So, you’ve accidentally tapped into the brandy and percocets before breakfast. In short, you’re fucked, cuz baby’s been crying for the last seven minutes. You hear it on the monitor and through the bedroom door. It is the worst, so you divert. Your favorite morning crew, not so funny, as they are disrupted with breaking news. Ugh, how much terrorism can we take?
Your upstairs neighbors have been fighting all night, or taking turns coughing violently, who cares. Knowing the difference doesn’t help that you didn’t sleep last night. All that matters now is how you can feel the red of your bloodshot eyes pulsing. It is not cool.
Your life is a mess, so is your kitchen. You need to swallow the vomit coming up in your mouth, or clean it, or not. You opt to toss the local newsletter on the multi-colored bile. You need a friend, and here comes your cat. She looks at you and then sniffs the newsletter. She lunges forward without moving her legs and produces a hairball mixed with unchewed dry food pellets.
And you feel like the music teacher in junior high, playing “Pomp And Circumstance” for a huge graduating class of eight graders, and for the love of Jesus Christ and his damn disciples, you’re only on the O’s.
Your man done left you. Your life is a catchy country song mess written by some up and coming John Denver omelet, so the last thing you want to hear is some damn country song. At the risk of sounding like some new-age drug dealer, try this.
By the way, you’re welcome.