Collette's Bustier Has Pretty Rhinestones.

Give me one good reason I shouldn't run away right now? I know I've threatened like 8 million times to flee, but this time I mean it. I do. I'm not even kidding.

I am so sick of being me that I can't even stand it.

I'm tired of my hair. It's all stringy and flat and not even a color that you would see in nature.

I'm tired of that one weird discolored spot on my nose that looks as though a bird crapped on me and I was too distracted by my fire batons to wipe it off.

I'm insanely tired of having OCD - which is the only kind of tired you can be when you have obsessive-compulsive disorder. I swear on all that is holy if I have to straighten the knobs on the stove just one more time, I'm gonna....

Hang on. Be right back. Please hum the theme to Kojak while I'm away.

Had to touch the damn knobs.

So here's the thing then. Some days I wake up and I'm loving life and grinning from ear to ear and humming the theme to Kojak and I think to myself, "Collette," which is what I call myself on the good days, "Collette, you are gonna rock 45 like no other."

But then there are the other days. The days I wake up and I lie very still wondering whether I'm in fact waking up from a decades long coma rather than a single night's sleep. What else would explain my having aged twenty years so quickly?

"Gertrude," which is what I call myself on the bad days, "Gertrude, you are a washed up, fat faced, hollowed out shell of your former self. I can't even bring myself to look at you."

Gertrude is a bitch.

I often wonder whether I'm having a mid-life crisis. As I said to a friend only moments ago, I feel as though I am one gold chain and a sports car away from being a pot-bellied, forty-something man chasing after twenty year old tail.

Yes I said tail and I'm not even sorry. Forty-five year old women are rarely sorry.

I feel I should get something pierced or tattooed or lifted or plumped. I am overwhelmed by a gnawing desire to change my name and commit a crime. I lie awake nights plotting how I might convince AC/DC to let me be their drummer.

Technically I cannot play the drums, but I do quite well on the shifty thing in my car so it's all good.

God help me, I gots to fly. I gots to jet. I gots to pack my red wig and my rhinestone bustier and do something that would get me a ticket to incarceration here in the Midwest.

Be warned that I won't be back before the big 4-24 birthday meltdown and if all goes as planned, I won't be back after either as I will be in hiding with my stalker, Toad Suck Guy. I figure if anyone can keep the feds from finding me, it's a seasoned stalker with a big truck and a keen knowledge of hinky behavior.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Why you punish me? You wash away my dreams.




Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.