking cold. I’m wearing two pair of socks in my docs, jeans, a cami, a t-shirt over the cami, a flannel over the t-shirt, a hoodie over the flannel, a beanie snugly perched atop my skull, and the hoodie pulled over that. As I said, fucking cold. (And apparently, that turns me into someone whom “looks like she’s standing in line for a Pearl Jam concert in 1994.”)

I’m near the East Coast now. Near. Definitely in the Eastern Time Zone (is that even what it’s called? I don’t fucking know.) Standing outside on a frigid October night. Downtown. Outside a metal bar. Yeah, you read that right. A metal bar. With this incongruous name. Like “Gilligan’s Island,” only that’s not the name, but it’s close enough to give you an idea of the incongruity.

This metal bar is a haven for disenfranchised twenty-somethings, who aren’t really disenfranchised. They just like a certain look and a certain style of music, and they think it makes them cool to pretend to be disenfranchised. It doesn’t, but they’ll figure that out in a few years. Or they won’t, and they’ll turn into the old fucker who wouldn’t leave me alone. “Why are you standing over here in the corner, looking all beautiful and alone? You’re so beautiful. You’re like an angel. Can I touch your face?” Please. Don’t. Thank you so much, but please. No. “But why are you over here in the corner? Why aren’t you out on the sidewalk with everyone else? Why aren’t you standing in the street?” (Yes, he was fucking hammered.) I’m standing here, because I’m hiding. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t want to be noticed. I’m waiting on someone, and this is where I’m comfortable waiting. “But but…” (you get the idea) So yeah. I hope they figure it out before they turn into that walking pile of sadness.

I end up trapped in my little corner (that’s what happens to corner-seekers, FYI), hemmed in by this pack of Goth Metal Grunge hybrids. Gretals? Yeah. Let’s call ’em Gretals. So the Gretals are initially three dudes. Bitching about their ex-girlfriends whom “just totally didn’t get metal, man. She like didn’t understand that there are genres within genres and shit.” (I think the word you’re looking for is “subgenre,” Gretal.)

Then their new girls show up. The ones who are “so metal, man. I’m so glad to finally have a metal bitch.” (Yeah.)  The following snippets are from the She-Gretals:

Oh my god, girl. (Restaurant X) would like ohmygod so totally hire her cuz she has dreads and everyone hires dreads like totally.”

Yeah. Their new girls are so metal, man. This was followed up by a serious conversation about how one can determine another chick’s “metalness” by the colors she dyes her hair.

And then there was this.

There are like no hot available men in (X City). And all the hot chicks are bitches, including my friends. I’m like attracted to two different types of people, so we just share each other. That’s living metal, baby.”

And.

I feel so spooky, and I love that you’re spooky. We should fuck.

Blood wrestling. I love blood wrestling. (What’s blood wrestling, inquires He-Gretal.) It’s like when, like, instead of mud, you cut yourselves and wrestle in blood. It’s so fucking hot. And metal. (Looks at the she-gretal she keeps drooling over.) We should totally finish our wine, then blood wrestle.

Most of that was said by the she-Gretal who kept showing off pictures of a scar that looked like a skull when she pulled the bandage off. “Isn’t that like totally the most metal thing you’ve ever seen? I’m so metal right now, I can’t even.” Yeah. Neither can I.

Now, here’s the thing. I’m not a metalhead. Never have been, and I don’t pretend to be. But I have a niggling suspicion, call me crazy, that NONE of that was metal. It was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. I instead entertained myself by live-texting the ridiculousness to the person I was waiting for.

Once I was rescued, we fled the scene for a bit – so as to shake the proud robber of abandoned hurricane homes. Yeah, “you’re just like a little angel lighting up the corner” dude was from Louisiana. Bragged about robbing homes of the wealthy during hurricane evacuations. Real winner, that one. (He got all mopey and apologetic when I failed to be impressed and was instead saddened by his tales. But that’s hardly a credit to him.)

Anyway. So. Hi. It’s been a long fucking time. I’m in a different place now, physically, emotionally, spiritually. But I’m here. I’m okay. And I’m actually fucking happy.

So.

Hi.

And C is for suck it, Ezekiel. I finally wrote again. Now, piss off.

 

It’s All About the Hustle

I’ve been hustling. And I do mean hustling hard. I’ve got two side hustles going on, on top of the full-time job (which I’m actively seeking to replace with a different full-time job elsewhere – never satisfied anymore, it seems).

One is the tutoring gig, which is frankly more trouble than it’s worth at this point because of an extended commute and a low cut of the pay. But I’m committed to seeing the school year through. They’ve got another month in these parts.

Second hustle is a writing thing I’ve been doing. Fluffy SEO padding shit to trick google. (They probably think I don’t know what’s up, but it’s fairly obvious it’s all bogus to do some hardcore SEO driving. You know, bolding keywords here and there. Burying a “moneylink” in a sea of non-competing, vaguely related links. Appending exactly three license-free stock photos and one embedded YouTube video. Yeah. Fun stuff.) But you know what? I’ve decided that I don’t care. I’m not screwing over any people with the BS articles and blog posts. I’m helping to trick a search engine that tricks people anyway. And while it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth, at $15 a post…I can’t afford to linger too long on my reservations. I figure…keep this up a couple of months, and I’ll be back to salient. Quite frankly, that outweighs ethics at this point (to a reasonable extent, anyway).

What does bug me is that the hustle further stymies my own words, because damnit I’m churning out four to eight of those suckers a day on top of my day job. But I don’t know how long the little gig will last, so I’m gonna milk it for all it’s worth.

I think…I just needed to vent that. And say that, no…I’m not trying to disappear. Again. Doesn’t mean I won’t. But it’s not my intent.

One day at a time.

One day at a time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some hustling to do.

Warnings

Warn me
before you listen to hip hop,
Country one said.

Warn me
before you curse,
Christian one said.

Warn me
before you befriend me,
Aloof one said.

Warn me
before you laugh,
Stoic one said.

Warn me
before you believe,
Atheist one said.

Warn me
before you love me,
Jewish one said.

Warn me
before you trust me,
Brown one said.

Warn me
before you cry,
White one said.

Warn me
before you become,
They said.

Warn me
before you exist,
They said.

Warning you
that I’m done,
I said.

Brass Monkey, That Funky…Pictostorythingy?

My hands hurt. Like a motherfucker. I hope Cinderella didn’t have arthritis; otherwise, scrubbing the floors had to be extra hard work.

So. Me no typey much today. Me piccy. Here, me show you. (Me no know why me talk like Cookie Monster now. But me likey.)

image
This bitch is done. P.S. Look at that uglyass TV covering the beautiful windows. I should sell it, but I haven’t played enough video games on it yet. So me keep it.
image
My dead birdie friend. Finally figured out how they were getting in, when ANOTHER one flew in. Coming down the damn stove vent. One of the cats instantly caught him in his mouth, but I yelled his name, and he dropped the bird. Got superlucky. The frantic thing fell hit the window (not too hard) and fell down plunk into a trashcan. I covered the can, carried it outside, uncovered it…and he flew away. Happy day. This one, though? Dead as a fucking doornail. And he’s no Jon Snow, so he’s gonna stay dead. LIKE THE HIGH SPARROW. Fuckyeah, my geek is en pointe today.
image
Some things I can’t seem to part with, like this olive wood necklace from Israel. Almost all the rest of the crap in the jewelry box was chucked straight into the bin. Anyway. I’ll keep the necklace, even though it now reminds me of a bitchass bitch. OHMYGOSH, this may actually be from my mamaw’s pilgrimage and not my bitchwhore aunt’s trip. I feel better.
image
I had to keep these, too. Back when I was teaching, some of my students shared their Mardi Gras beads with me. Oh. But the red and green ones are from Cinco. I should Cinco de Trasho those. Anyway. Also featuring IV bruise. It’s almost gone now. Me sad.
image
Contemplating a move to New Zealand. Wanna come with?
image
Or Australia. Because kangas. People. People. PEOPLE. AUSTRALIA HAS TREE KANGAROOS. Those are NOT Jim Henson muppets! They’re TREE KANGAS. That is all.
image
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Totoro! And turtle butt.
image
Garry and friends, snuggled up in a bundle of scarves.
image
Dudes. I cried when I threw this out. I cried. And one of the poor cats still hasn’t forgiven me for tossing it. He’s been going into the bedroom and standing in front of the spot where it used to sit and just staring. I’m a horrible human being.
image
Random sunflower popped up in my yard! This kinda shit makes life worth living.
image
Random sunflower’s random younger brother. I call him The Usurper.
image
And and and! Mushrooms after the rain! Happy dance!
image
Azalea joy.
image
Happy Little Azaleas. I hope the eventual new owners love these and don’t murder them. I’m gonna miss ’em.
image
Another photo.

And now. For the real purpose of this post.

Happy 4th of Monkeys!

Shut Your Comasnorehole

Sometimes I think about weird things. Weird, random things about which I have no clue where my curiosity came from.

Exhibit A: Getting ready for work this morning, the following thought train barreled through my head.

I wonder how many people snore while they’re in comas.

Seriously, can people snore while comatose?

Ohmygod, can you imagine? What if you had to share a room with a comasnorer?

What if you were a comasnorer’s nurse or hospice person thingy?

Can you imagine sitting bedside and listening to twelve hours of chainsaw snoring?

For twenty fucking years?!

An entire lifetime of comasnoring?!

I FUCKING HATE YOU, COMASNORERS!

I pose the question to a friend. Who promptly destroys my perfectly rational comasnore rage with less rational reasonable rationale. Yes. Less rational rationale. Shit about life support and definitions of coma and blah blah blah. Thanksafuckinglot, Ezekiel, for derailing my thought train. Again.

~

Exhibit B: Whose idea was it to remove all the bones from chicken? You know. For boneless chicken.

What sick fucks figured out how to debone an entire chicken, leaving slabs of seemingly undamaged chicken meat stuff after?

Dude. I wish I had that patent. Imagine how much boneless chicken I could afford.

Wait.

Wait a damn minute.

EGGS.

Eggs are chicken. Right?

Those motherfuckers are boneless!

CHICKEN CAME UP WITH BONELESS CHICKEN! They…they literally gave birth to it!

I don’t know what to do with this information. But I’m glad to have it.

boneless_dinner
Well this is bullshit. I’m nowhere near the first person to think this random shit. WHAT DOES IT MEAN.

~

Exhibit C: Have you ever wondered how many people, in any given moment, are shitting at the exact same time?

I have. Especially Monday. I thought it a lot on Monday.

Like…what if we could harness all the pushing power happening this very second?

I bet we could circumnavigate the globe.

Repeatedly.

Maybe rocket straight to Jupiter.

With all the horse ass power happening simultaneously each and every minute.

I mean, I’m guessing it would be a messy ride. But still.

DUDES.

This is useful information. To whom, I know not. But I know it’s useful! It’s probably not useful.

~

I know I’m not alone here. What’s the most recent weird shit you remember thinking?

Shazamify My Life: The Last Ten Songs I Shazammed

I’ve had a busy week. And I’m looking down the barrel of an even busier weekend. But at least the weekend will lack the stress of the week. In fact, I’d say this weekend is full of potential. But that’s for another post.

Speaking of posts, I have a title for one I wanna write. But I still haven’t worked it all out in my head. So while that marinates, I thought I’d do a fun little music post. I use Shazam a lot. Usually at least once a day.

I don’t mean these Shazams:

I mean this Shazam:

Shazam Logo

If you have a Smartphone and have never heard of this app, download it. Now. I’ll wait.

If you like music but don’t have a Smartphone, go buy one. Then download this app. Now. I’ll wait.

Oh and if you don’t like music, just get out. Seriously, what the fuck is the matter with you?

So. Shazam. This nifty little app helps you identify songs you hear on the radio, at the bookstore, playing through your walls from the neighbor’s house, coming through the TV. Whatever. You push the little shazammy button and SHAZAM, you suddenly have the title and artist of what you’re listening to!

Anyway, as I said! I’m one busy motherfucker and I have things to do: a bag to pack, an application to finish, copy to edit, pizza to eat. So let’s get to this mofo.

The Ten Most Recent Shit I Shazammed

R. City feat. Adam Levine – Locked Away – heard on the radio. Also, is it just me, or is Adam Levine only attractive when his tats are exposed? In fact, let’s just put a bag over his head and strip him down. WHAT. The actual fuck. This is a clean blog, people. Do not talk about those things here! Besides. R. City is the one that makes this song.

Highly Suspect – Lydia – FanFuckingTastic. Hotdamn, this is one of the best ones I’ve shazammed lately.

Sun Drug – Wildman – Hell. Yes. Damn, I shazam some good shit.

Tove Lo – Talking Body – I wasn’t a huge fan of her voice, but the lyrics are sexy. And I dig it. Because if you love me right…

Jason Derulo – Want to Want Me – Because Jason Derulo. And I clearly love good, fun, upbeat, sexy songs.

The Delta Saints – My Love – Holy. Fuck. Did I say I shazam some good shit sometimes? I shazam some good shit sometimes!

G-Eazy & Bebe Rexha – Me, Myself & I – I fucking love this song. Seriously, dunno what it is, but I love it. For once, I think I dig the chick’s part more.

Robin Schulz feat. Francesco Yates – Sugar – What can I say? I have eclectic tastes, and I love the shit outta this song. Anyway, how’d you get so fly, huh? Plus. Dudes. This is clearly the best fucking video on the list! Seriously, even if you hate this kinda music, that’s okay. Mute it and watch the video!

Major Lazer feat. Ellie Goulding and Tarrus Riley – Powerful – Sexy, soulful, yes. Aching, yearning, loving. Just. Yes. Because you could give it all, but it’s never enough. As it should be.

2Pac feat. Talent – Changes – Excellent lyrics, beat, rhythm. This song is responsible for making me reevaluate my opinion of 2Pac’s music.

Yep. That’s some eclectic stuff. And here’s a bonus shazam because I can’t even follow my own fucking rules. TEN, you say? Fuck you! Here’s ELEVEN! Muahaha!

Deftones – Hole in the Earth – Enjoy Deftones, because I fucking love ’em.

 ~

Now. What’s the last thing YOU shazammed?