Poor Mum

I am a country girl at heart. Barefoot, low-key, rough-palmed, cracked nails. That kinda girl. The one who climbed up and sat on rooftops to stare at the sky, or rode runaway horses into opposing traffic (scaring my poor mother out of her mind), or played in mud wearing her Sunday Best. If you meet me, I want you to know, Momma tried. This mess ain’t her fault.

Nowadays, I don’t live in the country. At all. But you can take the rural lady out of the sticks without taking the sticks out of the lady.

I don’t know what that means.

However, I know that I am indeed quite pent up.

But I’ve been studying Vinas Arnis (stick fighting) while living in the city, trying to grow grass at an impossible 118 degrees, pretending to keep busy, and trying to deal.

There’s something about the city, something that is absolutely soul-stifling. Not seeing the skyline through the haze. Bumpers and horns and bitch-ass prep boys on their phones while their Tesla panic-stops in the middle of the street.

When I was ‘angsty’ in the country, I could get out there and do some work and burn it off and be better for it. Chop some wood. Dig some ground. Get dirty and in it, ultimately taking the top off the bullshit.

In the city, well, my angsty becomes simply mad. And mad gets worse real quick when there’s extra frustrations and no outlet. Constant bullshit.

Begs the question, Why did I come down here?

Because I wanted to ride my motorcycle year-round and couldn’t do it at -10 degrees. Tried, laid it down on ice, not the best life.

Then I lost the motorcycle. She had a name, she’s gone. I still have her license plate and her serial number, a pathetic girl pining for a long-lost. But I am still here, fighting traffic, hearing the constant clamor of neighbors, and I haven’t been skyclad in ages. It is an absolute wonder that I haven’t exploded and flattened three city blocks.

But I’ve practiced holding myself back from my temper and moods since I was a youngin. My mother is a brilliant example of all things good, so I have a lot of material to work with. What worries me is that humans have so much rage they have to repress. Worse, that we have so many people who haven’t had to practice, and they’re all in one spot, all ready to explode. Like me. Because if they have half the temper I do…

Easy to imagine dystopian fiction, huh?

I recognize this is a problem.

So… I got myself some chickens.

Yep. City livin’, plus chickens. Hatched a day before I brought them home. They don’t mind the shit grass. I am teaching my pitbull-mastiff not to eat them.

Good steps.

If you are unhappy, chances are it’s maybe 50-50 your fault. Fix your side before you deal with the rest.