I gotta thinkin’ birds are free. I’m free. Why not sing about bein’ free.
Who am I?
Sensitive views on politics, religion, and correct grammar will not be found here. Sentence fragments, slang, political incorrectness, contractions, passive voice and the word ‘but’ will be.
Believe it or not, I am a private person to a degree. I suppose we are all the same in that respect. Some things I will share and some I see no benefit in sharing. I learned that in rehab.
The question of who I am has plagued most of my life. I continue in my lack of assurance today. But, here are a few things I do and say without hesitation in the real world and sometimes the cyber world. No matter who’s lookin’.
If I see grocery carts in a parking space, I have a mini fit. Recently, I pulled into the parking lot to find said spectacle in a handicap space and much to my children’s chagrin; I promptly let the bag boy know, just in case he didn’t.
Recently, a door-to-door salesman stopped by and finagled his way past my mom who was visiting. To my children’s embarrassment and my mom’s I’m sure, I abruptly told him to get out, following behind ensuring that he did. We have hard wood floors and he was selling carpet shampoo. This is a no-brainer in my mind.
I buy boxes of food for those less fortunate at the grocery store. If I am waiting my turn at a check-out and see that someone is struggling to come up with the cash, I take care of it. I’m talking a couple of bucks here.
In nursing school, one of my classmates failed by .3 of a point. At her request, I went through her tests with her to be sure the instructors didn’t miss anything. I was told to drop it or drop out. I dropped it.
I’m certain I could never live in a mansion and even more certain I could not be a snob, although I have been called a snob on more than one occasion. I am terribly shy, and usually at a loss for words, I suppose this landed me in the snob category more than once.
I’m not “cool”, never have been, although I’ve tried to be. I’ve failed. Miserably.
Socially, I’m a misfit. I really have to think hard on what I’m going to say and I still sound like the village idiot most of the time.
I laugh when I’m not supposed to, I cry the same.
Witty is not a word I would use to describe myself. Although I did use that word to describe myself at my daughter’s insistence.
Unless I see your face and attempt to read your non-verbals, sarcasm
sometimes usually escapes me.
The things I share and the way I share them are all me. The heart and soul of me.
I’m not a writer as such but I get by with a little help from my friend, MS Word.
I don’t sound as Southern on paper as I do in person. Unless I’m in your comment box, without MS Word.
I love the fact that I am Southern. I’ve been called a Southern redneck and it tickled me good. It was their attempt at flattery. It worked.
Living the life of a domestic violence survivor is a hard row to hoe, and there are times I chop the shit out of it. More times than not, I’m up shit’s creek without a paddle.
I’ve attempted to watch every “war movie” ever made, I don’t like chic flicks and I love listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd.
My entire wardrobe consists mainly of faded jeans, tank-tops, and flip flops. Winter wardrobe includes a jacket and boots.
I use terms and phrases such as:
Look a yonder.
Can’t beat that with a stick.
I’m fixin’ to. (In a minute)
Don’t git ya gander up. (Don’t be upset)
What brings you to my neck of the woods? (my house)
Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black to me. (One idiot calling another idiot an idiot)
Shit (my personal favorite).
One more thing. MS Word has this document lit up like a Christmas tree and it really sticks in my crawl, so I’m gonna post this before I change my mind. Plus, my daughter is telling me to stop stalling.
I want to those who have shared their hearts cry, written their words in blood and tears. I’m so glad you have found your voice and I dare say that if we all felt this way domestic violence would not exist, wars would cease, hunger would be eradicated, and the list goes on.
I want you all to know that you ain’t heavy; you’re my sisters and brothers. Please take pause, read and listen. Five minutes to know how much I truly do care.
Here is a no shitter story:
I talked to my ever-so-cool step-sister back in the Seventies about this song.
She said to me,
“Lance, what does this song mean to you?”
I said (thirteen years old), I said, it is about some dude carrying his brother out of a war zone in a desert, and some guy comes up and says, ‘Is he heavy?’
And the dude says, “No. He’s my brother.”
My step-sister just left me there, all alone, wondering why I was not cool.