. . . and a very good morning to you! I trust this past weekend was abso delicious and filled with love, laughter and memorable moments. Anyway, my birthday is quickly approaching - exciting, to say the least. I don't have to fish for compliments or birthday well wishes, so you can save your breath. I'm mentioning the above for a few reasons, but most importantly, as a portal into my soul, if I had one (see, I said it for you!).
As the anniversary of my entrance into this world looms upon us - IDK why, but I get very contemplative. Like, I'm more or less 25 - and y'all are so, so, so terribly lucky I'm still "all up in this bitch" to quote a favorite hip-hop artist. I nearly died when I was twelve years old and, on the up and up, IDK how the fuck I'm not hanging in some closet in West Campus/North Campus/Austin/Dallas/Houston/Raleigh/Apex/Chapel Hill/Durham, yikes! Suffice it to say, I am more mindful than normal of my innumerable blessings during birthday month. As such, I also consider the imperfect aspects of this life I live, which, auspiciously, are very few. I know, you're thinking - "Less than perfect? Psh, yeah right!" But, alas, little darlings, I do have a signle, unaccompanied regret. Yesterday evening, pulling a total Raven, my roommate/mother probed, rather poignantly, if I would re-do or change anything looking back on how I've done . . . all of anything and everything.
I shot back an immediate, albeit impetuous, "Fuck no, dudette!" As we sat there, in the cool June evening breeze, the song "I Hope You Dance" started to faintly cycle behind my thoughts. I mulled over all the success, love, laughter, friendship and pure fucking luck I've come across in my 288 months here on earth. After a few seconds, apparently, a scowl spread across my face. At first, I suspected it was the wailing of Lee Ann Womack (accompanied by my roommate, of course), but after I told them both to shut the fuck up, I realized, yes, there is one instance that has become my life's great attrition (I mean, I guess). I told Joan that I did have one lamentation, and she began to list off the things she thought it might be.
She inquired, "The semester of the 0.0 GPA? Not working to your full potential in college? Not working towards anything at all in college? Your cognizance of binge drinking? The boy haircut you got in fifth grade? Not being more respectful to your Mother? Pre-marital sex? Dressing Neville as Santa Claus so you could put him on a roof and sing that horrible Christmas Carol?"
To which my answers were, respectively: "Nah. Nope. Not really. Binge drinking has kept me alive and introduced me to a number of celebrities & interesting characters (JJ Redick, Lance Armstrong, Steadman Graham, Perry [convicted of murder, I later found out, but so hilar], Ginger [my favorite real life hooker] & Tom Green, in order of increasing importance). The haircut was your idea, bitch. Its hard to respect your mother when you look like a Lil' Rascal. Fuck no! and That was my Christmas wish, Neville obliged."
Joan was shocked! She had no idea what it could be. While she went inside to get me a fresh Diet Coke, glass of ice and a straw, I realized I was ready to come out with it, figuratively speaking, and open the smallest piece of this stone heart up to her, and the world.