Talking To Tom
I didn’t think he would take me seriously. I was an aging woman sitting in my ex-husband’s recliner staring at the xmas tree. I refuse to put the Christ in Christmas. I’m a chaos witch. People know I have a weak brain (Mercury in Pisces) so they try to trick me into thinking this planet we call home is flat and the moon is a myth and when we die we get two choices. Bull fucking shit. I don’t know anything with junkyard dog certainty. But I’ve never been a materialist. So I was sitting in my ex-husband’s recliner staring at the disco tree talking to Tom Petty. I never knew the guy, just bought his greatest hits cd once before I discovered Townes Van Zandt. I was taking Tom to task. I told him I realize there are only so many shelves. There’s the Tom Petty shelf. It’s close to the bottom. There’s the Jimi Hendrix shelf. Of course it’s the top shelf, same as Billie Holiday and Queen and Led Zeppelin. Lester Bangs would not have fucked me. So America is a warehouse with shelves. I realize that. There aren’t enough shelves for Destroyer and Sparklehorse and Dirt Dress and King Tuff and me. I finally got a big deal credit card, walked inside a music store, bought myself a pink electric guitar and an orange amp. “Refugee” does not cover a multitude of sins. “Free Fallin’” renders anything decent Tom Petty might have ever recorded null and void. Nice try, asshole. I ranted. I raved. I might have gotten emotional. Finally Tom Petty says, “You can change the station.” Still snarky and smug beyond the grave. He still doesn’t get a pass.
Take the supplements. Google is your BFF for that and other reasons. Seek. Find. Supplements for anxiety. Supplements for depression. Wash down the supplements with lemon water. Drink green tea. Don’t add sugar. There shouldn’t be any white sugar in your life. Pero. On days you want to sober dial (no one dials anymore) your Capricorn ex you can go to McDonald’s instead. If the fries don’t kill you the nostalgia surely will.
Damn right I still have a thundercloud bruise on my left hip from falling against the closet door when I was trying to bring my Sculpey servitor to life. I could see the lightning but I couldn’t smell the dirt or hear the thunder. I’m pretty sure it didn’t work. The servitor is still a half-assed sculpture (I dropped out of art school after half a semester because…stress) and I’m still a broke ass basic ass bitch begging for PayPal donations at YouTube. But the thing is I have a poverty mindset and the guy I’m subscribed to says that’s my biggest cock block. I will not get the fucking I crave as long as I remember fish sticks with ketchup and Dollar Tree Barbie. Once I thought a rich former friend had hexed me so I lit some black candles and broke a mirror and buried it all in a box in my backyard. Send it back. I won’t claim it. I turn the losing lottery tickets into something I call outsider art. I’m considering going further into debt to become a dental assistant. I could use the stimulation and plaque removal.
Misti Rainwater-Lites is the author of Bullshit Rodeo and several other books. They’re all bueno and so is her blog, www.youareauthorized.com.