Mine was to days ago. So yours isn’t the same as mine if it’s today and I’m not going to sing the song with you. You’re alone. Hah. Deal with it.
Obviously, I’m in a mood.
For whatever reason, I decided to go home for my birthday. Visit my mom. I mean, after all she was there when the tragedy happened. It’s at least partially her fault.
The drive was long and mostly boring. It involved a lot of bad singing, as long drives often do. Another time in my life I would’ve taken a plane, but it’s hardly worth it with all of the security issues. I only want to be groped by three strangers, my masseuse, my doctor, or my clergy.
My husband also gets groping rights but he’s not a stranger. So, you know, get to know me.
Anyway, so Arcade Fire won the Grammy for The Suburbs and the song really resonated with me. Apparently they lived near where I grew up during their formative years and were so traumatized, they channeled it into the pain that helped them win a Grammy.
I’m just biding my time. I was plenty traumatized by NW Houston. Now I just need a talent.
The drive was boring. Flat lands. Cows. Dead trees. Cows. Dead cows. Exits. Billboards for God and gotcha slogans about how well billboard advertising works so well that they have managed to, indeed, annoy you.
Then a billboard for beaver nuggets.
Sounds like something I’d contract in the bathroom rather than something to eat. So I go to my favorite place for a snack–a little truckstop where I sit in my car and watch the prostitutes move from truck cab to the next.
Dinner and a show. Welcome to the ass of civilization. I’m heading into the deep crazy. Meditating on debauchery, dreams that have died to the point where sucking a greasy trucker penis sounds reasonable while I eat really puts me in the mood for what I’m about to endure.
Or so I think. It’s never really enough to prepare you for the full horror.
That said, I had fun. I’ve long since learned to disassociate myself from the Nazi flags and get rich quick scam churches on the drive through town.
A good way to disassociate yourself from a situation is drinking. Lots and lots of drinking. Half bottle of champagne and three gin and tonics. And an ambien for good measure. Then a visit to Ross to dress for less. My mom bought me shoes. They’re green and make me happy.
She made me and Thursday spaghetti and devil’s food angel cake with strawberry and whipped cream.
Devil’s food angel cake. Yeah, that’s what I mean. Poor little cake was so confused. Nothing for it but to put it down and eat it with the whipped cream. Which we did, with relish. Not actual relish. I don’t think that would’ve added to the recipe.
Maybe I’ll try it next time. I think the ambien blocks out taste receptors, so why not?
Anyway, happy birthday to me. I think we’ll karaoke later. Or check out that alligator show.
And if you have a moment, Zombiality could use your vote