A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || April 1, 2011 || 5:05 am

René is one of those people that stirs up powerful things in me; she reminds me that I am not saint enough but that –oh hell, shucks– sinners are just as okay as saints, but in a different way. She is so, so soothing, this friend of mine. I feel as if I am forever running to her, wailing with scabbed knees, and she never doesn’t have band-aids. Her voice is like having your hair smoothed by a loving hand. She is creative and funny and compassionate and I love her.

Here’s the thing about Cherie: She just sort of came in under my radar. This is not surprising, because she is all stealth, that one.  At the same time, she’s a decipherer, and she’s got eyes for things that most people don’t (or can’t) see. If the world had any sense, it would be in fearful awe of her. If it had any sense, it would not take its eyes off of her, it would ask her advice, it would take her out for ice cream every fucking chance it got.

What happened is, I just got kind of sick of being me.  The truth of the matter, much to my daily dismay, is that I am an uptight, overly fiddly, vaguely prudish New Englander with annoying tendencies towards wholesomeness, introspection, and peacemaking.

I’m not white bread, necessarily.

I’m whole wheat bread with no high fructose corn syrup and those pointless oatmeal bits on top.

It’s disappointing to me, too.

So that is why one day–probably in March because this is kind of crap I pull in March–when my daily dismay was even more dismaying than usual, I created a new me.  I don’t mean I tried to improve my actual self, although I appreciate your optimism. I mean that I created a handy new sidekick to keep tucked inside my soul.  I created my own personal Tyler Durden.

I made her Southern (‘cause, really, I’ve always wanted to be Southern) and tough.  This me did her hair up right and remembered to wear lipstick.  She talked no jargon.  She didn’t sit in meetings and keep the peace; she punched the non-stop talkers in the face until they shut up.  She kissed with tongue.  She didn’t just think “What the hell you lookin’ at?” She actually said it.  I liked her a lot.

She propped her boobs up and looked you in the eye.  She stomped around in red cowboy boots, buffed to a shine. She hollered when she saw you and sang like a banshee.   She whipped shit into shape and announced her arrival with an airhorn.

She believed in Jesus.

She wept when necessary and kicked ass when necessary and chewed her nails down to the quick when necessary.  She made art constantly, whether it was necessary or not.  She bled and sweat and cried and yelled and laughed and did all those I would do if I weren’t such a wholesome little pansy.

I loved her something fierce, that other me, because who wouldn’t?  Every day I put on my practical shoes and smiled pleasantries at the annoying of the world, nodding, while she hunkered down in the back of my brain, loudly flipping them all off.

We were happy, she and I. As happy as you can be when you’ve made up an imaginary friend in your 30s, of course, but I’ve lived my whole life having no pride so that was fine.

Then, one day while I was mostly busy working hard for my dollar, she stomped out of my soul and into my Twitter stream.  I looked and there she was, a sweet foul-mouthed angel from Alabama named Jett. And Jett was just like the little punk devil that perched on my shoulder and popped her gum in my ear, except she was real.  And she was so much better.  She was so much more clever and twisted and kind and loud and funny than my pathetic little…awwww, damn.

I considered my options.  I looked away dumbly for a bit.  I swore profusely for fifteen days straight.  I wept gallons of oceany tears.  I rent my garments, but they were my garments so no one could tell the difference.  I looked at Tyler Durden, Delusional Cherie Edition, and knew what I had to do.

I plucked that little Southern punk of my shoulder.  She clung to me with her toenails and stretched long and transparent as I pulled.  She looked ridiculous that way, flapping in the wind like a dime-store kite.

I looked at Jett Superior and I pouted.

“Quit sulking,” she said.  “Just let her go.  We’ve got to go do some shit.”

So I did.  And we did.

But I kept the red cowboy boots.

They fit real nice.

10 worked it out »

  1. Chag 4.1.2011

    Happy birthday, Jett. Hope you have a wonderful day.

    Go do some shit.

  2. TwoBusy 4.1.2011

    1. I wish I had bigger, more wonderful and helium-filled words to express just how happy I hope your birthday is, Jett.

    2. Rene — your work is, as always, lovely.

    3. Cherie — that was fantastic, and I promise that the thing I’m working on right now for Jett was already in progress when I read this. (Not! Purposefully! Derivative!)

  3. Jett Superior 4.1.2011

    Thank you, boys!

    What Cherie didn’t know is that for the whole of my life I have wanted a pair of wicked red cowboy boots, but I have yet to find the perfect pair.

    They’re out there, though, and I’ll knows ‘em when I sees ‘em.

  4. Cherie Beyond 4.1.2011

    TwoBusy, since this was kind of during an out-of-body experience, it’s totally possible I actually derived from you after hijacking your brain.

    Totally. Possible.

    Happy birthday, Jett. It’s an honor to be paired with Ms. Fruity.

  5. Cherie Beyond 4.1.2011

    “Kind of WRITTEN.” God damn you, typo fingers.

  6. René 4.1.2011

    Hey Jett Girl. Happy Day. xo

    Thank you too, Mr. Busy.

    Cherie, that was delicious. But then I’m partial to whole wheat with the pointless oatmeal bits.

    Okay, this time I’m staying away for good.

  7. ramble 4.1.2011

    “The truth of the matter, much to my daily dismay, is that I am an uptight, overly fiddly, vaguely prudish New Englander with annoying tendencies towards wholesomeness, introspection, and peacemaking.”

    Good lord that’s me.

    Beautifully written.

  8. Jett is sort of my Tyler Durden too.

  9. Bejewell 4.3.2011

    Love, love, love Rene’s graphics. Gorgeous and fitting for someone so sassy.

    And mon Cherie? What can be said? She is tres bon.

  10. Jett Superior 4.3.2011

    Sarah: SCORE.


RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)