Sunday, October 26, 2014

The Couch

I've had fun with fiction lately, so here's one more....


“Are you satisfied, now?” she screamed at me before the cops took her away, her hands cuffed behind her back as they forced her head down to get her into the backseat of their sleek black car, grimaces on their faces and a haunted expression in their eyes.

No, I thought. No, I’m not and this is not what I really wanted. But, what choice did I have?

Angela is my mom. Angela, the woman who had just been arrested and taken to wherever they were taking her… Yep, that’s her. My mother. The person who brought me in to this world and who is constantly threatening to take me out of it. Jokingly threatening. I think.

Angela hasn’t ever really had her act together. I mean, does anybody every really have it together? We all thought Martha Stewart was the model of female perfection or some shit and even she went to prison, so I try to reserve judgment… But, let’s just say that Angela has seen her fair share of trouble at least in my lifetime. Check fraud. Identity theft. Shoplifting. Possession of methamphetamines. Solicitation in some of her worst times. Assault. Battery. Car theft. Larceny. It’s a long list.

Most of the time when I was younger, I was in and out of foster homes while she was in prison or rehab or wherever she ended up to try to “fix” whatever it was that is broken with her, that made her do these things and choose that lifestyle over being a mom. I used to resent her for it--for showing up at my school randomly with her stringy bleach blond hair wearing tube tops and reeking like an ashtray that hadn’t been dumped or cleaned in a year, for never being there for me when I was sick with the flu, for always being focused on the next scheme instead of trying to get a real job and take care of me the way mothers are supposed to. There were some nights when I absolutely hated her especially those nights when I would cry and beg one of my longest foster fathers, Jim, not to hit me anymore and still go to bed hurting so bad I couldn’t even stand the covers touching me. There were other nights that she was the only person in the world that I wanted and the less she was there for me, the more empty I felt and the more I despised her…

The older I got the more I understood that there were times she really tried to do her best, but she was fucked up from the start. She wasn’t hardwired for a normal life and the drugs just made that worse. I don’t know if she really could have stayed inside her own head for too long without killing herself anyway. From the bits and pieces I’ve been able to put together over the years, her life makes my own look like a fairytale sitcom full of punny jokes and rainbows and silliness and ponies.

You know how they say that if we all put our problems into a big pile we’d gladly take back our own after seeing everyone else’s? That’s exactly how I feel about Angela. After understanding more about what she went through as a kid, I could see why she couldn’t be there for me. Knowing that the only reason she got pregnant with me at all was because she was raped by one of her junkie friends made me understand even more why she never really felt that motherly instinct towards me. How could she? I don’t even know that I could have done the same thing in her shoes….having the baby, staying clean for the pregnancy, making that effort…so somewhere down in that tangled mess that was her soul, she wanted me and she fought like hell to bring me into this world, as she would say. She had to’ve. There’s no other explanation for my existence. There’s no reason why she wouldn’t have pulled one of her quick schemes to at least get enough cash to have an abortion. That would have been the easiest solution, right? So on some level, she and I were bonded from the beginning…I just couldn’t see it back then.

I didn’t really come to that realization until the last couple of years. I’m 24 now, so I spent a lot of time, too many years, angry about it all. Confused, hurt, pissed, full of hate, depressed, unable to cope, barely functioning. And, I knew that if I ever wanted to get past it all, I needed to figure some things out or I was going to be just like her. That’s when I started asking around about her, talking to my grandma (who wasn’t really much of a mom herself) and then to the social worker Angela had as a kid when she was in and out of foster homes herself. I finally understood. After all that time, I finally got it. I got why she was so fucked up, and it made me sad for her. For the first time in my life, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and felt it for her instead.

So, I reached out. In a moment of pure emotional vulnerability, I reached out. Like a fucking idiot. And she took advantage.

At first when I found her again after not talking to her for a couple of years, we’d do lunch every now and then. She didn’t seem high. She’d be clean and dressed at least semi-decently. She would definitely still qualify for People of Walmart, but it wasn’t as bad as when I was a kid, so I overlooked it. I didn’t want to talk much about the past, but she did….she would always ask me if I remembered times with her like the day we went to the park in a thunderstorm and all the rain washed out the cheap dye she had in her hair until it pretty much covered her face. I wouldn’t come to her for hours and ran screaming from her until another woman at the park called the cops thinking my mom was trying to kidnap me. I guess she was trying to point out that they weren’t always bad memories, but even the good ones were pretty fucking horrifying. I did remember that day. Well. I really thought a giant monster was after me and had already eaten her face…but all she could do was laugh. And even all these years later she was still pretty clueless about what qualified as a good memory. Sure, she was still laughing about it now, but even the thought of it still made me squirm in my seat and made her laugh even harder.

Still, I felt like I was getting to know her for the first time, and I felt bad for her, but at the same time, I thought I saw a glimpse of who she could be, and I wanted to help her. So, the lunches became more frequent, then it was dinner, then I was taking her grocery shopping, then she was coming to my apartment and sleeping on the couch here and there and then a few times a week then more often than not. She was a walking fucking disaster, but she was still my mom, and I felt like if someone finally just accepted her for who she was and showed her unconditional love, it would fix her. It would finally just fix her. What I didn’t realize is that Angela couldn’t be fixed. Angela wasn’t really broken…she was no longer human, not in the sense that I am or that the lady in the downstairs corner apartment that volunteers at the homeless shelter is… There was no humanity left which meant there was nothing left in Angela to repair.

I started noticing some strange things around the house especially when I’d try to clean up Angela’s clutter. Digging through the couch cushions was a nightmare. Seriously. Food scraps, unidentifiable wads of gooey fuzzballs, her bras—still sweaty sometimes, dirt, cigarette butts even though she didn’t smoke in my apartment…all manner of grossness. But, then I’d find someone else’s driver’s license. Mens’ licenses. Pocket watches. There would be a random shirt that I knew wouldn’t fit her thrown in the mix. But, she hadn’t had any men at my place. I never allowed her there when I wasn’t to the point that I got up early before work just to drop her off wherever she needed to be. I mean, she was still Angela, right?

I asked her about it. Of course, I did. And she said she didn’t know what I was talking about. She denied ever having seen them. Of course, she did. So I dropped it. I think, at the time, part of me didn’t want to know what it was about because I wanted to believe that I was having a positive effect on her, and I didn’t want to see that she was back to the same routines. So, instead of facing it and really questioning her about it, I just let it go and pushed it to the back of my brain.

And now I have to wonder if I could have stopped it sooner if I’d pressed her harder…I have to wonder if I could have saved lives. If I could have prevented a child from losing his father, a wife from losing her husband…

Right about that time, there were several stories on the news about missing men in the area. A preacher, a salesman, a truck driver… More would go missing before it was all over. Bodies turned up at rest stops and along the Interstate. I didn’t put two and two together at the time. I should have, but I ignored it all to be honest. Angela was bringing me gifts every now and then and she just seemed happier. Better. Almost like a real mom. She even took ME out to dinner once or twice over the next few weeks.

And then today I found a driver’s license for a name I recognized. Henry Dern. The news had done a quick mention of him being missing just this morning. It’s Saturday. I’m off and thought I’d catch up on my cleaning. I watched the news this morning while I had my coffee then put on a record, The Kills actually…ironically, and went to work. The couch reeked like her. I had pretty much resigned myself to getting a new one eventually when she got to a point where she didn’t need a place to stay anymore. IF she ever got to that point. I cleaned out the cushions while she was in the shower, and there it was. The man whose face I had just seen on the news. Middle aged. Gray hair at the temples but otherwise ruddy brown hair. Pock-marked skin but clean shaven. Brown eyes with deep crow’s feet at the corners. It was him. Henry Dern. And my mother had his driver’s license.

When she came out, towel wrapped in her hair, I jammed the license in my back pocket and put the couch back together. I was done cleaning for the day.

Why did my mother have a missing man’s driver’s license? What about the other licenses and the stuff and the money? It didn’t take long to put the pieces together. I had saved all those licenses, all the stuff. I don’t know why I did, but I guess something told me I should, so I went to the bathroom closet and pulled the Ziploc bag full of these things from behind the Tylenol and Benadryl and started looking up the names on Google. Every single one of them had been reported missing. Some of the bodies that had been found had been identified as these men. There were at least 7 licenses here counting Henry. 7 men.

I called the police still sitting on my bed staring at the laptop screen. I told them everything I knew, the names of the men on the licenses, where I’d found them, who my mother was, what I had, where we were. They transferred me to the detective working the case, and I had to repeat it all over again. And then again before he finally said he was on the way. When I hung up the phone, I immediately ran to the bathroom and threw up.

My mouth still tastes like bitter bile.

Angela came to check on me, and I said I was fine, but I’m not fine. I ran out of the bathroom holding the license that had still been in my back pocket, tears in my eyes, and I screamed at her, “what the fuck did you do, Angela?! What the fuck did you do?”

She took off then, and I chased her, but neither of us got far before running into the detectives working the case.

I’m sitting on the sidewalk outside after watching them take my mother away waiting on the crime scene people to “process” my apartment. My space. Because I was letting a serial killer sleep on my couch apparently.

Am I satisfied? I bark out a laugh thinking about what she asked as they took her way. Satisfied? HA. My mom was just arrested for very likely killing at least 7 men. I called the police on my own mother and not for the first time. I watched her being arrested. Again. The only satisfaction I am ever going to get out of this is being able to burn that fucking couch.

Thanks once again for reading my Sunday Confessions contribution. Head over to More Than Cheese and Beer to read the rest of the submissions and check out the Facebook page for anonymous confessions as well. 

Sunday, October 19, 2014


This is another little flash fiction piece inspired by my all time favorite Halloween costume. Tis the season and all. The prompt for today was Close.


Red closed the basket full of food for her grandmother. It was time to get going. Finally. It had taken her forever to get the soup finished and like always she was running a little behind even getting it started. But now the brightly colored Rubbermaid containers were filled to the brim with vegetable soup—her grandma’s favorite. It’s the least she could do. June had always been there for her after her mother was killed by her father when she was just a wee girl, and now that June is sick, it was time for the roles to reverse.

Sick? Who was she kidding? June was dying. Slowly and horribly and eventually painfully. And, it would push Red to her very limits. She didn’t know how she would handle losing the one person she could count on, her confidant, her everything. June was all that Red had ever had, and she would never be the same without her. When it came to watching June suffer through her last few months…well…she couldn’t even think about that.

Red started the drive to June’s place already frustrated that she hadn’t yet been able to talk June into moving in to her place. She’d told the stubborn woman a million times that she didn’t need to be alone in that tiny little cabin when she wasn’t feeling well…that it would take too long for help to arrive if she ever needed it. Of course, June would have none of that. She wanted to be in her own home, and she damn sure didn’t want someone trying to coddle her. In her own less than eloquent words, June’s sentiment was that as long as she could wipe her own ass she would be fine and dandy on her own.

The drive to the countryside was peaceful. Humbling. The bright pixels of orange and red leaves rushed by surrounding her in a warm, amber bubble. Nothing could beat Maine in fall. She knew that was part of the reason that June was so adamant about staying in her own place. The beauty of it had a way of making you feel small but never insignificant. The foliage, the brittle sound of dried leaves crunching underfoot, the crispness of the cool air…if anything it built you up and made you feel connected to everything. Maybe June had the right idea.

She pulled into the driveway and immediately felt something was off. There wasn’t anything wrong that she could see…nothing out of place or out of the ordinary. The small, squat cabin was as still and sturdy as always. June’s old station wagon was parked under the carport. Everything appeared as it should, but that didn’t stop the oddness from crawling over her skin like an unwelcome arachnid.

When she stepped out of her car, the little blue Volvo she had worked so hard to buy on her own, she was hit with a wall of silence. No leaves rustling. No birds calling to one another. Not even a fly buzzing. There was absolutely nothing but weighty silence to greet her, and it was fucking awful.

Panic gripped her firmly. She ran to the door and found it unlocked—also out of the ordinary for June. That sent her panic into a state of terror. What if June had died waiting on her to show up with soup? What if she’s been laying there all this time needing help and here is Red late again… What if she fell? Red raced into the house calling for her grandmother and frantically searching the small space. The kitchen was clean. Her collection of cow figurines were hanging out cheerfully on the sunny shelves like normal. The living room was clear. The TV was off, but that’s to be expected. June wasn’t much for the boob tube and preferred to read for her entertainment even though reading was increasingly difficult for her these days (something she refused to admit).

It was when she started down the hallway to the back bedroom that she heard a noise. It wasn’t a June noise. It was…she had no idea, but it wasn’t anything she ever heard before. It was meaty and guttural and absolutely terrifying.

She stood paralyzed at the end of the hallway unsure of what to do next. She had nothing on her but a small teal pocketknife she couldn’t even get open without a massive struggle out of fear she would cut off her pinky. She had to get to June, though. Whatever was going on, she knew June wasn’t okay.

Red snuck down the hallway on tiptoes moving slowly and hunched over listening for more noises. The closer she inched to June’s closed door, the more she noticed a strong metallic smell and the more dismayed she became. It couldn’t be a good thing, that smell.

She paused at the door listening but she heard nothing. Not a peep. That smell was even stronger standing at the door. She braced herself, grabbed the knob, and threw the door open expecting the worst.

What she found, though, was quite the surprise. June was sitting on her bed, covered in blood. Her nightgown was nearly brown from it all. Her knitting needles were sunken into the chest of a wolf-man thing lying on the floor at her feet—a wolf-man thing covered in puncture wounds and barely breathing.

“Grandma! What the fuck?!!” Red asked her.

“Watch your fucking language, Red. Jesus Christ, I’m your Grandmother,” June managed to get out between the panting and heavy breaths.

The two stood in silence staring at the thing for a long time neither quite knowing what to say or what it was. June finally spoke after catching her breath a bit, “I don’t know what that thing is. I don’t even know how it got in the house. All I know is that it tried to rip me apart, and I’m not ready yet to leave this world. My time may be coming but not yet. Not yet.”

So, Red did what any granddaughter would do and cut the head off that motherfucker just to be sure.

Nobody fucks with June and lives to tell the tale. 

This has been another Sunday Confession with More Than Cheese and Beer. Check out her page for all the other linkups and the facebook page for anonymous confessions and don't forget to check out the Halloween giveaway that ends tomorrow!

Sunday, October 12, 2014

I Theme Therefore I Am

Sometimes I get so lost in sharing the world that lives inside my head, the inner dialogue that needs to be spilled forth into text, the stories that swirl around begging to be told that I forget to share my reality at times.

I have my passions as evidenced by what I write. Feminism, rape culture, politics, privilege, love, relationships, the death penalty, the justice system overall... so many important things needing change and attention and impassioned voices. If you were to walk in my home, however, you'd see more of my other obsessions--music, movies, retro decor, gaming, the macabre. Every room has a theme and theming is apparently what I love. I can't say I'm the queen of interior design, but it's all me. You see part of me in every nook and cranny.

The living room is all about film. Prints from my favorite movies, vinyl soundtracks from movies, pop culture prints that are mashups of film and other elements line the walls. My tables are all collages of old VHS and DVD covers. The throw pillows are shaped like VHS cassettes, retro televisions, and the bride of Frankenstein. My favorite movies are on display on the entertainment stand, and the lamps were handmade by me in tribute to two of my favorite films. When I theme, I go all out.

can you guess the films the lamps are tributes to???

my first album 
My room is music...I sleep, breathe, live it, and for my room, it's totally fitting. The walls are covered with records, music note decals, and concert posters. Every single thing on the walls is related to my love of music. When I inherited some records from my dad after he died, there was a box of old 45s in the mix that were already damaged after being stored in the attic and were unplayable. I knew that I had to put them to use though...There are some great ones among the bunch. Bobby Fuller, The Beatles, Elvis, Bread, The Who, The Monkees... So, I used them to construct a music note on one of my walls amidst all the other music related wall decor. It's pretty killer. I can't imagine ever doing anything else with my room. When I'm 80, I'll be the baddest Grandma in the land, I suppose.

The kitchen is all retro mushrooms and owl. I have vintage mushroom decor and lots of wall decals. I even have a John Entwistle record on the wall that has an owl on the cover. And, I also took some vintage shelf liner paper covered in mushrooms and covered my lightswitch covers and found some vintage light globes in an abandoned house that belonged to some of my best friend's family. I couldn't believe my luck when I found them... the house has been broken into and damaged from stupid kids in the area but there were these awesomely retro globes untouched and gorgeous and perfect. I still have plans to do something more with my cabinets and possibly retiling the floor to something with a more vintage vibe, but for now, I'm totally in love with it. Oh, and I also have some plans to do a backsplash behind my stove using some pieces of mushroom tiles that are often
available on Etsy.

The master bathroom is a work in progress. I've begun a sort of macabre theme in there after some
trial and error with past decor. This time, there's a zombie cameo shower curtain, apothecary style jars, and even a skull toilet brush holder. I'm hoping to do a little more in here... paint the walls a deep gray color with some bright accents like bright teal rugs and light switch covers as well as some bright accent paint. I have some wall decals for this room too and am really looking forward to getting them up. I've even found a skeleton cameo decal on Amazon that will look perfect with the shower curtain.

The kiddo has his own tastes which are just a mashup of everything he loves in the world--minecraft, adventure time, star wars, and mario. And he's just recently asked for his bathroom to change from silly little monsters to pirate-type stuff. So eventually every room will have it's own perfect little theme and it will be awesome.

So that's the actual physical world I live in day in and day out...Seeing it laid out here and talking about it makes me realize it's just as magical as the worlds I live in inside my own head. I've done a good job making this house an extension of my personality and I have to admit I'm pretty in love with it :) It's just as unconventional as me, don't you think?

Today's Prompt was Design for Sunday Confessions with More Than Cheese and Beer. Please check out the other link ups from great bloggers over on her page and stop in for anonymous confessions on her Facebook page. Thanks for reading!

Saturday, October 4, 2014

The Run

She noticed that she had a run in her stockings, and that was it. She had pretty much held it together until that point. The run, however, was her complete undoing.

She was sitting on the edge of a sidewalk on a side street in the dawning light of morning, shoes in hand, her teal blue dress muddied and looking far more worn than when she’d slipped it on the day before when she noticed the run and burst into tears. Heavy, racking sobs shook her body, snot spilled from her nose, her already ruined makeup ran further into every nook and cranny of her face rolling with the tears over her jaw line and down her neck leaving her pale skin looking like a depressed shade of zebra. If there was an entry on Urban Dictionary for “ugly cry,” there would be a gif of this moment, of her.

The thought of it made her laugh through the tears, but it was a sort of near-hysterical bark of a laugh that seemed to be both a release and a cause for concern all at once. It was enough to snap her out of the sobbing, though, and finally get her moving. She managed to get to her feet without much incident and decided then and there to rip the stockings off. There was no need to carry more evidence of this night with her the rest of the way home. She’d carry the scars with her long enough as it was. If she was a betting person, she’d bet those scars would last the rest of her lifetime however long it may be. If she lived to be 300, this night would never leave her. The wounds would never fully heal in a way that rendered them invisible to anyone who cared to know her well enough to see their lasting impressions, and she’d be picking at the scabs for a long time to come.

She left the ruined stockings on the sidewalk where she’d precariously balanced on one foot then the other to take them off. This street was already so littered with refuse that an added piece of undergarments really wouldn’t make much of a difference. She was tempted to put the shoes, her precious black Betsey Johnson pumps, back on, but with the blisters she’d already formed and ruptured from all the running she did, risking tetanus on the debris-strewn concrete was actually preferable at this point that putting those fucking things back on.

This is what you get for wearing heels, she said to herself.

Don’t start that blame talk bullshit, she thought right afterwards.

And then, I’m never going to be able to wear these fuckers again.

The crying started again. “My favorite shoes!” she wailed to the dying night with tears spilling down her cheeks once more. But she trudged on. No stopping this time. She tried pushing every thought that attempted to race across her mind like zigzagging wasps stinging and darting and stinging again back to the dark recesses from which they waited. For awhile that seemed effortless as she dodged broken glass and dirty needles focusing more on keeping her feet somewhat intact…more than she could stay for emotional stability at this point. But the further away she got from downtown, the less there was to dodge and those thoughts would sneak past all her defenses, stingers ready, poised, and menacing.

Why did I agree to this stupid date?

Why didn’t I listen to my instincts?

I shouldn’t have had that last drink.

I knew better than to stay after he tried to kiss me.

What am I going to do about it?

What if he calls? Why am I so fucking stupid? What if he has something?

And before long, all those thoughts ran together in a whirlwind of blackness that left her reeling and paralyzed on the sidewalk in the full light of morning facing the onslaught of onlookers on their way to work.


It took her hours to reach her apartment that morning, her feet sore from running. Her mind ragged and swollen from every dagger-like thought. Every muscle ached. She almost felt like she was outside her body looking down at an unrecognizable apparition of her former self. She turned the key in the door hoping that when she crossed the threshold into her own space that she would feel something besides the numbness and the buzzing panic that rippled below it. She hoped that when she turned around and locked the door behind her she would feel less vulnerable. That maybe, just maybe, she would feel safe.

With the door locked, she pressed her back against it and slid down into a crumpled pile onto her own floor with the realization that nothing changed when she closed the door to the outside world and like that stupid fucking run in her stockings, she’d never be the same again.

This time, she didn’t try to stop the tears.

Some flash fiction for Sunday Confessions. Hope you enjoyed despite me being a bit rusty in the fiction department. And, as always, check out the other contributions on More Than Cheese and Beer. I'm sure they're all awesome as always. 

Friday, October 3, 2014

ME Day

Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week, 14 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

My “Secret Subject” is:

"For one day, and one day only, you have no fear. No self-doubt. No limits (financial or travel), no obligations, and no one to worry about but yourself. What do you do?"

It was submitted by:


A day for myself. Just for me? I….hmmm…this is so foreign to me that I have literally spent days thinking about this. I would have to stop myself at some point because I would be crossing out options thinking “there would be no one to take care of the animals if I travel” or I would be thinking about doing something that would realistically be for someone else instead of just for myself. This has been one of the more difficult prompts I’ve faced. It’s just not my nature to do something solely for myself. Even when I buy something that is JUSTFORME like a new dress, I always throw something in the cart for the kid, the pets, and a friend. It’s standard practice. When it comes to my time, something I value far more than possessions or money, that need to share is even stronger. So, in the spirit of that, I think that’s what I’ll do…

First of all, I have to make the most of this day so there will be no sleeping. This starts at exactly 12:00 a.m. I’d take my kiddo, Evan, out for a huge campfire/smores session. We have the perfect backyard for this. Living in the country affords us the best view of the night sky, AND we have a pretty awesome telescope. Most nights I’m incredibly busy preparing his schoolwork for the next day and with doing my own schoolwork, so we rarely have nights when I can just chill and relax with him with no obligations. He’s a huge fan of smores and I’d be lying if I said I’m not.

By 1, we’d be full of marshmallows and chocolate (dark for me and milk for him), but we’d also smell like smoke so quick showers all around. I’d get ready in the brand new Jetson’s style Makeup/Dressing machine that takes all the work out of putting on my clothes and face, take him to his Nana’s (which she would agree to since there are no limitations but she would never actually agree to do at 2 am), and get ready to start traveling. As noted in previous blogs, I have a few pen pals that don’t get many visitors, so I would drive to the airport in Tallahassee and a chartered flight would be waiting to take me around the country to visit with my friends. I don’t get to travel much and never get to fly. I also hate crowds and being around a bunch of strangers so a private chartered flight makes the most sense. Spending my day with people I am rarely or never able to see that take up so much of my free time with letters is just about the best way I can imagine to spend it. There would have to be 5 stops: Livingston, TX; Helena, GA; Graceville, FL; Ione, CA; and, Waverly, VA. I suppose that there may not be an airport in the exact place I need to be so I’d also hire a driver at each airport to take me where I need to go. That would be preferable to the treatment I sometimes get when visiting the Polunsky Unit in Livingston on my own. I know without a doubt that most people assume I write letters to inmates and help with cases and do what I do solely for the people I write, but if I agreed with that sentiment, it would be a total lie. I get a lot out of this myself. It has taught me a lot about myself, made me stronger, made me a better person ultimately. I learn a lot about any variety of topics from physics to werewolf lore to the Crusades to video games. I make real connections that aren’t based solely on the fact that I’m trying to do something good. In other words, these visits wouldn’t be altruistic in any real sense and just as much for me as for them so I’m totally counting them for this trip. It’s my day; I’ll do what I want. Right? Right.

I wouldn’t be able to afford my friends too much time each since there are 5 stops and flights between each stop, but short visits are better than none. I’d start on the east coast going from Graceville to Helena to Waverly then flying out to Texas then California. Hopefully the time difference to California is enough after the longer flight to squeeze me in before visiting hours are over, then it would be tattoo time. If I’m already in California, why not? I’d pick up a drawing from my friend there in Ione who is a most excellent artist and find myself a place to get it done. Money is no object and with no limitations I’d be able to walk in ahead of any current appointments and get whatever I want, so why not? I’ve been wanting a quill and inkwell to symbolize my love of writing, but there’s also a chance I’ll be getting a pretty rad Tank Girl pin up to symbolize my take charge, rebellious nature. (Tank Girl from the comic not the movie though I do love the movie). Of course, I’d have my best friend, Brandon, with me to hold my hand and keep me laughing through all the pain, so maybe I’d ask the artist to finish his Velma pin up while we’re there. By then, it would be getting pretty late on the West Coast but I couldn’t have a me day without hitting a concert. And since there’s no limitations I’d put together my own line up. Time Machine and Teleporter needed.

Top 5 no limitations concert list:

1. The Allman Brothers Band with Duane Allman back from the dead but not undead.

2. Graveyard

3. The Black Keys (so I could make out with Dan Auerbach).

4. Janis Joplin with Big Brother and the Holding Company with her final number being Mercedes Benz.

5. 90s era Stone Temple Pilots but not on drugs. Is that possible? I guess if bringing back Duane Allman from the dead is possible for this blog then I can perform the miracle of making Scott Weiland not a junkie.

So, then I would stop time with another machine for approximately 6 hours so I could also add:

1. The Jimi Hendrix Experience

2. Nirvana. I mean, this is obvious for someone my age, but fucking hell it has to be done.

3. Derek and the Dominoes. I’ve already brought Duane Allman back from the dead so why not?

4. Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings.

5. Buddy Guy playing his entire Sweet Tea album. Very critically underrated in my opinion. And, of course, he has to do a duet with Sharon Jones.

6. Baroness with Summer Welch still on bass and before the release of Yellow and Green playing mostly songs from the First and Second EPs. Yes, it has to be this specific or no go.

And for a bonus, let’s throw in Layne Staley era Alice in Chains.

At this point, I would use the time machine that brought Jimi, Janis, Duane, and company back from the dead to the venue to go back to the East Coast earlier in my Me Day so I could hang out with Ash from More Than Cheese and Beer for awhile (we need to make plans for our Halloween-themed hetero-lifemate wedding) then hit a taping of the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I would spend the rest of the time I had after said taping either convincing him to marry me or having sex with him (which might actually convince him to marry me).

Yes, I know he’s already married.

No, I don’t care. It’s Jon Fucking Stewart.


Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts. Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. See you there: Baking In A Tornado The Momisodes Spatulas on Parade Stacy Sews and Schools The Bergham's Life Chronicles Evil Joy Speaks Dinosaur Superhero Mommy Silence of the Mom Climaxed Sparkly Poetic Weirdo Someone Else’s Genius Crumpets and Bollocks Confessions of a part-time working mom Small Talk Mama