I really do. and while he may have lyricist cred, i cannot bear it. I just cannot. it makes me want to rip something and burn something and hear something smash.
between this experience and wanting to punch tom hanks, i mean, forrest gump, repeatedly, you can see that I am in need of an intervention.
not because either of these aggressions are WRONG, per se, but because they are so very STRONG, almost overwhelming.
and while i am being very mature about my current flux and flow, and my disappointments; I am bumping into more and more of these petty grievances as i move about my day.
So be wary.
I think its pretty common to me, and maybe, to you, dear reader. There are these little fissures in the rock of my foundation, and boiling hot steam is escaping.
Like, when I’m notified that my son has changed his viewing ability on a streaming service, so that he can see ALL the things, I get ticked. I do. And it goes like this, internally:
Does he not think I’m the boss of this goddamned house? Does he not remember that I find out EVERYTHING? I AM THE MOTHER. Yes, boys, and flatulence and boobs or whatever. BUT GODDAMNIT. Stupid, stupid. AND, of course, he does this while at his dad’s house and so therein lies an entirely separate level of capitalization.
believe it or not, I am tired of talking about porn.
Sigh.
Piss and Vinegar,
and love, always love.
-me.
Photo by Rosana Solis on Pexels.com
I have a friend who is a perfectly fine person except that he’s a big Bob Dylan fan. Go figure.–Always tempting to ask him, “How can you stand it?”
I grew up listening to Bob Dylan. My mother loved him. His lyrics are swell. But he is an asshole in that he shows up hours late sometimes for concerts and makes everyone who works at a venue treat him like royalty.