06 January 2014


Ass-to-mouth was first pulled on an insecure drunk girl. I can almost guarantee it. An insecure drunk girl's entire existence is ass-to-mouth. It's the one thing, above all else, that an insecure drunk girl will nod to, in agreeance, AS IT IS HAPPENING, that basically sums up her life into a single moment. Ass-to-mouth doesn't bother an insecure drunk girl.
She knows her wheelhouse.

I've driven a stick shift with a dick in my hand. What country girl hasn't?

My Mama isn't a creepy perv. 
It's weird. 
All THIS isn't from her. 
My Mama never did ass-to-mouth.
(Unless you count the fourth husband, and really, who does?)

I only count the third husband anymore.

He was a pretty freaking good guy, Elwood Sheldon. He taught me that it is more than okay to be more than weird. He knew I had spirit. He hid me from the darkness. He brought me back from where I shouldn't have been. He laughed at my shitty jokes.
Mama was married a few more times than most. A couple of them stuck a while; Daddy (Husband II) was around for the better part of two decades but spent a quarter million truck-driving miles a year on the road. The first dodged responsibility like it was the 'Nam draft and the fourth bailed before the frost thawed to bury my brother. 
Nope, it was Mama's husband the third that made the impact on me.

From the hamper full of porn in the upstairs bathroom to taking baths in the three-tub restaurant-sized stainless steel sink, Woody was a bit out there. His 40,000+ collection of vinyl records spread from bedroom to bedroom as the kids left. Every moment of his life was set to some soundtrack that played in his head. Every memory I have is tied to a song. 
He encouraged me to talk to the ghosts that haunted me. 
He believed me when they answered. 

Confidence was beaten out of me at a young age by a bitter father and a mean older brother. Not to say I didn't instigate.. I s'pose you can imagine how my smart mouth never knew when to shut the fuck up. But with Woody (Husband III)  I got laughter instead of teeth-rattling blows at my smartass retorts. His joyous whole-body chuckles at my wit-filled replies made me seek more and more smart responses. I would create troubled situations at a very young age just to make him laugh with my explanations of events occurred.
"Sure, sure. I stole my brother's bike. I was TIRED of walking home." 
I'm still walking home.

Nobody ever felt the energy of JOLEEN DOREEN quite like Woody (Husband III). 

I cried more for his passing than I did for my own father. 
I s'pose it's because Daddy was a cold-hearted man; he outlasted more strokes than every member of the Rolling Stones combined and yet refused to listen to a song that wasn't performed by a Conway or a Cash. I thought he died a half-a-dozen times before he really did. Daddy was a hard man. Not even Death was going to get the upper hand on him.
Woody (Husband III) was different. He was everything Daddy was not. He was jovial when things were extraordinary. He giggled at the wonderful. He argued with EVERYTHING. He was infuriating and so fucking stubborn.

He fostered an atmosphere of weird that helped create ME.

He was a good hearted man killed by a bad heart.

I will miss him more than all these words can tell you.