Let's act like I posted this on the 22nd, like it says I did.
Today I almost dropped the bomb on Facebook... but instead of pressing "post," I copied and pasted the text into a safer place, my other journal.
I told myself that if I felt the same rage after three hours of not looking at the computer, then I'd go ahead and post it on a more public forum.
I proceeded to work out, listen to music, and paint.
I didn't pull out my phone, and my computer was busy playing music for me, so I pretty much disconnected from the world.
It felt great.
And my rage subsided.
I swear I was going to suffer a heart-attack at noon... that burning sensation in my chest and esophagus... and then an all-consuming desire to pound my fists against a certain person's fat fucking head.
By three in the afternoon, I was chirpy and dancing around the house.
While I've been busy being an angry, frustrated chick, Mom has been a depressed little lady.
The 20th of this month would have been grandma's 93rd birthday, so Mom spent the entire weekend crying and thinking about her Mom.
I did what I hadn't done in ages: I was a clown.
I'm not too fanatical about physical comedy... I'm a little uptight for it... however, my mother loves it.
As a kid, I was a huge clown. I know I've mentioned how I loved performing impersonations, but aside from that, I would be a playful girl and act a fool in order to make sad people smile.
The older I became, the less inclined I was to resort to physical comedy... I think it's something that comes with depression-- it becomes difficult to be playful, so you just exercise your wit.
Anyway, seeing how Momma had been crying... even sobbing a few times, I knew it was times for drastic measures. I don't like having a sad Mommy... especially when I know her stance on crying ("WHY ARE YOU CRYING?! It's for pussies! IS IT SOLVING ANYTHING?! NO! NOW PULL THOSE FUCKING PANTS UP!")... so I was her jester.
I busted out my laptop and started playing some VERY OLD-SCHOOL Mexican Banda songs.
Julio Preciado jams, to be exact.
This man is... was, very big. His voice proves it.
I pulled up this big man's repertoire, pressed play, and began singing and dancing to his music, right in the middle of my living room.
In a matter of thirty seconds, my mom went from sobbing to giggling to joining me.
We turned the clowning around into a competition-- Who is the most dramatic songstress?
My mother won... with her compelling rendition of a classic, where she shook so hard it looked like she was going to spontaneously combust.
I was done after that shit... laughing so hard I was crying.
I like making people smile... I simply adore making them laugh.
Laughter is the best gift anyone can give me. And that's the cold hard truth.
Today I almost dropped the bomb on Facebook... but instead of pressing "post," I copied and pasted the text into a safer place, my other journal.
I told myself that if I felt the same rage after three hours of not looking at the computer, then I'd go ahead and post it on a more public forum.
I proceeded to work out, listen to music, and paint.
I didn't pull out my phone, and my computer was busy playing music for me, so I pretty much disconnected from the world.
It felt great.
And my rage subsided.
I swear I was going to suffer a heart-attack at noon... that burning sensation in my chest and esophagus... and then an all-consuming desire to pound my fists against a certain person's fat fucking head.
By three in the afternoon, I was chirpy and dancing around the house.
While I've been busy being an angry, frustrated chick, Mom has been a depressed little lady.
The 20th of this month would have been grandma's 93rd birthday, so Mom spent the entire weekend crying and thinking about her Mom.
I did what I hadn't done in ages: I was a clown.
I'm not too fanatical about physical comedy... I'm a little uptight for it... however, my mother loves it.
As a kid, I was a huge clown. I know I've mentioned how I loved performing impersonations, but aside from that, I would be a playful girl and act a fool in order to make sad people smile.
The older I became, the less inclined I was to resort to physical comedy... I think it's something that comes with depression-- it becomes difficult to be playful, so you just exercise your wit.
Anyway, seeing how Momma had been crying... even sobbing a few times, I knew it was times for drastic measures. I don't like having a sad Mommy... especially when I know her stance on crying ("WHY ARE YOU CRYING?! It's for pussies! IS IT SOLVING ANYTHING?! NO! NOW PULL THOSE FUCKING PANTS UP!")... so I was her jester.
I busted out my laptop and started playing some VERY OLD-SCHOOL Mexican Banda songs.
Julio Preciado jams, to be exact.
This man is... was, very big. His voice proves it.
I pulled up this big man's repertoire, pressed play, and began singing and dancing to his music, right in the middle of my living room.
In a matter of thirty seconds, my mom went from sobbing to giggling to joining me.
We turned the clowning around into a competition-- Who is the most dramatic songstress?
My mother won... with her compelling rendition of a classic, where she shook so hard it looked like she was going to spontaneously combust.
I was done after that shit... laughing so hard I was crying.
I like making people smile... I simply adore making them laugh.
Laughter is the best gift anyone can give me. And that's the cold hard truth.
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