This year's event is happening TONIGHT--SATURDAY.
Get your festival passes here!!
(No, I'm not on the lineup this year, but you should definitely still go.)
And I've heard the phrase "shook his genitals" at least three times in the last half hour.
I'm just waiting for the dubstep remix.
So yesterday, I hung out at the river from sunrise to sunset with a good friend and some wild horses.
And I came back totally unscathed.
Today, however, I injured myself in a stupid cafe.
I should've known the landscape was dangerous. I'd already been sitting there for awhile, completely surrounded by madness.
To my right, was a bratty little 8 year old talking shit to her grandma because her grandma didn''t understand phone stuff. Meanwhile, the grandma was sitting at the table with a scruffy, little white dog on her lap -- the type with all that dark gunk around its eyes -- sniffing up on the table to see what it could grab. It wasn't wearing a support dog vest, but it WAS wearing a polka-dot, Martha Stewart bowtie.
In front of me was a large man and his wife. He'd been berating her in minor ways since they sat down. He soon called the manager over because they received their food, but he had been misled by the cafe menu and did not receive what he was expecting to receive. He was extremely disappointed. In fact, he was furious. The manager very patiently listened to everything the man had to say and told him that she understood. He told her that he was FURIOUS. She offered at least four solutions. He refused them all, explained once again why he was mad, and berated her. She offered something again. He said no; it wasn't about that. He just needed her to know how much she and her cafe had messed up.
I needed another coffee because I didn't want to scream. So I got up, and as I was walking on the nice, polished concrete floor, I slipped on something wet and went flying. Lucky for me, I caught myself via my elbow on a hard chair at the table next to me where a pissy woman was playing with her phone like a rodent in a science lab receiving dopamine hits every time she touched the screen. She looked up, not startled whatsoever, just robotic, to glare at me for disturbing her. This woman was seriously upset with me for SLIPPING AND FALLING ON HER TABLE. So I apologized, "Sorry, I fell." She glared at me again, said nothing, and went back to adding stupid shit over her face on her snapchat photos. Flash forward to god knows how many fucking times in the near and not-so-distant-future when she's crying to some girlfriend who's probably banging her dude anyways, "HE SAID I DIDN'T LOOK LIKE THE PICTURES!"
Gentleman (ladies), have no fear.
I will almost always look like my pictures.
And if not, I'm not opposed to wearing my sunglasses. I wear them in most of my pictures anyways. Besides, none of us are on the internet because we're interested in eye contact.
Oh, shit! THIS ONE'S HEAVY.
Unlike my flow these days.
It just ain't what it used to be. No more snow-plowin' cherry pie filling for this girl.
Nowadays, it's kind of like if a lizard got its tail chopped off and sauntered across my panties. And there's no more Day 4 Surprise Reprise of Flow either.
Hmmm. . .
No wonder dudes always wannna date younger chicks; they must REALLY be into all that MENSTRUAL BLOOD.
You know the drill -- 29 copy limited edition, because I cycle in concordance with the moon. I'll be sliding these into places they don't belong all week, like your local coffee shop, at least three Jiffy Lubes, and the men's restroom at my former lover's place of business.
Get yours today!
Just remember: Once they're gone, they're gone.
Just like my eggs.
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.