She had the most amazing ass I’ve ever seen in my life.

I was surprised that I noticed this. It is not a habit of mine. I was walking in my usual head down manner, IPOD headphones in ears, eyes alert to any broken lifted pieces of sidewalk that might trip me, and as I thought with amazement that I still like the Violent Femmes as much as I did in high school, I reminded myself to look up occasionally. She was about half a block in front of me. Her pants appeared to have been custom tailored to her body, hugging her hips and allowing the roundness of her backside to take center stage. Her pants were black with a thin yellow pinstripe; the pockets on each cheek had a flap and a button.

I wondered at what point my own ass had flattened, widened and dropped until it become more like a part of my thighs than a separate body part. I imagined it must have been after childbirth but really I can’t remember that time, age 19; I was thinking of other things, caring for Nathan 24/7.

Her long blond hair hung down her back all the way to the top of where her backside stuck out. It was perfectly highlighted in the $120 and up range. I became aware of my own highlighted hair; ends dry and crisp because I am in desperate need of a trim; roots of a dark blond color that have grown out three inches; my scalp felt itchy all of a sudden.

She wore black boots with chunky heels; her gait was strong, determined, and confident. Her shirt was black as well, tight and clingy material. Her hair swung side to side as she moved. She had a black portfolio under her arm that appeared to be made of leather and the tiniest purse I’ve ever seen, gold in color, matching the stripes in her pants. I wondered with my own breed of strange curiosity what her purse held. Was it a key, a tube of lipstick, a credit card, a twenty dollar bill folded into a rectangle, a single condom? If you had a purse smaller than your own hand, what would you choose to put in it?

She was eventually forced to stop at a light to let the cars pass. I caught up with her. We both stood at the corner staring at the sign with an orange palm glowing its do not walk warning. The wind picked up and there was rain in the air. I’ve lived long enough to feel it coming. I snuck a glance at her face. I’m not sure if my face registered my disappointment. She was a victim not only of the foundation turning her face a horrible orange color but of the not knowing my personal makeup mantra to blend blend blend. She had forgotten her neck. It was a pale ivory like mine, holding on top of it the orange mask, the streaks of blush, the overpowering blue eye shadow.

Flashback Sequence in Italics

For a second I was transformed back to the girl I was in eighth grade; 1986, the girl who was on a personal mission to beautify those around her by teaching them how to care for their skin, to placing towels over their heads as I gently eased them down over a steaming pot of boiled water with herbs floating in it. No food in the house was safe as I smashed bananas and whipped honey and lemon juice with a handful of oatmeal into facial masks and spread it on the faces of my sisters, my mom, my aunt, and my two cousins who were living with us at the time. I told them that I had secret recipes that I had read somewhere that would beautify their skin. Truth? I hadn’t read anything; I made everything up as I went along. I went grocery shopping with my mom, who hated it with such a passion she had completely stopped going when my dad died. I wrote lists and clipped the coupons from the paper, watching for sales. She thanked me for taking over, said she couldn’t handle shopping or cooking anymore. I felt useful for once. I slipped boxes of hair color into the cart when she wasn’t looking, not that she seemed to care about anything anymore. I asked her questions but she was far away, grieving for her husband, dealing with her guilt. She stared off at nothing, not hearing me when it was time to pay. Sometimes I had to grasp her and give a gentle little shake. Sometimes I would come up behind her and wrap my mom in my arms and she would come back from that place she went to and she would let the tears come. “I’m sorry I killed your dad”, she would whisper to me and I would try to say no as I pressed myself against her body as hard as I could while trying to gently squeeze her back together, to make her whole again.

I dyed the hair of everyone in the house save my brother. I instructed those with oily T-zones to powder their noses. I turned the kitchen and dining area into my own personal beauty salon. Everyone sat in my special chair except my brother; he complained to my mom that all of the good food in the house was being spread on our faces or placed into one of the pots I kept simmering on the stove. My mom hushed him with a smile. She said, “Tammy might be a cosmetologist!” I searched the yellow pages for beauty schools, glad to have found my calling. My Mom told me tales of working as a manicurist in Sydney ,NSW. The drag queen clients were her favorites and I imagined them coming to my salon when it opened. Little did I know that less than a year later would find me deeply immersed in the gay and lesbian community here. Little did I know that they would be the ones to sit me in a chair as they shared their beauty secrets with me.

One day, sitting alone, enjoying my cigarette, I envisioned the strangers. I thought of the people I saw on the sidewalks everyday. I imagined them coming into the salon and me having to dye their hair, scrape their feet. I felt sick. I realized then that I couldn’t touch strangers. I was only having fun because it was family I was working on. The various bowls of facial concoctions I had in the fridge developed a sickening impenetrable crust. Everyone ignored them until they were eventually thrown away. I was done.
******************************************************************************

The light changed. She took off like a wind up toy that had been made to wait by the hand of a playful child. I walked slower, nowhere to go in a hurry. I dipped into my medium size purse and extracted a cigarette and lighter. The rain came. The wind picked up. My hair flew about, wild and out of control. The pinstripe girl has ducked into a phone booth. I stop, turning away from the wind and trying to cup my hand around the flame. I have a callous on my thumb from turning the wheel. The pinstripe girl is looking through her portfolio filled with photos of herself. She looks to be 18, maybe 19. She is nervous. The pieces come together in my head right there on the sidewalk. I continued on, inhaling, exhaling, finally arriving at my bus stop.

I watched her, the young pin stripe girl. She tried to smooth her hair, her clothes. Her large breast stood up tall and full. She either had a great bra or she hadn’t experienced the effects of gravity yet. The building she stands in front of has mirrored windows where she checks her makeup, opens her mouth (is she checking her teeth for food and/or lipstick?) she practices her smile. I talk to her in my head. “Don’t worry; you won’t need that portfolio of glamour shots in there. They won’t be examining your face long enough to see your lack of makeup application skills. You will enter a room. There will be a man there, behind the desk. He will ask you to undress. Perhaps he will have you turn in a slow circle. It doesn’t matter if you can’t dance. You will get the job.”

She stood up straight and tall against the wind and rain as she reached for the handle of the door with the No Minors sign. I imagined she took one more deep breath before she pulled on it. I inhaled with her and then slowly exhaled as she passed through the entrance. She is gone now.

Attached to the side of the building is the sign that stays there 365 days a year.

DANCING GIRLS WANTED!

NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY!

AUDITIONS DAILY!

This is Portland, Oregon, strip club capital of the USA. Welcome.

As a young girl I thought the lyrics to the song Back in the Saddle by Aerosmith were, “I am back in Saturn again”.

I never questioned why he was back in Saturn, and what he had been doing there in the first place; I just turned up the radio and sang along.

I should rephrase that; up until yesterday, I thought the lyrics were “I am back in Saturn again”. The song got stuck in my head sometime last night, and this time I was actually confused about why anyone would go to Saturn, let alone in it. So I looked it up. Imagine my surprise.
So I am up and about. I have these long posts in my head about the comfort juxtaposing with the torture of feeling bedridden  and the man who made the biggest impression on me in the ER and my love/love relationship with the warm feel good narcotic pain pills, always a nice welcome friend to say hello to.

This shall have to suffice for now as sitting in this chair for any length of time has become problematic at best .

My mind has been positively racing as of late, but I’ve felt unable to write it down because my brain moves too fast. At times like these I wonder if maybe I am bipolar but I don’t say anything because this drug thing? It’s getting so old. I honestly don’t feel that I can have a journal all about me and my depression and anxiety. It’s boring even for me, the subject matter. I could go on about the cold I can’t shake and how I feel dead inside right now. I suppose the Paxil has kicked in. I feel empty. Is it normal to have the reaction that you’re somehow dying inside? I resisted the doctor’s orders to put me on medication in 1986. I thought that it was important to feel, but it was all so overwhelming. I caved in 1993, and it’s been on and off since then.

I imagine that you, my reader, have to have a shelf life of how long you can pay attention to listening to some woman on the internet drone on about a depression that can’t be cured. I have been looking for other subject matter.

My Mom asked me recently what I loved to do; what I wanted to do with my life. I told her that I’d never been as happy as when I worked as a volunteer feeding the homeless.

“How are you going to make money at that?” was her reply. But that wasn’t her original question. She asked me what I loved to do. I like to feed the hungry. It might sound silly but it is such a simple and complex thing, removing hunger from someone’s life, even temporarily. I have been on both sides of it; having dealt with a severe lack of food both as a child and as an adult and it’s amazing what a meal can do to really fill someone.

“Hold tight. We’re in for nasty weather”

Yesterday I was grumpy. Polly was being her usual chatterbox self and I felt as if I needed some quiet. She doesn’t understand. She can’t understand. I ended up getting snappy with her and I feel guilty about that. The dog doesn’t like to go outside when it’s raining. That has been a struggle, this being Portland, Oregon and all. So yesterday I was doing the dishes and she shit all over the carpet. Diarrhea. It was my fault, because she should have been in her crate, but I wanted to let her out to roam the house a bit. I took her out and then came in to clean the mess. The whole house smelled and I couldn’t find any incense and I wanted to crawl into bed and hide. I was uncertain as to whether I needed to make a cup of coffee to perk me up, or perhaps have a nice relaxing cup of herbal tea? I considered taking a walk to the store to buy a bottle of wine. Maybe that would relax me?

I remembered how when I was a kid my Mom used to put a pot on the stove with water in it, and cinnamon sticks and cloves. She would simmer it and the whole house would smell wonderful. I grabbed a pot, filled it with water, dropped in some spices and then threw in some vanilla and a good dash of the lemon oil that I bought last year for some cookie recipe. I put it on the stovetop and went back to the dishes. I heard a sound, turned my head, and Woosh! The whole thing was on fire. I stared at it in disbelief for a second. The top of the pot was covered in flames, under the burner was on fire and flames were licking the wall. I put it out as quickly as I could. The kids came out of their rooms.

All that feng shui crap about not having fire across from water suddenly made sense. While you’re doing the dishes the whole house could burn down. After the fire was out Nathan looked at me and said, “Well, at least it smells better in here” and went back into his room.

The smoke detectors went off as I was wiping the black marks off of the wall above the burner. Alex came from upstairs where he had been sleeping, looked at me, turned around and walked back upstairs without asking me what I had done.

I grabbed my coat and walked to the store in the rain. Once there I decided that I wanted to have a beer. I looked in the cooler and they had Budweiser, Corona, and Heinekin. “Heinekin! Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!” I remembered. I smiled and bought the Heinekin, forgetting that it loses its good flavor on the ship over from Holland and always tastes nasty to me.

On the walk back home the rain stopped and I saw a double rainbow and I felt better. Not great, but better.

Before I decide to watch the news, I have to decide whether or not I am emotionally ready. Years ago while watching news coverage of the Tiananmen Square Massacre I began to cry. Alex was seated on the couch next to me, and he asked me why I was crying. “You don’t know any of those people”, he said. I was shocked and at that time wondered if perhaps I feel things more than most people, or if he feels less.

When I started to read about Asa Coon and the Ohio school shootings I sadly wasn’t surprised to see that they listed the fact that he was a “Goth” who wore a trench coat and liked Marilyn Manson’s music before they listed his previous suicide attempt while in a mental health care facility, the fact that students had tried to speak with the principal about threats he had made but she was always too busy, or the mental health facility’s diagnosis of bipolar disorder and their suggestion of further evaluation.

At times like this it’s not hard to think of Columbine. “See”, people can say now, “all of the boys listened to Marilyn Manson and wore trench coats.” If a violent video game connection can be made it too will be used. Some might check if Asa came from a broken home, if he suffered abuse, if he was breastfed. There has to be more to it than that. Andrew Kehoe killed 45 people in Bath Township, Michigan in 1927.This would obviously have taken place before the advent of violence in the media. I can remember after the shooting in Columbine someone asking Marilyn Manson what he would say if he could talk to Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. “I wouldn’t say anything. I would listen”, was his reply. I think the same holds true here.

While it’s easy to make this a case of violence in the media, or mental illness left untreated, that’s too easy. I honestly don’t think that you can blame one solitary factor or combinations thereof to explain why some people snap and kill others and/or themselves and others do not. Yes, there were warnings signs. Yes, obviously something should have been done to help Asa Coon before this event. But I don’t think you’ll find the answer to his troubled mind in his favorite musician. Does anyone even know that Seung-Hui Cho listened to Collective Soul?

I swear. I just had to say, Belle! Perry Como, I love him. Check this out . I was watching it last night and Polly came and sat down beside me. She watched for a few seconds and then looked up at me and asked, “Mommy, do you think he’s handsome?”I noted that she said handsome instead of cute or hot, which are her usual words for attractive. “Yes, I do.” I replied. She watched me watching the screen for a little while longer and then asked, “Does dad know?” I laughed, but I’m thinking he might soon, especially when I ask him to get me some Perry Como songs for my Ipod. He had a voice that makes me melt inside, seriously.

Also, I couldn’t read “Interview With a Vampire” either. My husband loved it so much that he wanted me to read it. I started it over and over until I finally gave up. I did, however, read every page of Anne Rice’s erotica.

I love these guilty pleasure comments. John Denver seems to be a common one. I was expecting Smokey Robinson, Neil Diamond, Julio Iglesias and maybe even a little Jimmy Buffett.

Ok, back to the real writing, if I can get anything done in between phone calls from my Mom, who returned from Ireland last night and has so much to tell me that my phone has been ringing all morning. I told her she should just come over, especially since she claims to have tons of gifts for everyone, and one of them just has to be a fine whiskey, doesn’t it?

Do I remember someone saying that talking about your dreams is one of the lowest forms of communication? I am going to do it anyway.

Last night my dream was the following. I was at a strip club with my all time favorite writer, Charles Bukowski. Instead of it being like a regular strip club, (well I’ve only been to one in my life and that was under horrific circumstances, but that is a story for another day perhaps), it was like an old theater with a stage and then the rows of seats. I was seated beside Buk, but leaning over, practically in his lap. I was rubbing up against him and he was telling me about the awesome food they had there as we watched the women dance.

When his plate came it had this huge juicy steak on it with a pile of vegetables on the side. The few of you who “know me” might remember that I am a vegetarian; I have been for twenty years. Although many have assumed that I do it for health reasons, like for the same reasons I smoke Camels, or because I care about animals; I swear to God anyone who has spent anytime hanging out with chickens or sheep will realize that anyone who eats them is probably doing the world a favor; the truth is I can’t stand the thought of eating dead animals. (Damn that was a long, poorly written sentence. I’m not changing it.) It just sickens me. Eating animals. Not writing crappy sentences, obviously.

So in the dream my mouth is watering and I wanted that steak so badly that I finally couldn’t stand it so I ordered one, rare. I drowned it in steak sauce, ate it quickly, and ordered another one. Bukowski told me that if I promised to have sex with him daily until he died he would give me 2000 dollars per month, buy me a strip club and let me manage it. I quickly agreed. I like that idea. I would train my dancers in the old style burlesque dancing, which was really so much sexier anyway. I would pass out free condoms at the door. I could hand out copies of the book “She Comes First”, and make sure the men took their drunken asses home to their wives in a cab instead of driving. I would go out of business in a week.

When I awoke this morning I was very hungry and I felt sort of strange about the dream. I don’t think I’ve ever craved meat in such a way. Maybe what I’m craving is A-1?

Did this entry have a point? Not really, huh? I am frazzled today. I have this notebook where I jot down ideas for journal entries. If my shrink got a hold of it he would probably change his diagnosis and up all the meds. I’ll have to start referring to it for ideas. Some ideas on the list: Rubik’s cube, Licking Spoons, Destined For Greatness, Breakfast of Champions $1.99 special, A Mom, an Aunt and some Q-Tips, Laughter at the Most Inopportune Moments, I have Better Hair Than You, You Ice Cream Cone Licking Bitch. See what I mean? Looks crazy, but every one of those sparks my memory and I could write an entry based upon my scrawling. If I don’t write it down soon after I think about it it is usually gone.

I found a book to read now that I’ve finished “The Names of the Dead”, which I recommend by the way. The descriptions of the war in Vietnam were very graphic and might be troubling to just about anybody, but it was a good read. The new book I am reading is “Sophie’s Choice”. Look at me with the feel good material! It’s on my mental list of books I feel as if I should have read by now, but I haven’t. When I was younger I used to lie when confronted about such books. Someone would mention Pride and Prejudice or something else that supposedly everyone has read,and I would lie, nodding my head as if I’d read it. Then I did read it and I thought blech, what was everyone raving about? That’s not the point though. Now I don’t feel as if I have to lie. I have never completed an Ayn Rand novel. See, try it. It feels so freeing. It’s the same with music. As a teen and a young adult I would cover up my true taste in music. Now I can admit that not only do I have some Fleetwood Mac songs on my IPod; I have some Bee Gees on there as well.

What secrets are you hiding in your music collection? Do you pretend that you finished War and Peace? Do tell.

Waiting for the bus I notice that someone has carved APATHY into the pole, but they have spelled it incorrectly. Maybe they knew how to spell it but they just didn’t care. After I board I sit somewhere in the middle.

Usually on the bus my nose is buried in a book, but for some particular reason at that particular bus stop I looked up at the passengers boarding. Maybe it was because the bus was becoming full; I hate a full bus, it makes me even more claustrophobic. It was a hot day yesterday and she entered wearing a white tank top and skin tight jeans. There were bruises all over her chest and arms, dark circles under her sunken eyes and sores on her face. Her hair had once been bleached, but it had been awhile because several inches of dark roots were showing. She weaved a little trying to grasp at the bar as she stood there hanging on.

The track marks were no surprise; I knew they’d be there before I saw them. An older gentleman who was seated in the seats reserved for the elderly and disabled stood up and gave her his seat. It was fitting somehow as she plopped down next to the blind man with a guide dog and the older woman clutching her purse as she looked around nervously.

From her worn out leather purse she pulled out a water bottle containing a brown liquid and took a swig as she turned her eyes towards the floor. I don’t know if she saw anything at all.

I have been her. I don’t know if she’s been me. My whole life I have been looking for a way to end the pain, to quell the anxiety. I have looked in the places she has found; in the illegal drugs and the alcohol. I have looked on the therapist’s couch, and ultimately, in the bottles of colorful little pills I pick up each month to keep me barely functional at my worst, and very functional at my best.

For a long time after starting the dreaded medications I felt as if I had failed, as if I no longer deserved to take pride in my hard fought and won sobriety. Every time I popped a Xanax or a Klonopin for the panic attacks or swallowed the maximum dose of the flavor of the year antidepressant I was on I felt like a failure. I wasn’t taking these medications to get high; I was taking them to get well. They came from a doctor in the form of a white slip that I took to a pharmacy where they were carefully counted out and placed in bottles containing warnings of dizziness and sleepiness and an inability to operate heavy machinery. I no longer had to wait at bus stops in the rain, or parking lots, or street corners, or public parks for always late dealers or their runners.

Insert Velvet Underground lyrics here:

“He’s never early, he’s always late
First thing you learn is that you’ve always got to wait
I’m waiting for my man”

How many of us are hurting? It seems to be everywhere I turn. Ah, look at all the lonely people…surrounded by other people.

Years ago I used to work with a woman who was a recovering alcoholic and a devoted member of AA. I liked her well enough, but her insistence on giving all of the credit for anyone’s ability to kick drugs or alcohol to what she constantly referred to as her “higher power” really got on my nerves. I wanted credit. I didn’t feel any higher power with me when I was writhing with the agony of a cold turkey withdrawal. I felt she deserved credit too, but she wouldn’t take any. She felt that anyone in the hell of a deep addiction had no way out without handing their lives over to God.

The woman on the bus picked at the flesh on her arms. I wondered about her. She could have been twenty; she could’ve been fifty. There was no way of telling. I imagined her as someone’s daughter, loved and cherished. I wondered if she ever found delight in anything. I wondered why some people can kick and others can’t.

I got off the bus and went to pick up Polly.

These flowers are for her. I hope that one day she will be able to really see them, to revel in their brilliance and color. I hope that one day she will find peace. I wish that for myself too. And for you, my reader.

One of the fun things about Alex finding the charger to his old camera is we discovered a bunch of old photos were on it. There were photos of the kids on one of the Halloweens I had to miss because I was working graveyard and they wouldn’t let me come in late so I could take the kids trick or treating before work. When I think of all the plays my kids were in and other activities I missed out on because of that job I feel very sad. And pissed off too. The two emotions are so close in my mind that I often get them mixed up. Anyway, here are our cats from the top step down. Hazel, Azmuria (she died last year) Fargo, and Alistair at the bottom. Alex captured this moment because they are rarely this close without fighting. I am actually more of a dog person so how I ended up having so many cats is beyond me. Oh yeah, Alex loves them.

I haven’t forgotten Jane’s question about the end of my friendship. I am still trying to figure out how to put it into words without rambling on for ten pages.

The Fixx

Reach the Beach

I miss that album. I am going to ask Alex if he can get it for me.

Thanksgiving was fine. We had a family dinner at my Mom’s Thursday with 20 people or so. My Mom ordered one of those complete meals from the grocery store, actually two of them, because she always fears not having enough food, and there was plenty of everything. I went over early to help her and we only had to pop holes in the plastic and slip the items into the oven and warm up the turkey and the ham. My kind of cooking, reheating. My brother showed up and my Mom was just glowing with happiness. My Mom was worried about having the meal in her new apartment but she did a great job cleaning the place up and stuffing all of the junk into the spare room and closing the door. I hugged my brother before we left and it felt good. He said “Happy Tofurkey Day” and smiled. I think that I can count the number of times we have hugged on one hand.

Yesterday I cooked Thanksgiving dinner for the kids and Alex and me. I spent 8 hours cooking and it took 15 minutes for people to eat. Then we watched a movie, Click, and all was good. It is getting harder and harder to find movies that the whole family wants to watch and that are appropriate for the kids.

I am supposed to be signing up for school but I feel frozen with fear. I haven’t told anyone how I feel. My sister said she is taking a class called “Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll” and she suggested I sign up too. I told her I could teach that class. Actually her college is all the way out on Oregon City and the last time that I took a class there I spent 3 hours there and back on the bus in the middle of Summer. That was a hard earned A, not because the class was hard, it was the getting there that killed me. I am going to stick close to home. I am tempted to take some sort of yoga class or Pilates because I have been having severe back pain again. My sister Maria is taking Thai Chi at the senior center and she said working out with older people is cool, because she doesn’t feel pressured.

Sorry this entry is so boring. I’m off to do more laundry.

“ Hurt” by Johnny Cash. Now I love many types of artists, but my relationship with Johnny goes back to childhood when my Mom ordered some song collection from Reader’s Digest because she’s been trying to win that sweepstakes for decades. She even puts her hair into rollers the night before Ed McMahon is due to deliver her check. Anyway, she got this cassette and I was unimpressed with it except for Johnny Cash singing “ A Boy Named Sue.” I had never heard the song before that moment and I took the family’s cassette recorder into my bed and played it, and played it, over and over, every day. It reconfirmed my desire to be a singer one day and it inspired me to write my own song. Following you will find, for the first time ever in the history of written words, the lyrics to the first (but not the last) song I ever wrote.

“You Didn’t Care For Me”

Well I’ll tell you a story that I happen to know

It’s about you and me and we were walking in the snow,

You fell down and you broke your toe

I carried you back, you never thanked me for that, you didn’t care for me

Dun Da Da Da!

There was a second verse about me and his brother but I think you’ve suffered enough. I practiced singing in my room and finally got up the courage to sing my song to my sister Maria. When I was finished she fell on the floor laughing and looked up at me and said, “I’m laughing so hard I have tears running down my eyeballs.” When I pointed out to her that tears were running down her face, NOT her eyeballs, she laughed even harder. Unfortunately she remembers this story and proudly retells it as the funniest song she ever heard, hands down.

When I was in kindergarten returning from Christmas break we had to draw a picture of what we did over the holiday. I drew a picture of a tall fizzing glass of an amber liquid and a few potato chips floating next to it. The teacher or one of the volunteer Moms would come around, ask us what the picture depicted and then write it across the bottom of the paper for us. I proudly told the Mom helper that for Christmas and New Years we had beer and potato chips in the living room. She laughed and said, “You mean your parents had beer.”

“No, we all had beer.” I assured her.

The teacher was notified and after school when my Mom arrived and the teacher got to her she showed her the “deeply concerning” art I’d drawn. My Mom turned as red as a ruby and told the teacher that our glasses were filled with 7 UP with just a splash of beer on top and that it was a holiday tradition she had brought to this country from Australia.

I thought I was in trouble, but my Mom told the story to all of her friends and family, minus my Dad, and everyone laughed their heads off at my picture. Recently I asked my brother, the oldest of us four and the one with a good memory, if I was just crazy, or did our parents give us beer as small children? He said that they did, but that it was a cultural thing because my Mom had grown up drinking Shandys.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, Johnny Cash. My Mom finally took the tape from me because I wouldn’t stop playing it and/or singing it. Now I can listen to it and remember the pure joy of a song I thought was so clever, and still do.

P.S. To Jane Doe #4 , good for you for getting the fuck out of there and not suffering through another minute of that sick bastard forcing sex on you.