Lest I seem like the type to not get things done, I want to update to let you know that, in spite of being three days behind schedule, I do have my song prepared, though I am hitting a few snags due to my outstanding Garargeband ineptitude. Until I can get the whole shebang up & running, please enjoy this anecdote in my lyrical stead:

A few weeks ago, I slammed home from work, crabby & tried as ever, having endured yet another day in customer servitude. Tossing my keys to the wayside, I looked up at the wall above my couch, the wall upon which had previously sat a large-scale vintage print, & saw…nothing. Bare wall. Bare couch. Bare coffee table. I froze.

“WE’VE BEEN ROBBED!!!!” I screamed.

A voice came from above.

“WE’VE BEEN REPO’D!” it announced.

The tallies began.

A number of emotional misalignments had struck my newest residency in the first weeks there &, rather than face any possible repercussions, we hid in our own Bacchian orgy. Weeks past, dust settled, & some hearts began to heal. Other hearts pussed up, became myonecrotic, began to emit their own deadly toxic gases caused by the remarkably resilient clostridium bacteria & decided that they wanted their shit back (have you ever wiki’d gangrene? It’s FASCINATING. Did you know that noma is the scientific name for gangrene of the FACE? AMAZING!).

I, personally, am not one for the whole “Swap Back” thing. If you let them wear your sweet vintage Batman shirt & didn’t get it back before you split, too bad. It sucks, but that’s the cost of the game. Whining about getting your things back is childish & a petty way of trying to stick it to your ex. Besides – if they keep your things, it’s, like, ten thousand times easier to polarize them as the narcissistic ass hat who ganked your shit & broke your heart, & trust me, that makes a way better story than just bitching about your lost crap.

In our cases, however, the demand for crap return was loud & clear. All wronged parties wanted their vexors to squirm. Literally.

So, they took the bed.

If you can come up with a better metaphor for a shattered relationship, I owe you a coke. I’ll spare you the details, but know that this was no easy task: the bed in question was on the third floor of our coach house apartment – an apartment in which a single spiral staircase connects the floors. Repo-ex took three solid hours to remove the item, returning to clean out any remaining possessions still lingering in our house. By the time I got home that afternoon, we’d been stripped from top to bottom & were in desperate need of a Donna Summer/PBR cure-all. After two six packs & one rotation of Bad Girls, I figured, hell. If Donna can do it, why can’t I? Thus the Bed Song was born.

Tune in tomorrow for tone deaf crooning, belted out by yours truly.

Beep beep.