More Cowbell, Baby
I wrote a blog.
I did! You probably could tell.
I was really mad at the time. That's when I usually produce some pretty awesome prose. But, I have to admit, the blog was pretty weak (not that this one is going to be any better).
But, I deleted it mostly because of something I added that Jeremy wasn't comfortable with (being the modest soul he is), and that content may or may not have been about a conversation that we may or may not have had in a room in our house that features a very tall spigot, a vinyl sheet, a ball of netting, a bottle of slick, latherable substance, and a small hole. Maybe. But I'll never tell.
Anywho, the whole premise of my blog was about being a follower.
And I'm not one.
Never have been.
I dance to the beat of my own drum. Which is probably more like a tin can...or a cowbell...
So it really torks me (torked me A LOT when I originally wrote this blog) when people accuse me of not having an original thought.
I mean, really?
And just because you aren't saying the words, "You aren't capable of rubbing your two brain cells together and producing some semblance of a spark of intelligence," doesn't mean you aren't saying it (sorry, I am tired, and if this doesn't make sense, you'll just have to deal with it).
It's like people judge you based on who they think you are, or what they think you do, or what you look like, or what they think you think, what they think you think they think, or what they think you think they think you think about them.
And when you don't politely satisfy their assumptions, they get bent out of shape. It's like, sheesh, I can't please you when I am what you think, and I can't please you when I'm NOT what you think.
It's like everybody wants everybody else to form a perfect conga line and dance in uniform goosestep (interesting thought, yes?).
Luckily for me, I have had the presence of mind (who'd a thunk?) to nicely (most of the time) set people straight when they make snarky remarks to me. It's only later that I freak out. Like 'a so:
"I'M NOT A CHICKEN! WHY DO THEY KEEP PECKING AT ME??!?!?!" I yelled at Jeremy as we stood in the room in our house that features a very tall spigot, a vinyl sheet, a ball of netting, a bottle of slick, latherable substance, and a small hole. I calmed down and became thoughtful. "I...am a swan..." (Jeremy replied, "I must be an ugly duckling," and then walked around in circles fully dressed (YES, FULLY DRESSED. I DON'T TALK ABOUT N-A-K-E-D people) under the very tall spigot, poured some slick, latherable substance on the fiberous strands he keeps on his head, and then started barking.)
In reality I am probably a sea otter. Or a yak....or a mudskipper.
Yes...a mudskipper dancing around in the muck to my very own cowbell.
Oh yeah...but the more I run around in the mud banging away with my cowbell and drumstick (out of ear-shot mind you...I don't live my life on display) the more I seem to become a target. Trust me when I say, I am not doing it to annoy you, I am doing it for the sheer pleasure it gives me to do what I think is best.
And, again, luckily for me, Jeremy is my greatest cheerleader. He is right there with me, sitting in the mud, bobbing his head to his kazoo.
I feel a little like Will Ferrell in this video (posted below). I just wanna rock out on my cowbell, because, man...There isn't enough of cowbell in this world. And you know...it wouldn't be the same without it.
I did! You probably could tell.
I was really mad at the time. That's when I usually produce some pretty awesome prose. But, I have to admit, the blog was pretty weak (not that this one is going to be any better).
But, I deleted it mostly because of something I added that Jeremy wasn't comfortable with (being the modest soul he is), and that content may or may not have been about a conversation that we may or may not have had in a room in our house that features a very tall spigot, a vinyl sheet, a ball of netting, a bottle of slick, latherable substance, and a small hole. Maybe. But I'll never tell.
Anywho, the whole premise of my blog was about being a follower.
And I'm not one.
Never have been.
I dance to the beat of my own drum. Which is probably more like a tin can...or a cowbell...
So it really torks me (torked me A LOT when I originally wrote this blog) when people accuse me of not having an original thought.
I mean, really?
And just because you aren't saying the words, "You aren't capable of rubbing your two brain cells together and producing some semblance of a spark of intelligence," doesn't mean you aren't saying it (sorry, I am tired, and if this doesn't make sense, you'll just have to deal with it).
It's like people judge you based on who they think you are, or what they think you do, or what you look like, or what they think you think, what they think you think they think, or what they think you think they think you think about them.
And when you don't politely satisfy their assumptions, they get bent out of shape. It's like, sheesh, I can't please you when I am what you think, and I can't please you when I'm NOT what you think.
It's like everybody wants everybody else to form a perfect conga line and dance in uniform goosestep (interesting thought, yes?).
Luckily for me, I have had the presence of mind (who'd a thunk?) to nicely (most of the time) set people straight when they make snarky remarks to me. It's only later that I freak out. Like 'a so:
"I'M NOT A CHICKEN! WHY DO THEY KEEP PECKING AT ME??!?!?!" I yelled at Jeremy as we stood in the room in our house that features a very tall spigot, a vinyl sheet, a ball of netting, a bottle of slick, latherable substance, and a small hole. I calmed down and became thoughtful. "I...am a swan..." (Jeremy replied, "I must be an ugly duckling," and then walked around in circles fully dressed (YES, FULLY DRESSED. I DON'T TALK ABOUT N-A-K-E-D people) under the very tall spigot, poured some slick, latherable substance on the fiberous strands he keeps on his head, and then started barking.)
In reality I am probably a sea otter. Or a yak....or a mudskipper.
Yes...a mudskipper dancing around in the muck to my very own cowbell.
Oh yeah...but the more I run around in the mud banging away with my cowbell and drumstick (out of ear-shot mind you...I don't live my life on display) the more I seem to become a target. Trust me when I say, I am not doing it to annoy you, I am doing it for the sheer pleasure it gives me to do what I think is best.
I really don't understand why people can't just accept others for who they are, just let them be, and stop making assumptions (and I can't help but say this: just because I wear make up doesn't mean I am stupid. I am an artist, and my face is my canvas).
And, again, luckily for me, Jeremy is my greatest cheerleader. He is right there with me, sitting in the mud, bobbing his head to his kazoo.
I feel a little like Will Ferrell in this video (posted below). I just wanna rock out on my cowbell, because, man...There isn't enough of cowbell in this world. And you know...it wouldn't be the same without it.
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