In yesterday’s post, I revealed a secret about my disdain for sharing my music preferences with other drivers on the road, specifically at red lights. In the comments, there were a few others who expressed secrets involving music. Jillian was educating people at the same red lights, Amber was performing accidental serenades, and TBM revealed his faux music career. Sam also sings T-swift better than me, but that’s okay because much more people show interest in hearing me spit some Eminem.
Me and Slim go way back.
I vividly remember the period in my life when I was first introduced to the exquisitely crude lyrics of one of my favorite rappers. I can still smell my old 5th grade classroom and hear the sounds of me cracking pencils out of frustration over those logic puzzles. Isabella, Amy, Tony, and Michael can figure out their own damn class schedules or which gifts they gave to whom for Valentine’s Day. Shit. But this isn’t about them. This is about my favorite rapper, Mr. Marshall Mathers himself. You will be okay with this once you understand our history.
When Eminem came out with My Name Is, I remember being scared and delighted all at the same time. Scared, because I knew if I got caught singing the lyrics, “I don’t give a fuck, god sent me to piss the world off” at the impressionable age of ten, I would surely be put in jail and condemned to hell. My delight came from Eminem being my first true taste of secret rebellion. It was a simple infatuation that I couldn’t fully understand. It wouldn’t be long, however, before I was able to start understanding and appreciating the verses I was performing for the hair ribbons and stuffed animals in my closet. Read the rest of this entry
My parents thought I was a boy up until a few short weeks before I was born. Surprise! I was penisless. My parents had even already decided on naming me Joseph. Why am I telling you this? Well, this week’s Blogger Idol topic is a day in the life of you if you were the opposite gender. Finally, I can delve deep into my penis envy. This will be cathartic. I can feel it.
I am pretty indifferent to the name Joseph, and being that I can’t think of a suitable male version of the name Becca, I am going to use my parents’ name fail. We will actually go with Joe for short, because I am a nickname kind of gal/guy. Please enjoy: A day in the life of Joe (I was either meant to participate in this blog prompt in some cosmic way, or I really have been watching way too much Dawson’s Creek)
As Joe, I wake up and admire my new junk. We are being honest here, right? Scratch that (not literally). Instead I will first sleep in until ten minutes before I head out the door. Five minutes for junk admiration and five minutes for teeth brushing, slapping on some Old Spice deodorant and throwing on my clothes. No shaving. I am a
manly man freaking lumberjack and manly men freaking lumberjacks have beards dammit.
On the drive to work I am definitely jamming some Nirvana or some other band from the nineties and definitely not trying to lent roll my entire body while avoiding oncoming traffic. Real men don’t have cats, right? No, I think I now have a Great Dane named Joe the III. Read the rest of this entry