Saturday, November 28, 2009

What I'm Thankful For: Dreams

*the minuette*

All but dreams, hold me down
Clip my wings, watch me drown
Fall from grace, strike the ground
Caged below, not a sound

Only I
Lose the sky
Straining my
Frantic eye
Piercing cry
Desperate sigh
Feathers fly
Days go by

Rob my soul, steal my crown
Claw for fame, crave renown
Search for light, darkness found
All but dreams, hold me down

Prompt brought to you by Mama's Losin' It: Writer's Workshop

Monday, November 23, 2009

My life as a teenage co-dependent...

In the spirit of Mama Kat's Writers Workshop this week, I decided to dig out some old "journals" from my teens. I called them journals, because keeping a "diary" was so juvenille, and I obviously was far too sophisticated for that. Much to my dismay, upon flipping through the countless pages of emo-licious entries, I found one common theme...

boys boys boys boys boys b-o-i-s boyz boys boys boys boys BOYS...

It seems that between the ages of 13 and 20 (er... 27) the ONLY real thing that consumed me was the nagging, constant, incessant need for the fellas. Nary a word about school, hardly a mention of extra-curricular activities (of which I know I was a part of), a few tidbits here and there about girlfriends, or brothers, or fights with my mom. But really, what suffocated the essence of my meager existence was the unending search for and crushing aftermath of... "love" (or what I thought love was circa the 90's).

To be fair to myself, and justify this mess of co-dependence a smidge, by the age of 13 my biological father had kicked me out in favor of his third wife, and my step-father, who had basically raised me since 4 years of age had just left us to run off with his slutty mistress... i.e. I had me some Daddy Issues like whoa...

That said, here are some exerpts from a spattering of my favorite and surely most mortifying entries...


"Aaron dumped me today. My world is over. I can't even show my face at school... But Jon did look at me and smile in the hall by my locker before lunch. I can't wait to see him tomorrow!"

"Alex is such a hottie. I love him more than I've ever loved anyone EVER. I wonder if he even notices me."

"Casey's being awesome again. I talked to Gabe last weekend. Oh!!!! And Erick (HOTTIE) was at the game last night. Ooooooo what a stud!"

"I HAVE MET THE MAN OF MY DREAMS!!!! He's SO awesome! His name is Trevor and he's 17 and he's a millionaire and he's got THE BEST body! He's funny and amazing and I want to marry him!"

"On Sunday Gabe and I went to his house and cuddled all tangled up in each other. I love it when we do that!"

09/22/95 (note: 4 days later)
"...And then we go to a party and there are SO many fine guys there. This one guy, Brant, he's a Calvin Klein model*... He will be the father of my children!"

*pretty sure I made that up

And it just goes on and on and on and on and on like this for 14 years...
So, to all the boys out there that had to suffer at the heavy hand of my teenage fantasies, to you I say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for pinning all my hopes of junior high and high school fairytales on your shoulders. I'm sorry that none of you could, apparently, hold my attention for more than a week. And I'm sorry that you will forever be remembered by me as the soulless, vapid, heartbreakers of my youth. I hope that one day, very soon, I will be so famous and delicious and untouchable that you'll find it hard to sleep at night knowing you had a very real chance at a life of happiness with me and YOU BLEW IT!!!!! I HOPE IT BURNS LIKE THE HADES!!!!

And again... sorry

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

My ears are bleeding... and not in a good way...

Having just had a birthday and having attended several birthday parties lately. I feel it's time to get something off my chest. It's time to announce once and for all that I hate the "Happy Birthday" song. I hate when it's sung to me. I hate singing it. I think it is quite possibly the most poorly written, lackluster sentiment ever set to music.

In my experience, no one likes the "Happy Birthday" song. We all sit there with a room full of people fixated on us, mini-fires set atop delicious confections, faking smiles, looking uncomfortable, waiting for that GOD AWFUL song to end before we can blow out our candles and eat. No one knows what to do when that song is being sung. No one knows where to look, or what face to make. Every video camera on the planet has documented an array of awkward birthday boys and girls counting the notes until the final "happy birthday to you".

And if the song itself wasn't bad enough, NO ONE sounds good singing it... I have an MP3 of Frank Sinatra, one of the world's foremost vocal talents, singing the "Happy Birthday" song, and even he sounds like shit. Now, I don't know about you, but the jokers that show up to my birthday parties aren't Frank Sinatra. They're not even fit to sing Frank Sinatra karaoke at the backwoods dive bar down the street. The song was not designed to be sung, especially by the majority of the tone deaf and dumb population. The song was designed to be buried and forgotten in 1893 upon it's conception.

Then you ALWAYS have the jack ass that likes to tack on the footnotes... the "and many mores" or the sustained final note... Why do these people exist? THE SONG SUCKS. It takes too long to get through anyway, why must we prolong the discomfort? Stop, just stop!

I decided to research the history of said monstrosity and Wikipedia was kind enough to disclose who is responsible for this abomination...

**The melody of "Happy Birthday to You" comes from the song "Good Morning to All", which was written and composed by American sisters Patty Hill and Mildred J. Hill in 1893. They were both kindergarten school teachers in Louisville, Kentucky. The Hill sisters' students enjoyed their teachers' version of "Good Morning to All" so much that they began spontaneously singing it at birthday parties, changing the lyrics to "Happy Birthday". In 1924, Robert Coleman included "Good Morning to All" in a songbook with the birthday lyrics as a second verse.**

Don't believe it? Read for yourself...

So to you, Patty and Mildred Hill, I say thank you. Thank you for writing the music and lyrics that will forever strike anxiety and horror across the faces of anyone celebrating the anniversary of their birth. Thank you for forcing friends and family of birthday boys and girls across the world to sing, whether they be fit or not, lest they be portrayed as "party poopers". And thank you, for making me sound like the world's most misanthropic scrooge each and every year as I BEG those who love me not to sing your stupid song!