Real World (John Mayer)

Junior High should be nicknamed Junior Hell. I still remember the mean girls. There was one in particular that delighted in making my day a living nightmare. Encountering her was like Superman encountering Lex Luther, except Lex Luther was somewhat likeable. Yes, her name was Valerie Ransom.

I still see Valerie as she was then. She had an expensive school wardrobe, only one that a credit card and a kid on her own could buy. Her hair was bright blonde, and she had a perky little body. Sure, her breasts were big for a middle schooler, but the dudes didn’t care. Valerie always wore cherry or strawberry lip gloss. Smacking it on her kisser, she was the Queen Bee and was surrounded by her drones. Pre-pubescent boys literally bowed to their makeshift Aphrodite as she passed in the hallway. They would do anything to be seen with her. Valerie was everything they dreamed about in a woman. She was the closest thing they had to that pretty model on the front of Seventeen Magazine.

Valerie delighted into ripping into me. I was an easy target, too. Looking back, this doesn’t just make her  a bitch on wheels and a bully, but also a lazy asshole as well. Yes, I had a weight problem. Of course I suffered from cystic acne. To fight this, I was on a facial medication that made my skin peel and gave me cold sores like a hooker with herpes. Then my mom picked out my clothes, and she still does. Add in braces with rubber bands that always had food in them. Oh, and my parents wouldn’t let me date.

You see, Valerie and I had actually been friendly before junior high, and she was even in my dance studio. Occasionally, we were even in the same gymnastics class. Valerie was also smart at one point, even tested gifted. Like me, she was in the advanced reading group. However, once junior high hit she was done being smart and now on to her true calling, being popular.

“April has no friends! April has no friends!” Valerie Ransom declared one day in homeroom. It wasn’t true. I had friends. They just didn’t wear preppy clothing and hang with her crew.

“Fuck you!” I replied.

“Sorry, don’t do ugly girls.” Valerie sneered. Then she began to sing "April's got no friends" and got the whole homeroom to join in. Our teacher got her to stop, but Valerie let me know this wasn’t the end.

The next day Valerie ripped on my outfit. Yeah, it was one my mother did pick out. I told Valerie her outfit was ugly. It was. She was starting to pick up a few pounds. Puberty does that sometimes. Later that day, a few of her drones surrounded me in the hall. How dare I call Valerie Ransom’s outfit ugly? They were just words, but like any bully Valerie couldn’t take it. Looking back, it was also evidence of how hung up and insecure she was.

To say Valerie hurt me was an understatement. I used to lock my door to my room and cry when I got home from school every day. However, when the flames of hell lick your heals you can stay put and be a victim or keep moving. I decided to keep moving. I was fortune to have a mother who reminded me junior high was not forever. In order not to kill Valerie Ransom and have her drones jump me, I decided the best course of action was to get a goal.

That Christmas, I got my first ventriloquist figure, a Groucho Marx puppet. I also began publishing a monthly column in the youth section of the local paper. After that, I became heavily involved in storytelling competitions. People told me I should pursue a career onstage, that my imagination was good. I told my mom this one day on our walks. To my mom’s credit she never told me no. She looked at me and said, “Baby, if you want to do that, you need to go to New York.”

I still remember the rain coming down, and knowing Valerie Ransom couldn’t get me if I didn’t let her. So I began working and producing content at the local public access station. I also spent time performing my ventriloquist act around town. My summers and weekends were spent building my resume. New York was the goal. As this became apparent, Valerie Ransom became an afterthought. When she saw she couldn’t take me down, Valerie moved her focus to someone else. The sad part was, Valerie’s new target let the Queen Bee destroy her, and for a time this young woman had to transfer schools. Whenever things got tough, I remembered I couldn’t let Valerie win, and that’s what kept me going.

As things improved for me, life was getting ready to serve Valerie Ransom a helping of humble pie. While on the outside she was the stereotypical cheerleader mean girl that everyone hated, within she was a frightened child who had more issues than anyone knew. The caboose kid in a family where her siblings were much older, Valerie had been an accident in a marriage already on the rocks. Her parents divorced when she was a baby. As a result, Valerie had a mother who spoiled her rotten, rarely disciplining let alone grounding her. Valerie’s father was a successful doctor, but resented his daughter’s existence. While his practice was minutes away from our school, he rarely picked his daughter up. Sure, Dr. Ransom paid child support and then some, but he was busy with his new girlfriend who was barely legal herself. Valerie just got in the way. As a result, Valerie had as many daddy issues as a dancer at The Pink Pony.

Valerie’s grades slipped, and not because she wasn’t capable. It was because she was getting an “A” in chasing male attention. Valerie was shameless about pursuing this high, too. She sat with the boys in homeroom, and as the school year edged on had less and less female friends. It was all the attention her dad wasn’t giving her. What was worse was Valerie was hanging out with high school boys, some of my brother Wendell’s friends to be exact. Wendell was always reticent about Valerie, and was never a part of that crowd himself. However, he warned several of his friends to be careful and reminded them that this eager beaver was the same age I was. That kept his conscience clear and his friends out of trouble.

So what happened next was no surprise to anyone looking back. Valerie was curvy and busty, but not fat. Sure, a little chubby, but in a cute kind of way. However, she was in love with one boy, Seth Mallard. A star basketball player who was a year older, Valerie was hot on him and Seth was eager to lead her on because Valerie made herself all too available. Women desperate for affection with low self-worth always do, FYI. Also, Valerie was becoming notoriously clingy, another downside of the negative self-image thing. To get rid of her, Seth told her she was fat and ugly.

Valerie didn’t cry. She didn’t even fight back. Instead, she dropped 40 pounds almost overnight. Her once healthy figure was replaced by a stick girl. One bubbly, outgoing, and someone who was a personality, Valerie now barely spoke above a whisper. She was tired all the time. Before, Valerie was a star cheerleader who was a decent tumbler. Now she had the energy of a cancer patient on the field and struggled through the routine. Right away, students began to gossip like a British tabloid.

Valerie Ransom’s name was followed by the noun anorexia. Yes, the Lifetime Movie subject, or the illness that killed Karen Carpenter. Valerie was every inch the poster child. She was popular, a cheerleader, and all the guys liked her. Everyone was aghast and abuzz as this bag of bones made it’s way down the hall. “It’s terrible Seth said that to her, now she’s going to die!” Kaley Barnes, an overdramatic semi-popular girl stated. “How could he!?”

Danielle Barrens, a friend of mine from church and CCD was also a cheerleader. Despite the fact we were so different, we had been friends since we were kids. Like myself, Danielle was not a big Valerie fan. “I know I should feel bad but this is so ironic because she was just so mean to a lot of people.” Danielle said to me one day.

I nodded. This was true. Danielle continued. “Everyone is acting like this is the story of the century because she is popular. The truth is, it’s not about what Seth said. Her parents are fucked up and crazy. They think feeding her a cookie is going to solve all this.” My friend wasn’t a psychologist but she was right. Eating disorders are more about what’s going on in the inside than the outside, and Valerie Ransom was screaming for help.

When the cheerleading coach told Valerie if she gained weight she would add her back to the roster, this motivated Valerie. Slowly, she ate again and her color returned. It also seemed her overall state was improving, probably through the help of therapy. No one loses that much weight without being mandated to a shrink, FYI. Even though Valerie had been mean to me and there was a part of me that delighted in her downfall, I was glad to see her on the upswing.

However, Valerie began to eat like a starving child that had never seen food, and in a plot line akin to Tina Fey’s Mean Girls the weight began to pile on. Soon Valerie Ransom was two and a half times her original size. Sure, some of it was that her body was nutrient deprived, but also now she was probably bingeing to deal with her issues. While it is sad now but was funny then, she didn’t just take a slice of humble pie but the whole damn bakery.

Instead of getting back on track, Valerie continued to slip further and further into the hole. She abandoned her cheerleader aspirations because it required achievement, something she had become allergic to.  While she still retained her place in the popular crowd she was no longer Queen Bee but was forced to take her a subservient position as a drone. The new Queen Bee types tolerated her, but made fun of her expanding waistline and desperate attempts to gain male attention when she wasn’t present. Of course Valerie became easier than ever, and her nickname amongst the popular guys was “Street Meat.” In order to make herself cooler, Valerie began to party hard and really hit home running with the drugs.

Previously, Valerie was an average student, and now she just plain sucked. She was lucky she could breathe in her nose and out of her mouth. Much of this was because she had wanted to impress boys so much that studying had become an afterthought and then nonexistent. Then of course, there was the waking and baking she now did before school that made her an extra high space cadet with moon boots and all.

One day I was in a history class when our teacher was asking us about the Civil War, and which black leaders were instrumental. The subject was the Underground Railroad, and we were talking about Fredrick Douglas.

Mr. Reardon called on Valerie because it seemed she was sleeping yet again. “I know the answer. It was Martin Luther King who went to Abraham Lincoln to free the slaves. He marched on Washington and everything!” She exclaimed with extra stupid confidence that only a complete moron could possess. We all exchanged glances. Was this bitch for real?

“You are like Kelly Bundy.” Mr. Reardon said. This Gulf War vet rolled his eyes back and the rest of us waited for this walking joke to write itself like it always did.

“Is it because I am pretty?” Valerie asked, vacant eyed. Yes, this bitch was for real.

 “No, because you are that dumb.” He replied. The rest of the class burst out laughing. Was this mean, kind of. But if you knew her and you were there, she was indeed asking for it. Then he made some crack about Valerie coming to class sober and said that in itself for be a scholastic victory.

Valerie had the ego reduction of having to settle for mere drone, and this woman had been Queen Bee since elementary school. There was no way she was going to let this happen without a fight. Every morning, the popular jocks stood in a circle in the hall before homeroom. Many girls fought to get into the interior of the circle, and in order to achieve this one had to date a football player or be a cheerleader. I never bothered with the circle razzmatazz, I had things to do. However, I was friends with the folks in it. Much of it had to do with the fact many of them were second or third generation football players, and their older siblings had played with my brother Wendell. Or their sisters had been friends with him, too. As a result, I had known their families and so it would have been classless for us not to say hello. Plus I was popular for being talented and achieving goals, and athletes respected that. Despite the media stereotype, I found all kids in extracurriculars that got involved kind of bonded.

As a matter of fact, Valerie had lost points with the football captains two weeks previous when she called the water boy, Benji, who had Down Syndrome, a “drooling retard.” Not only did these gentle jocks stick up for their special needs compatriot, but they let Valerie know that she was closer to her choice slur than Benji would ever be.

Valerie had been working for months to infiltrate the circle. Like many an eager young woman, she started on the outer layer and was now working her way back in. Every weekend, she would desperately serve as McDonalds to these popular guys, who had a bite only to throw her away like the cheap food she was. Sure, it was jerk of them, but she kept going back for more punishment. Of course, this also meant battling underclassmen admirers who weren’t nearly as needy let alone easy because they didn’t have to be.

Brian Garfield, a popular wide receiver saw me. His mother had run into my mother and found out I got a lead in The Wizard of Oz. Of course Brian’s sister was a freshmen and slated to be dance captain. He waved and in typical Garfield fashion yelled, “Brucker, WHAT THE FUCK!!! GET IN HERE AND GIMME A FUCKING HIGH FIVE! AWESOME FUCKING WORK ON THE WITCH!”

 I parted the inner circle for my high five that came with a brah hug of sorts. Most of the girls sighed apathetically, they knew I was friends with the guys but wasn’t circle competition so it didn’t phase them. However, Valerie was livid. All those weekends of degrading herself were not paying off the way she thought they would. For years, I had been an inferior being. Now here I was gaining access to the inner-circle with no work whatsoever. If looks could have killed, her eyes would have been a samurai sword waiting to behead me. At the time, I thought this was lame, because how could a person with a life not? However, when someone’s existence is that small and limited, an unintentional action like mine could be the ultimate act of cruelty.

Senior year Valerie and I had a Come to Jesus moment. It wasn’t planned on either one of our parts, either. The jocks had enough of Valerie, and between her trashiness, stupidity, clinginess, and other mess she brought they began to distance themselves from her. Plus she was hitting it harder than ever with the partying, so Valerie began to become a sort of darling of the stoner crowd. One dude in particular that Valerie was in love with was Bobby Parker.

Despite us being opposites, Bobby and I were friends. He was one of my original fans, and always thought the ventriloquism was neat. While Bobby had a girlfriend a district over, he always was eager to rescue me when I was in need. Word on the street was his girlfriend wasn’t keen on me and wanted to beat my ass. I knew he wasn’t mine, so I didn’t make a move. Valerie, who was always desperate for male love and affection, had other ideas. Bobby, who was actually quite bright, was the stoner king. While in several honors classes, his double life was steadily eating him up.

Valerie had hooked up with Bobby several weekends earlier, and she believed it was true love. Bobby was trying to lose her like an old pair of socks with several holes in them. That day, Valerie had scored a ride with Bobby, but he offered me one too in an attempt to buffer the ever desperate Valerie. It was no big deal to me, I always enjoyed Bobby Parker’s company because he cracked me up. To me, Valerie was just another passenger. Valerie, on the other hand, made no secret of the fact she utterly detested my presence. She made this clear by rolling her eyes every time I spoke as we made our journey to Bobby’s Cadillac.

“I call shotgun!” Valerie said when we got to the car. She glared at me letting me know I best not challenge her. Maybe Bobby was my friend, but she had slept with him and I hadn’t.

 “That’s fine.” I replied climbing into the back.

“April, you are my number 1. Don’t give up your seat to anyone.” Bobby said commanding Valerie into the back. She glowered at me.

“She called it, she can have it.” It was only a seat. Valerie glared at me, knowing that while I conceded she had still lost. To me it was just a seat, but to her this was everything. Her gut was hanging over her jeans, and the probability she would graduate was slim and none. Valerie was otherwise failing at life, if she wanted the front she could have it.

It worked out though. Valerie, like Bobby, smoked cigarettes and they could talk freely about their drug usage. This made Valerie happy, and maybe in her mind I wasn’t competition after all. Meanwhile, I was never even battling her to begin with which made the whole thing only completely insane and asinine.

Bobby pulled into the driveway of my house, and greeting me was a banner in the front yard. Purple, sparkling, and with big letters it said, “Congratulations April! You got into NYU!” I nearly fell out of Bobby’s car. Yes, I applied early decision and got in.

When I told my mother what I wanted to do, she told me I needed to go to New York. It was after Valerie had tormented me so badly that I needed to escape, and this made me find not only a niche, but a plan in life.

“Go girl! You’re gonna be famous!” Bobby said high fiving me. Then he gave me a hug. Note, he never hugged Valerie in public.

 “Congratulations, April.” Valerie said in a flat, monotone whisper. The look in her eyes was one I still cannot describe. She wasn’t jealous or angry, but certainly wasn’t happy for me either. Sure, all of her pettiness was never able to break me. However, the more painful truth was that being popular and having the fleeting sensation of male attention had been so important that she neglected to plan for life after high school. It was the realization that the future was not that far away, and time was not the friend she thought it was. 

She did graduate, by the skin of her teeth. After that I lost track of her, because why keep track of people you don’t like? The last I heard she was working as a waitress in a seedy motel, and had a boyfriend who never saw a crack pipe he didn’t like.

For years I harbored a lot of resentment towards Valerie for being the mean spirit she was, but now I see someone who was troubled, pathetic, and lost. Yet Valerie’s value in my life is not lost on me. They say when you meet someone you don’t like, it’s a lesson in how you don’t want to act. Now that I am getting the things I always worked for in my career, the temptation to be a Valerie Ransom is very real and it is there. Then I remember how it felt to be on the losing end of that, and perhaps this is why I am so quick not only to confront a bully, but also to give them their medicine.

On the other hand, Valerie Ransom has served as a partial inspiration for May Wilson, perhaps the most famous of my puppet children. Like Valerie once did, now May sings, “April has no friends.” May and I did this several years ago for a video, and a DJ even mastered a remix. The song has become a regular part of my act, and now the audience joins in. HA! More than anything, if it weren’t for Valerie Ransom, I would have never found what my passion was, and I would have never had the courage let alone drive to come to New York.

To Valerie Ransom, wherever she is, I want to say thank you. Without your efforts, I would have never found a direction let alone dream. However, I harbor no hate toward you, and I am not glad your life turned out the way it did. Instead, I hope and pray you find happiness and peace, as well as life outside of your place in the circle, a guys back seat, or your place at the bathroom mirror. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Bubble Bath

Winter is approaching in New York City again. Mother Nature has decided in her bipolarity that she is not only going to change seasons, but to go as cold as ever as soon as possible. Did Father Time leave her high and dry and cheat on her with Earth, Wind, or Fire? Or is she just the seasonal super trying her damnest to be a New York City landlord, mailing the world it’s lease and saying yes, she jacked up the rent, and she jacked it up high. It’s nothing personal she assures you with her snide grin. Then you ask how the hell you can do this another day, year, or decade.

There is only one way to fight a lonely, rough cold day and that is a bubble bath. Shedding my clothes, I slip into the porcelain enclave. White as the snow destined to fall out of the New York sky, I gently ease myself down. Seconds before I turn on the water, I feel the cold surface touch my body. Sure, it’s not nearly as cold as the world I left behind to the comfort of my apartment. It’s not as brutal as the subzero wind, as welcome in my face as an email from an ex boyfriend.

However, it is a different kind of cold. It’s not the evil cold from the outdoors come to crash the short skirt and sexy clothing party I had been rocking all summer. Rather, it is a different kind of cold. It is a kind of cold of the uncertainty the future brings. It’s a cold men never see because they always have the cult of personality to fall back on. However, it is the cold uncertainty that only a woman knows.

As young girls, we are led to believe time is not our friend. We remember overhearing the crow’s feet our mother bemoaned in the bathroom mirror. Yes, we also saw our mothers, beautiful courageous women, down themselves, slamming their bodies using the word “fat.” No, they weren’t obese. It was a pound here, a pound there, and a constant stream of diets that always ended in a binge. On top of that we had male relatives brain wash us. They told us in our 20s men would chase us, but once we hit 30 we were lucky if a man who wasn’t a damaged barfly looked our way. They also told us our clocks were ticking, so we needed to push out a baby or two or five before they developed flippers and Downs Syndrome. We were informed by memo that if we didn’t have these things we were failures. Jessie from Marsha Norman’s Night Mother believed this. She took her own life. Kathy Bates who originated the role would probably think the notion is bullshit.

And here I am, a writer, comedian, and ventriloquist who has had some success yet still barely treads above the poverty line. Of course I am single. The last decade has been spent married to my career. The last 72 hours have been shit. Whenever I hit a patch that is pure shit I reconsider my life. Let’s see, passed over for a hosting job not because I didn’t know about sports but because I didn’t look like I was going to star in a porno film. Then made a stupid money error, thank goodness for overdraft protection. On top of that, I got into a money argument with someone I did a job for that has balls of steel behind a computer. And an internet troll has been tormenting me. No, she’s not a treasure troll. Treasure trolls are cute and pretty. This thing is just desperate and lives by herself under a draw bridge, a good place for her like.

I picture the future like the coldness of the empty tub on my skin. There I am ten years down the road. I live on welfare in an SRO. Not to mention my puppets have gone solo and split. I am 500 pounds and have 16 cats that barely like me, but it is the closest thing I have to love. Sitting next to a huge tub of ice cream, I stick my right hand in. My self-esteem is so gone I no longer use a spoon. And I take a handful of ice cream and shove it in my mouth. Maybe this is the part of the ritual where I am supposed to snap back to the present and start weeping pitifully. I dunno.

I turn on the water. Gently, as if it were a friend giving me a hug after a nice laugh, it touches my skin. Slowly, my nerves, shot from the last 72 hours, begin to calm themselves. Taking a deep breath, I begin to feel better. That is the first step to one’s fortune turning around and things truly getting better. The bottom of the tub has lost it’s cruelty. I no longer feel like I want to burst into tears like the unstable woman in the last several paragraphs.

Positive thoughts begin to cloud my mind. I begin to think yes, the last 72 hours sucked. However, the 9 days before that pretty much rocked. “Hell No, Joe” debuted on both MUZU.TV and Dailymotion, both feeder internet networks to MTV where competition is cutthroat. My music video got on both with no label representation. MSN featured the video as well, which is a huge search engine and a pleasant surprise. 

As I soak in the bath I realize perhaps the 72 hour curse is coming to an end after all. This morning I did a delivery for a client my boss’s assistant Jacqueline said was high maintenance. It turned out she was a very nice woman who enjoyed my performance. I had to get some cupcakes, no biggie. Either way the delivery was fun and I was told I was “worth every penny.” If only a straight dude with a job would say that to me.

I also got the email that I am on World’s Longest Variety Show at the Metropolitan Room. Yes, May Wilson is coming. Yes, we will be broadcasting around the world live stream as we race to break the record. Yes, I am pleased to be a part of this event with my brother’s and sister’s in the New York City comedy community. Not to mention Jacqueline sold me for a bikini gram saying I was “pretty.”

Then in the next breath I think of how Jacqueline has been breaking down lately. She keeps saying I am “young and pretty,” but this burlesque queen then cuts down on herself. Yes, Jacqueline is over 40 and how much I will not say. However, she is a good looking lady. This past summer she shed her clothing at my book signing and the guys went wild. They didn’t ask how old she was, nor did they care. Jacqueline is hot. She is sexy and confident in a way I could never be. Yet at the same time every once in a while she too gets sucked into the lie sold to young women by society.

Looking at myself, I know there are some young women who would jump out the window if they were single and childless at my age. Yes, my age. The number where it is supposed to go down hill. Yet I look better than I ever have. FYI, Sylvia Plath killed herself at my age and her writing career really took off. It was a good PR Move. I want to tell Jacqueline not to get hung up on the number. Mae West was sexy until the day she died. The same will apply to Jacqueline.

As I add the contents of the coconut bath gel, the bubbles form around me. My transparent friends with the pink and purple tint dance within and on top of the bath water. At that moment, I realize that I am not alone nor will I ever be. I have my family at the telegram company who are just as entertaining as some of my degenerate relatives but without the need for money or legal advice. I have the comedy community of New York City, where whenever we see each other on the street, even if we have disagreed, we always say hello. I have the men who work in my building that always crack jokes with me. I have my friends at the gym. I have my fellow writers. I have my mentors. I have my Gypsy family in Chelsea who got me hooked on My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding and we all hate ourselves afterwards for watching. I have my family in Pittsburgh. I have my fans who multiply with time, and bring tears to my eyes as they support me and humble me all at once. I have my puppet children who let me give them life and personality. I have a closet full of costumes. I have my dreams at my finger tips. I have…..

Then I realize I still don’t have a man. Having a man is not a requirement. You don’t need one, and they can be a pain in the ass. Actually, most of the time they are an adult child in a grown body who want you to cook, clean, and give them a blow job on command. In return they all believe they are world’s greatest lovers set to sassify you, but they will more or less disappoint.

However, it has been forever and a day since I had a true male companion. I make him sound like a dog, but dogs are loyal whereas men most of the time are not. Still, as I sit in the warm tub bubbles surrounding me it feels like the caress of an imaginary lover who has yet to materialize. Yes, the perfect man who is seen and not heard. Right now he is neither.

It brings back memories of all the guys I had in my life. Yes, the silly nature dudes have and how they seem to crack a joke at the worst moments. At the same time, it is also when I desperately need to laugh and to forget the crap I obsess about. Not to mention the fun times we had as a couple. Sure, things always ended badly, but there were good times. The smell of the bubble bath hits my nose, and I remember all the spring walks in the park and all the train rides to his house. I still see us walking around, freshly blooming flowers in our midst. It was so sickly sweet yet at the same time perfectly ideal in the mind of a lonely woman like myself soaking in a tub that while warm and inviting is also cold and unforgiving once drained.

It’s accepting that I was a bad girlfriend to a good many dudes. Yeah, I was cold. I was unforgiving. Some tried to love me like the bubbles and bath water. Others would eventually turn cold like water that sits too long does and then they became drained just like the tub would. Some deserved it. Others didn’t. Hell if I know the difference between the two. Either way, there is nothing like talking into the night with a dude and then him tucking you into bed via telephone. It’s sweet. It’s cute. It’s love. It’s a memory overshadowed by other rotten actions on both parts.

And then I remember he would probably be disrupting my quiet time if he were here, imaginary bastard. So I wash away the badness of the last 72 hours. I wash away the lost hosting job. They can have the casting couch surfers. Miss Money Shot will cost them money when it is revealed the bitch can’t read a cue card. As for the money mistakes, thank goodness I invested in overdraft protection. Now I know to take breaths and be where my feet are when life gets big. As for the money argument with Mr. Balls of Steel Behind the Computer, it was my bad. His resolution was shitty, but it was my mistake. As for the internet troll, I drown her in my mind in as if my tub were a bottomless pit. That way my resentment can be squashed and I don’t get a felony charge.

As my hands wrinkle, I take it as a signal that it is time to get out of the tub. It is time to face my seventeen errant puppet children. It is time to face my sprawling closet of costumes. It is time to face my house that every time I clean it only gets messier. It is time to face adulthood. It is time to step into my living room with boxes of my book left unread. It is time to face my own home repairs, evidence that there is no man in my life but it’s okay, I got this. It’s time….

I greet the future with warm, fresh, clean towels as a result of the laundry I just did a day before. Touching my skin, it feels as if I am 6 and my mom is waiting for me with a towel after a nice bath. Taking an oversized sweat shirt that is also warm, fresh, and clean, I place it on my clean, shiny skin. In a way, it is as if my mom laid the shirt out as well, even though she lives several hours away. Then I throw on some fluffy mismatched socks. Maybe I don’t measure up as a woman. But fuck the standards. This is my apartment. The people who made the standards never had the guts to be their own person. And here I am, having the guts to wear mismatched socks.

I smell good, I look good, I feel good. The future will be a mix of defeats with failures. It will be bad and it will be good. That’s just life. Over all, it will be fine. I am who I am, and I am where my feet are. That is more than good enough. Hey, sometimes when life stinks you got to take a bath. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

I Hate Hoochie Coochie Women

I really don't like hoochie coochie women. To put it mildly, they annoy me. I don't mind women who dress sexy. I don't even mind centerfolds. I don't mind strippers. That's different. These hoes are just annoying. Yes, we all know them. They masquerade as guy's girls. They don't have any women friends. When they do have women friends they hit on their friends boyfriends and husbands, and then it's their friend's fault for being jealous. Oh and when they have male friends, they never respect their significant others. They hit on them shamelessly, and then when the wife is jealous they only add fuel to the fire.

There is one in my neighborhood that I can't stand. Well she has moved, thank God. Maybe in her new location she will be hit by a mac truck. But she is always all over the guys any chance she gets. She sits with her legs open and shows us the world-literally. I hate this Skankola McPhee in particular because several years ago she was close with a male friend of mine. He was having martial troubles and instead of backing off, she proceeded to monopolize more of his time and energy. And then this Butta Face proceeded to have a show down with his wife. Needless to say it didnt end well for the dude. Yeah, he played a part in it but bitch back off. Oh and she cries that her husband might be done with her. GOOD. Someone needs to see through your bullshit. He's sick and tired of you like we all are. Oh and she was sitting with this girl in the park and acting all inappropriate. It wouldn't have been so bad except there were children around. I had an orange in my hand. The only thing stopping me from hitting them was that the cops would have pressed charges. And then she was saying she had no female friends. Bitch, you don't know how to be a friend to other women. Oh, and other women see through you like the fucking lucite you wish you could wear when your fat ass might rock the pole. Luckily that won't be happening because we would all lose our lunch.

Of course the worst Skankola's are some female singers. I spent a lot of time in recording studio's and saw a wide variety. Most are decent people trying to follow a dream. However there are some who are hoochie and just frightening. I am talking the bitches who enter the place in low cut shit. First off, it ain't that warm in there. They are destined to get sick. I know some of those guys dont see women or daylight often, so they look forward to the cheap peep show. But some of these women don't have the body for the clothing. I just don't get it. One had a CD cover where she had panties in her mouth. Luckily I am skilled in CPR because she could have choked. I was concerned. Still, at least they are staying out of trouble and aren't torturing children on a playground with their utter creepiness. Most of the time they probably need autotune. But they will produce some cheesy dance hit and make us all happy. So what they might be one hit wonders? I don't care as long as they keep their herpes to themselves.

After them come the bitches who claim to be women's activist but are banging some lawyer and living off the land. I have met several of these. They claim to care about women, but then they are all over their guy at some banquet. They claim it is wrong to sleep with someone to get ahead, but here they are with a balding weirdo much older than they are. It's not love, admit it. Oh and then they claim they stick up for women but are the first to denigrate the achievements of others. And their big thing is women shouldn't be persecuted by the way they dress, and of course they are saying this because they dress like ten cent hookers. And then these bitches pick fights with other women and go after them for the way they dress. Basically, I have more respect for the skanks who can admit they are skanks.

The lowest of the low are hoochie coochie women in comedy. I fucking hate them. They are ghastly. Usually they are putting on their makeup before they hit the stage, apologizing for their lack of skill and talent. Pretty gets away with a lot. Of course they always wear some cute outfit where we can see their tits. Finally, aside from the poorly written punchlines they are always banging the headliner. Yes, she is your opening act, Sir. As in she opens her legs and that is how this whole thing came to pass. Granted, women like this always fuck their way to the middle and that is it. Still, it makes the rest of us working hard and trying to make it the right way look bad. It also seems like from time to time they clog the way and we have to work around them like some haunt in Harry Potter. They wouldn't be so bad except they gossip about other women, and can't take a joke about their own skankiness when the only reason they are getting ahead is they are giving head and having some salami jammed in their baby hole. But then again, looks fade, bad jokes get old, and the middle is a sucky place to end your career.

I dont know. That is my early afternoon rant.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl