Beat Me Outta Me

(Last Updated On: December 1, 2017)

So, it’s the long weekend.  I’ve been trying to get lackey friends to acquire Coke for me…so I can mix it with the rum that’s been sitting in my fridge (HA! Faked you out.).  I’m not fond of any of the beer Dude fellows left behind.  The alcohol content isn’t sufficient for the amount of pain and writing I want to get through tonight.  I think I’ve satiated my thirst by making a big ass chocolate chip pancake.  Cleaning off the keyboard later will provide much tedious fun of the cleaning nature.

I won’t lie.  I’m working through a breakup…or “break.”  I’m of the mind there’s no fucking difference, but so long as both inspire writing, I’ll trek through the briar patch.  It sure as Hell isn’t the first trek, but so help me, Judas Priest, it better be the last time.  I [WAS] madly in love with the man, and he still feels much love for me, but life as an adult gets complicated in ways younger couples don’t understand is a spineless fuckboy who is known to compulsively lie by omission.  Stay away from fuckboys, kids.

I’m channeling Kurt Cobain tonight.  The man experienced more emotional and physical pain than I have room to bitch about, and his guitarage skills even in death far surpass my own, despite the simplicity.  Don’t mistake ease with simplicity.  They are not one and the same.  The abstract yet straightforward lyrics…I need to experience a whole other state of mind in order to replicate such composition.

Ever since I could remember I listened to Nirvana.  I realized who they were when I was 5 years old receiving cancer treatment in the Winter/Spring of 1994.  They made that one catchy song about teens and spirit, to which no one could understand the lyrics.  Soon after I learned about the band, Kurt committed suicide.  I don’t recall if I possessed a complete understanding of death at the time, but I knew many Rock lovers felt devastation by the loss.  Now that I’m 27, I’m chilled by the notion of quickly rising to stardom only to throw your whole life away…or in his eyes, experience such draining pain on all fronts to the point of seeking final relief…even leaving his daughter behind.  God, I can’t imagine having kids or a family of my own right now.  I can’t imagine abandoning them.

I can’t imagine being worth millions of dollars just from writing and playing the right combination of chords and lyrics.  Or feeling the pressure of representing the angst of a generation.

My heartbreak pales in comparison…though it still doesn’t hurt any less.


2001 Wilton Center Elementary Talent Show.  I was 12 (guess who I am).  Mom and Dad just bought me my first electric guitar–a Kurt Cobain blue Squier Strat.  We performed Weird Al’s parody “Smells Like Nirvana.”  My baby brother throws up a grungy peace sign.

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