The rhythm IS gonna get you.
Sorry, everybody, but I've decided to make my home in a Starbucks on the Gilbert/Mesa border. Things are weird here, and I think I need to stay forever.
I've been locked in a "you say hi first" stare with a baby for a few minutes now, and I want it to break before I do. It's obvious that it's judging me as a less-than woman since I've never made one of it. It's babbling at me now, rubbing its little fist back and forth wildly over its open mouth in some sort of sign of primal aggression. I'm not scared, baby. Babble away. Shake your fist at me. I've seen worse.
Oh wow, now it's put its own pacifier back in its mouth as if to say, "I'm gonna be quiet now before I tell you what I really think of you." That's cool, baby. Trust me; I've heard worse.
Oh shit, now it's pulling its pacifier out and violently swinging it at me like its holding the combat line, just waiting for the commander's signal to attack. I'm not sure when this will end, but it's obvious that our interaction is escalating. Maybe once its mother starts paying attention to it again, the madness will stop. But right now, she's too busy talking to her friend and feeling her friend's belly to apparently feel the baby inside of it kick, to notice that her own baby is coming at me like this.
Maybe that belly-baby is kicking because it wants a piece of me too. That's cool, belly-baby. Bring it on. I'm not scared of either of you.
I can wear Old Navy too, baby. I can suck on a bottle. You're not so cute. One day, you'll grow up and find yourself projecting issues on an innocent one of you in the middle of a Starbucks far outside your home territory while, apparently, the entire discography of U2 plays overhead, and you'll wonder how the hell you got there. And you'll yearn for your belly days again. And some consistent sanity. And some more caffeine so you can feel at least a little something every now and then.
But in the meantime, go ahead and take your sweet time not saying hi, baby. I've got all the time in the world. It's a three-day weekend, and I don't have to go to work tomorrow. I know you'll break before I do. I know you're just about ready to say hi. Just wait until I start throwing some of my mad peek-a-boo game* in your direction. It's almost pathetic how much you don't stand a chance . . .
*I'm using "mad" and "game" because I'm in the East Valley, and that lexicon seems appropriate.
In the summer of 2010, I sedated myself to the brink of death.
Find out TONIGHT at Is It Dark in Here? Created by Nolan Ross, hosted by Matt Storrs, and featuring yours truly, Matt Micheletti, Rob Maebe, Erick Biez, Dan Amaro, and Shane Shannon, with music from Hotrock SupaJoint.
This is a house show, so message me on Facebook for details. Starts 8ish.
You can catch me TONIGHT at Monkey Pants for the 8:30 show, and then I'll be headed over to Spinelli's Pizza on Mill for the 10:00 show.
Not to start any rumors or anything, but I totally heard that the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are gonna be at Spinelli's. I'm hoping to get cozy with Raphael in a corner booth, maybe get my Reverse Half Shell on back at the crib.
And yes, I will be punctuating every punchline with Vanilla Ice dance moves.
Go comic, go comic, go . . .
It was one of those days where I just wanted to crumple into a ball and sob until there was nothing left of me but my skin to blow away in the wind. I wanted my mind to go blank. I wanted to run, to scream, to fuck, to move as fast as my limbs could take me until I couldn't feel anything anymore except the peaceful nothingness of absolute physical exhaustion.
But I couldn't . . . because I was stuck in my cubicle, installing Microsoft Outlook 2016 on my work computer.
Soon I'd have more storage, so I could save more emails, more of the same conversations over and over and over and over and over again. I couldn't wait. Apparently, this is what joy feels like in a corporate existence.
I took a break from looking at pretty pictures of trees to finally follow through on this required software update before I received another reminder email from IT. Since I couldn't run, or scream, or fuck, I'd taken to trying to escape in my mind to some place beautiful, some place calm, without artificial boundaries and artificial light. I'd noticed recently that I've had that urge to just stay in my dreams again lately, and it could mean one of two things: I simply have an imagination much too active for 8 hours of spreadsheets, or I'm losing my mind again. It's a thin line to walk, especially as summer starts creeping in.
The installation went faster and more smoothly than expected, and it was time for me to choose my super-secret security question, just in case I ever had to prove to my computer it was me on the other end. I started scrolling through the list of options:
What was your grandmother's favorite dessert?
This question pulled a serious string in what was left of my heart. I had no idea what either of my grandmothers' favorite desserts were, and I would never know for sure because they had both passed. Of course, I could speculate for the one I knew better, but I felt that wasn't being entirely truthful with the computer. I sat for awhile staring at these words thinking of my own mortality and that of the generation before me. I thought of all the things I have always wanted to know and learn from my parents and how, inevitably, time will slip away from me.
So far, this software update wasn't perking me up as my company had promised. I decided to move on to another choice. Picking a security question is a very important matter, and I wanted to be sure I chose the correct one.
What was your dream job as a child?
The question made me want to simultaneously weep and laugh maniacally like a madwoman at the thought of a little me daydreaming of a depressing office, computer, and years of my life lost to something I not only don't care about, but steals more of my essence and intelligence every day. Who wouldn't dream of never getting to see the sky while new bony bumps of calcium formed on their wrist and finger from click, click, clicking a mouse all day long? I remember caring about words, having ethics about words, believing language was the most powerful thing we had . . . now I was using my brain to make strings of sounds to sell things that didn't really help the world at all. My younger self shook its head at me, and rightfully so.
What did you earn your first medal or award for?
Words. I came out strong, then nothing, then this. This is far too depressing. Where are the pictures of those trees?? Moving on . . .
Where did you meet your spouse/significant other?
Fuck you, computer.
Where were you on New Year's Eve 2000?
Wow, this was quite a thought provoking security question. The year 2000 -- the Y2K scare -- how could anyone forget?
I was rolling on E in my Rainbow Brite costume in post-coital bliss, trying to fish a lost tampon out of my body while the Twilight Zone Marathon played in the background.
Don't judge me.
It could've been the end of the world. Nobody knew if the computers could deal with all those zeroes. There was no time to waste. We had no time for the war on drugs! We had no time to care about deviant labels!! We had no time to pull the tampon out!!! We were living, man!!! We were living . . .
And with that memory -- and my adult decision NOT to type that answer into my work computer -- I started to realize, it may be time to shake things up a bit. Live a little.
Or at the very least, get the fuck out of my cubicle and feel the breeze on my not-yet-blown-away skin.
I want a Fitbit that tracks the bad thoughts.
Right before things got even weirder . . .
This super sweet doodle.
Come hear about the rest of my week TONIGHT, 11pm at Crescent Ballroom for This Week Sucks, Tonight! Hosted by Anwar Newton and Michael Turner.
I will most likely be popping by Monkey Pants before that as well for the 8:30 show, so yes, you can see me twice tonight if you're so inclined.
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.