When you've been running non-stop for god knows how long, good friends will give you advice meant -- not to restrict -- but to have your basic well-being in mind. For example, the other night after the open mic, I was hanging out with Bill Laskowski. As I was headed out, he asked me what I was gonna do next, if I was gonna go home or not.
I said, "I'm feeling like I need to get to the Chihuahuan Desert."
And he said, "Well, maybe you should go home first. Get something to eat. Get some sleep."
And I said,"Hmmm, I don't know. I made it to Oregon by sunrise that one time . . ."
And he said, "No, I think it'd be good to get some rest first."
And I was like, "Yeah, ok . . . maybe that IS a good idea."
So I went home. And I laid down. And for the first time in a long time, I had more relaxed thoughts, thoughts coming more from love than anger or confusion. I thought to myself, holy crap, I may actually sleep tonight. And as I was drifting off, I thought about the road, and how much I love my car. And how, had I not told Bill what I was thinking of doing, he would have never told me not to do it, and that "no" thought would have never been in my head. In fact, I'd be on the road at that exact moment instead of laying there on my couch thinking loving thoughts about MOTHER FUCKERS.
Dude, by fucking sunrise, I could be marking the Killer Songbird of the White Sands off my birding life list. I mean, this bird is sooo fucking cool -- savage as fuck -- but fucking cool. It will impale its prey on the sharp ends of the Soaptree Yucca, or any sharp surface for that matter. Like, IT'S A SONGBIRD THAT PREYS ON OTHER VERTEBRATES. This is fucking nuts! It will even leave it there sometimes -- just fucking stabbed, skewered -- and then come back to eat it later.
Its name is the Loggerhead Shrike: Lanius ludovicianus.
Yes, there's absolutely a Ludacris joke in there, like the bird always says "LUDO!" instead of "LUDA!" . . . and, of course, "anus" at the end of the name . . . but there's no time for that right now . . .
We gotta get back to how I was laying on my couch NOT seeing the Loggerhead Shrike, NOT calling out "LUDO!" every time I saw the Loggerhead Shrike (which, yes, I am aware is not appropriate birding behavior), because THIS MOTHER FUCKER BILL LASKOWSKI told me I should go home and get some rest first. I should get some food. As if THIS MOTHER FUCKER knows what I need. WHO THE FUCK IS THIS MOTHER FUCKER? What . . . is he trying to fuck my life over? Is that it? Is he trying to keep me from doing what I really want? What a typical MOTHER FUCKER. He's keeping me from living my dreams, emotionally manipulating me, like, "Ohh, I don't think you should drive so long without food or rest."
THIS MOTHER FUCKER!!!!
Meanwhile, he's probably fucking living it up, man. He's somewhere even better, like somewhere else I've always wanted to see. Yeah, THIS MOTHER FUCKER is telling ME to just stay at home. Meanwhile, HE' S laying out in the snow, watching the aurora borealis, giggling like some sort of LITTLE, GLEEFUL MOTHER FUCKER, and I'm here -- not even in bed, just laying on my couch, getting a fucking painful crick in my neck -- while THIS MOTHER FUCKER is living it up.
I listened to him.
I believed him.
But THIS MOTHER FUCKER is just trying to fuck my shit up.
I can't believe I fell for it. I can't believe I let a MOTHER FUCKER steal another one of my dreams.
Fuck it, where's my bag?!?
*front door slams; cat meows sadly and looks at other cat as if to say: I don't think this is about Bill, is it? the other cat looks at the first cat as if to respond: she doesn't even know who she's mad at anymore; both cats stretch and go back to sleep*
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.