Seven Drunken Messages

My mom left me these answering messages over the course of about an hour, when I was 18 and in college. You can hear her getting increasingly drunker and more confused (and belligerent) as the messages proceed. I only hope you all can find some laughter in the crap I've always had to put up with.

It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been preceded by years of this activity...and followed by another decade of it.

Can you believe this person has the "patience" to work with minors and mentally impaired people? Ha.

If you find it amusing, I highly encourage you to post it on any and every social media site you can, so others can share in this joy...lol.

Seven Drunken Messages (aka Meg's Mom)


Happy Holidays folks!

Ancient, Anew

Autumn, ablaze~

The inescapable haze

of déjà vu.


                                 The bottles are gone.

The bottles of my smells, the scents of my rooms I'd become so familiar with; gone.

I moved, and so much is here, it seems like too much has stowed away with me somehow,

                                                     just not the things I wanted; the things I needed.

I'm a simple girl, or so I thought.

                                                          What's a jinniyah to do without her bottle?

In what will I drift restlessly across the expansive, endless sea of time?

                                 

                                                                          
                                                                              Answers are found in the past.

A Night in the Life

The visuals: my apartment kitchen, doing recycled art for one of my university Design II projects ~ a big fish of multi-colored aluminum cans, mostly of energy drinks
                                                                                                        (overwhelming)
The tastes: Lison Pramaggiore Pinot Grigio, "stolen" from my sometime-love
                                                                                                          (bittersweet)
The smells: wax melts of Sweet Pea and apple wreaths and home
                                                                                                       (nostalgic)  
The sounds: Sweet Pea, by Tommy Roe, the refrigerator, car doors outside, a dog barking nearby,
                                                                                                          (melodic)
The feelings: the whirring of the computer fan under my hands and so much pain I can barely stand it
                                                                                                           (                     )



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