Candied Apples and Razorblades

And these are the days when I'm really fucking glad that at the end of them- I get to be Glenda.

I learned the hard way that this blog is not a forum for me to vent my personal and private issues, because 1) nobody who reads this will care, other than those intolerably irritating gossip mongers who, due to their own lack of an interesting existence, enjoy discussing the negative aspects of others' lives for recreation (yes, you. If you think for just one second that I might be talking to you... I am ABSOLUTELY talking to you). 2) the people who actually care about me won't be finding out about things of this nature via Facebook and blogging.

But I want to write a leeeeeetle itty-bitty piece today about VENTING.

I just received a piece of information that I found... upsetting. Now granted, I'm only feeling this way because of my own immaturity, but FUCK it. To be fair, my reaction to said information is entirely reasonable and human, it's something that would be difficult for anyone to deal with in the moment. I am not a whiner by nature. I take after my Dad, and I do not live in Mamby-Pamby Land.  But for now, till I grow the hell up, rationalize it and move on... I'm a little... off. And since the usual amount of time it takes me to do such growing the hell up exceeds the limit for joining Team Lightning in the Maturity Olympics, it's a good damn thing that at the end of today, I get to go be Glenda fucking DANZIG.
I was sitting at my office. It was a very normal day. I wear frilly sundresses with scarves and high heels to work, make charming small talk at the elevators, and spend my days discussing things involving network engineering and account management (not that I pretend to understand any of it). I answer my phone with a cheerful, "Anonymous Financial..." And I do not, by ANY stretch of ANYBODY's twisted imagination, look or act like I sing in a horror punk band called Violent Age.

And so I'm sitting here in this condition, perfect corporate gloss-over, when I receive this missive (which- just to clarify so that none of these myopic idiots are given any fuel for the local gossip mill- involved my Pop in an indirect way). Ever since my Dad, my rock of wisdom and stability, died in December I've been on an emotional balance beam, trying to stay focused and centered without falling off. There are waiting arms to catch me on either side should I slip, but they are only so strong and when I fall, I fall HARD. So today, just as I felt for the first time in a couple weeks that my feet were flat on the beam and I am ready to walk forward, here comes this finger prodding me in my right shoulder, nudging me towards the big black abyss directly to the left of my little safety beam.
I walked out of the office and started making a beeline direct for the liquor store at the end of my block. Pop would NOT have been happy. This has been my long-time coping mechanism, and I don't think there's any need to guard that secret anymore. The whole world knows. Dad's greatest fear was me ruining my life with booze, and if anyone would understand that dilemma, he was it. So I buy this tiny half-pint of gin, tell myself that in this moment I am justified in seeking this sort of comfort, settle down in a park, bum a cigarette (eww menthol, GROSS, and I don't even smoke), and get ready to crack the bottle open when I swear to you he was sitting beside me. Great, I'm thinking. If my Dad could REALLY see me... storming out of my office, and then sitting down in my pretty dress to drink and smoke in the park. On company time. God, I'm so juvenile.
He and I then proceeded to have a brief theoretical conversation. See, my parents and I had that sort of relationship where we knew each other so well, that I could easily sit there and do this without being categorized as a schizoid. This actually happens a lot. I could hear him telling me what I already know about drinking. We also had an (also brief) exchange about the situation I'm facing. I know exactly what he would say, because he was a man of the highest integrity and his standards never flagged or fluctuated.
So I forsook the bottle. I mean, it's still in my purse. Tiny little thing, at least it'll save me from spending money on overpriced New York City drinks at my show tonight. Which brings me to the point- my show tonight.
Or OUR show, I should say. David Superbassist Alva and I started this Misfits band as an outlet for some personal fucking rage. He suffered almost the exact same loss I did in December. We both got our hearts ripped out by significant others, and THEN lost the strongest figure in our lives 10 days apart. My Dad, his Grandma. We met about a month later, and that was end of story. We've been causing DeathDestructionMurderMayhem ever since, and it's not always constructive. Actually we're fucking trainwrecks when we drink together. Don't ask me for stories. But whatever, rock'n'roll, right?
WRONG.
Neither of us want this, to be an overage/underdeveloped behavioural/emotional liability nightmare. And nothing helps like this Misfits band. That's why we fkin did it. I've written about this before:

http://marronsbrain.blogspot.com/2011_04_18_archive.html

I have a semi-"perfect" life. A solid handful of wonderful friends who are truly genuine people. A fantastic blessing of a "real" job (that my Dad was SOOOO thrilled about after my years of dead-end employment, such as waitressing, WAL*MART, selling pot, authorizing gas pumps,  and asking people if they want fries), with all of the freedom in the world to have a "real" life in the evenings (ballet, billiards, beers, bro's and bands). Joan Holloway by day, Glenda Danzig by night. I have built a life that is no longer just a drifting existence, but a complex infrastructure of many different elements and factors that must be maintained. So there is absolutely zero room for my erratic, childish emotions and "acting out" when I'm angry. Enter Glenda.


So here we are. I've got a fkin show tonight, and I'm gonna fkin PLAY it.

I am leaving my office. I am not going to drink anything during daylight hours. I am hyped up enough on some bad adrenaline that it would be a baaaaad idea anyway. And I am saving it ALL, every last concentrated acid black drop, to rip the SPINE outta some motherfuckers tonight. In Violent Age, I have the convenience of taking every fucking ounce and fiber of BLACK that lives on the inside and putting it into this little efficient Pandora's Box that I can open and close at will. And let me tell you, Pandora's Box is a fucking TRASH bin. There is nothing worthwhile in there, I think the base logic in the most hardcore of people (unrepentant murderers aside, please pardon) will tell us all that darkness isn't good. But you know what? I've got it. And in a past life, when I would release said darkness arbitrarily, it REALLY wasn't good. I haz a monster inside, and over the years it becomes harder and harder to wake. Not that it's awoken now... like I said, after losing my Pop it takes a loooooot to shake me internally. But it starts rolling around and snorting in its sleep every now and then, and I fear a situation like the one from the Hobbit... you know, when Bilbo Baggins comes sneaking in to the sleeping lair of Smaug the dragon, wakes him, and the dragon goes on to cause... DeathDestructionMurderMayhem.
I'll take it out on stage, thank you very much. Fuck you, DayDrinkingDepressionMorbidMisery. DeathDestructionMurderMayhem will live in me tonight, if only for a few short hours. I'm gonna be an asshole like I always am at Misfits shows, and it'll feel really good 'cause people like it. I like to eat raw steak on stage and throw it in people's faces, call my audience a bunch of faggots, kick leather-wearing dudes in the chest when they come too fuckin close to my stage, and sing songs about burning bodies hanging from poles.
Tomorrow I'm gonna be passed the fuck out.
And on Friday, I'll be once more in a lovely dress, smiling, updating monthly revenue reports and it's back to "Anonymous Financial, this is Gle- uh, err, Marron..."
Someday He'll extract the Razorblade from the Candy Apple. But today is not that day.
And tonight is CERTAINLY not that night. Catch ya later, suckas.