This is what the music industry is missing and they're totally sad about it. Like Adele sad.

My friend Sean and I have daily conversations about, well, a potpourri of things you should be glad I don't write about all the time on here because it will leave you scratching your head and wonder if we are two happy humans under the age of 50 or two 80-year-old curmudgeons  that spread darkness everywhere we go. 

Yesterday we were discussing music. Is Tom Petty really a rock star? I don't know since I don't listen to his music, but I college roommate did and I feel like I've had enough Tom Petty for a lifetime. 

What about Taylor Swift: yay or nay? Again, someone I don't listen to, but I have to give it to young Swift - she's been able to make some coin off of writing catchy songs about her relationships. 

In my teens and twenties (fuck, just throw in my entire life here), I didn't have the capability of being eloquent and mindful about my relationships. Instead, I was like a pinball spinning wildly from side to side, reaching for anyone that was within reach of my gravitational pull.

And be careful if you broke up with me because the song I'd write about you would be so heartbreakingly bad:

Fuck you. You're an asshole.

Did you think you could really just brush me off like that?

I should've stepped on you with my shoe a long time ago, you troll.

You treated me like a doormat

And now I drag my sword behind me on a warpath.

But I'm confused and lonely. Everything inside me is pitch black.

I just wanted someone to hold hands with - won't you take me back?

This is the time of year where my brain just wilts and it resembles butter

I'm currently hiding in my office right now. If there was a closet in the office, you bet your sweet ass I would be sitting in there, hugging the corner as much as I possibly could.

A neighbor down the street is blasting Christmas music. Said neighbor has also had holiday decorations up since the day after Halloween. This is the type of person we're dealing with. 

A younger version of me would TP their house. But I'm much too lazy and toilet paper is a hot commodity in this house. Also, the neighbor has security cameras everywhere and I'm not Flash Gordon, so. . . 

I can't escape from these bells, jingles and songs about Santa and snow. I tried to hide in the garage, but it's too hot in there. My hair also rebelled and frizzed up and why do I even bother straightening my hair? I could've just used that energy to make a nice, big sandwich. 

Regrets. I've had a few.

I'm contemplating whether or not I should go down and confront said neighbor, but I know that would be a fool's errand. I'm not very social and it would end up being a yelling match and then, maybe, a thumb fight to see who gets their way. It's just too much drama for me right now. 

Besides, I'm enjoying eating these chips. It's got this umami flavor I've never experienced before. Actually, I don't recall ever buying this brand of chips before. Why are they in my office? I ask the kids.

10-year-old: Oh. I thought I tossed those. They tasted funny. Did you buy more?

Me: No.

10-year-old: Well, they were from the summer.

Great. Goddamn Bing Crosby and chips are gonna kill me today.


There are reasons why toddlers shouldn't have access to digital devices, mainly YouTube and videos about backpack surprises

The toddler carries around the iPad like I used to carry around one of my old teddy bears or a blanket as a kid. She takes it around everywhere. If she was potty-trained (I'm still waiting on you, Carl, to get this done), she'd probably take it into the bathroom with her like any responsible adult.

At first it was cute. She would play an innocent Dr. Seuss game where she would play some musical instrument and she would clap and laugh. Or she would play Fruit Ninja and her fat little fingers would move slowly across the screen and she'd swipe one or two pieces of fruit and satisfaction would light up her face. 

Those days of rainbows are gone, buried deep under some dark monster called YouTube.

Every morning, the toddler wants me to type Frozen into the search window on YouTube. I didn't even know she fucking knew how to get on YouTube. My parents barely know how to use YouTube. 

She delights when the search results fill the screen, like she just won the lottery. I wish she did win the lottery - maybe I'd be able to tolerate this nonsense better if I was rolling around in some dollar bills, yo.

So she plays videos of random people singing Let It Go: toddlers, adults, grandparents, parents who clearly have had too much to drink and don't give a fuck about their reputation. 

But the most offensive videos are the ones of someone talking about a Frozen backpack full of little surprises. These are geared towards kids, right? I'm not sure. The whole thing is mind boggling. And the fact that more than four million people have watched this stumps my slow brain. Obviously, I do not get it. I don't want to fucking get it.

Holy shit. it's like visual LSD. I don't know where the fuck I am after watching this thing.

And there are many, many videos. I need to go lie down. My brain is exploding into a million different pieces and I am ill-equipped to handle this information overload.

This is the end of innocence.

The middle finger is a glorious thing. I'm glad I have two.

The cough medicine I'm on makes me feel like shit. No. It makes me feel worse than shit. I'm hot, sweaty, drowsy and despite the drugs, I'm still coughing my fool head off. I may also be going through menopause, but that's an entirely different subject we'll have to discuss some other time because I don't have the patience for it right now.

Needless to say, I am in a bad mood constantly. I've been walking around the past week with a frown on my face, wishing everyone ill-will.

Today has been the worst. All I wanted to do today was give everyone the finger.

The guy at the gas station who stared at my boobs. Middle finger. I'm flat, asshole - there's nothing to fucking see here.

The woman who left a message on my phone asking me where the fuck I am because she's still waiting at the airport and she's about to go home with a cute guy if I don't get there soon. Middle finger. Obviously, she got the wrong number and obviously, someone's in the dog house.

The kid that stuck his tongue out at me at the store and called me dumb. Middle finger. There is no ageism when it comes to giving the middle finger in my book.

The mom of the kids who stuck his tongue out at me at the store and called me dumb and just smiled at him and patted his hair. Middle finger. Monkey see, monkey do.

The cat that lives under my car and shits all over the driveway. Middle finger. Go shit on the neighbor's driveway.

The orchids that, I was told, would be easy to take care of and bloom every season. Middle finger. Watching plants die is not an exciting way to pass time.

Oh fuck. I'm just going to give the entire day two middle fingers and call it a night.

Sometimes, your day just starts off right and there's no bringing you down. Unless there's a prepubescent around.

It's seven thirty in the morning. Normally at this time, I'm brain dead and the only sounds I can muster are random groans and grunts.

But right now I'm listening to my beloved LCD Soundsystem, followed by Spoon and Tennis. It's a sweet jumble of synthesizers and mad beats in the minivan.

The 10-year-old and I are singing at the top of our lungs and, sweet boy, he has no idea what the words are, but it doesn't matter because we're bonding through the music - laughing, putting our hands up in the air. If we had lighters, we;d be waving them over our heads. And yes, the 10-year-old knows that fires kill and not to play with lighters/matches/fire. I'm not an absolute idiot parent.

The 11-year-old grimaces in the back seat. I know what she's thinking: Again? I have to deal with this effing nonsense again? Get me out of this crazy car.

Well, you can't get off this crazy train, girlie. You're stuck with us.

Bone Thugs N' Harmony comes on and the boy and I are laughing even more because now we're rapping and rhyming words that we're making up.

I can hear the 11-year-old turn up her music louder and clamp her headphones harder around her ears.

She doesn't know what she's missing out on.

And then Hootie and The Blowfish somehow makes into the speakers and we're totally brought sown, slowed down, calmed down. There's nowhere for us to go from here.

The 11-year-old grins at me and says, That's what you fools get!

But the horrid song ends and Pump up the Volume comes on and our mini party starts all over again.

Take that, Monday. You, too, 11-year-old.

DC Comics has nothing on me and point of reference could be slightly off

I am sitting in the waiting room of my doctor's office. It's after hours and there are only a few people here. We keep staring at one another, leery of each others' maladies. I'm expecting the floor to open up and swallow all of us hapless souls.

The receptionist gives me a mask because my cough is bad and apparently that translates to being a pariah in this stark waiting room. Now no one will even make eye contact with me, even the weird guy who resembles Ronald McDonald.

She asks me the typical questions: Have you traveled outside of the U.S. recently? No. How long have you been experiencing your symptoms? A week. I know you ate gluten today, am I right? What? I must've misheard her. I think.

I walk back to my chair backwards, not wanting to turn my back on the receptionist because there's something really off here.

There are no magazines around, but there are too many tables that look empty, unadorned and a little too pristine, the laminate wood glistening under the heavy fluorescent light.

They call my name. I've been coming to this place for more than a decade and they still can't pronounce my name correctly. I suspect they do this on purpose just to fuck with me and get my blood pressure up so they can prescribe me unnecessary and expensive blood pressure medication. 

The nurse takes me into an exam room. I wait here for a long time, longer than eternity my brain tells me. So I look around the room. There's surgical lubricant and forceps laid out on a table. A bottle of, holy shit, cocaine?!! No, no - calm down, dummy - it's lidocaine which sits next to a tuning fork and just what the fuck is going on? It's like Arkham Asylum up in here. I look at the door, waiting for Dr. Jonathan Crane to come in and spray his fear toxin in the room and leave my brain to slowly wilt away.

Laughter carries down the hallway and into my room. Is that the Angel of Death I hear?

A young woman enters the room. She looks like someone, but I just can put my finger on it right now. So much for all the spinach I've been eating to boost my memory. As the 10-year-old says 'total F-.'

She introduces herself as a physician's assistant. I'm not even worthy of a goddamn MD. This is not going well.

Then it hits me. She is Poison Ivy. The red hair, long fingers, the ephemeral and sweet, oh so sweet scent of an herbal garden that hits my nose at random intervals. 

I have bronchitis again. Poison Ivy types for a very long time into her computer. I can quite see what it says on the screen, but I suspect her diagnosis is more than just bronchitis. She tells me her assistant will check me out and give me my prescriptions. Wait - isn't she the assistant? Why does the assistant need an assistant?

There is all sorts of crazy going on here. And then her assistant shows up. He laughs heartily, wickedly and tells me a very bad joke about boogers. My God, it's the Joker.

As I hurriedly rush out of the office, I run right into the front door and everyone is looking at me. I want to yell at them: 'Run! Save yourself, save this city!' but I'm not feeling very charitable. Screw you all!

Is this how one becomes a villain?

I'm using toilet paper to blow my nose right now because my laziness is crippling

Here I am trying to work.

Ten minutes after sitting down and staring at the computer, I decide it's time for lunch. That takes about thirty minutes.

I return to my computer, hoping shards of brilliance will just flow from my fingertips to the keyboards, but instead, I'm left with a blinking cursor, waiting for me to get my shit together. 

It's not gonna happen, you stupid computer.

So I start to do 'research' on the interwebs. Research involves reading random news bits, going to Feedly and finally reading all those blogs I forget about.

Inspiration still alludes me.

I call Carl. He talks in a quiet voice and I know he's in a meeting. I contemplate saying something highly inappropriate to make him uncomfortable in his meeting, but I don't have a lot of energy. Goodbye, husband.

Unread emails fill my inbox. If I squint long enough, the lines of emails look like tiny little stairs ants use to take food up to their queen. 

I email my friend Sean and write several paragraphs ranting against Constantine and how my long obsession with David S. Goyer is fading. My sentences are full of grammatical errors, but what's Sean gonna do? Put me in writers jail? I think not, good sir. I think not.

This is delirium at its finest.

Movie trailers will save me. I hope.

I click around and the eyerolls start.

Nicholas Cage in an action movie talking in some strange accent. It's horrifying because I know Carl and I will be desperate at some point in our lives and end up watching this stupid movie and at that time, I'll probably proclaim it's a pretty good film. 

The John Wick trailer cracks me up. Apparently, it's not a comedy. 'That dog was a final gift from my dying wife' will make it into my daily conversations with Carl and he'll rue the day I ever watched this trailer.

Katie Holmes. Vigilante. What? My head is spinning too quickly to comprehend what I'm watching.

I fucking hated Annie as a kid. I hate it now. And those songs, those horrible, horrible songs - they will haunt me for an eternity.

And then I finally come to Neill Blomkamp's Chappie. I am in tears. This goddamn trailer is making me cry into my bowl of guacamole and chips.

I have wasted two hours. And now I'm ready for a nap.

Insane in the brain, yo.

There's something that happens to me when I'm vegan. I become a self-righteous asshole, holding my golden scepter over all the animal-eating peons.

I am the savior; I am the light and the truth!

See? I told you. Major asshole.

When I talk to people about being vegan, a full on chemical imbalance takes hold and any semblance of logic disintegrates in stomach acid. I'm assuming. That's what I learned whilst getting my medical degree from Bullshit University. My parents are very proud of me right now. I just know it.

Over the weekend, I spoke with a woman at Whole Foods:

Her: I've been a vegan for eight years.

Me (oh, I've gotta somehow top this, What this piece of brilliance): Well, we lived in Los Angeles for more than a decade.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. What does that have to do with anything?

She stares at me. Yet another human I've rendered speechless due to my genius.

We continue talking for another minute, a total standoff where we're dropping five dollar words that are big with PETA and environmentalists. I fumble on the word restorative and I can feel the grammar police all around me.

By the end of the conversation, I've made an enemy, though, clearly, we should be on the same side. I want to yell back at her, 'I love your fish braid!' but I know it's too late.

This is why I'm my own island and shouldn't venture out where humans roam.


I see dead people

10-year-old: With all that eye-make-up on, you really look like a zombie. I hate to say it, but good job.

11-year-old [in a droll voice]: I'm not a zombie. I'm Joan Jett.

10-year-old: I don't know who that is. You should really go with zombie.

Carl (and the kids helped) made me this over the weekend just for Halloween. . .

Thankfully, the noose is much too small and my neck can't fit in there so I know he won't be trying to get rid of me tonight. 

As I type, I'm watching my neighbor put up more Christmas lights. He obviously has his holidays confused. Or maybe he's going as Santa Claus for Halloween. I don't know. But his Snoopy on a motorcycle blow-up thing in his yard has to go. 

Another neighbor is putting out balloons. Goddamn balloons! This isn't the friggin' prom, people.

This is gonna be a long-ass day.

Happy Halloween, people.

I should probably wake up like this everyday

So I'm in my tank top and my grannie panties and a black sweater because that really finishes off this high-brow look of mine - French girls have nothing on me today - and I'm dancing and singing at the top of my lungs to St. Vincent. Because it feels good. And I'm smiling and I'm crying and I am embracing life and grieving all at the same time.

I'm tempted to check my phone because I know Beyonce wants me as one of her backup dancers. Are you gonna put a ring on it, B?

I'm a dervish of emotion: spinning, twirling, ricocheting off the walls like a wild top with nothing to lose. 

I realize Carl's been watching me from the stairs. So I yell up to him: Who do I have to cut to have Annie Clark's mass talent?

Why must there always be violence with you? he asks.

Because I have little person syndrome and I desperately want her voice. 

I continue dancing; my chest heaving, my hair whipping and for just a few minutes, I forget where I am and lose myself in the music.