tuneless chicket shit

I felt very proud suddenly while conversing with myself as I washed the dishes. Ya, you guessed right, I felt proud of myself. For two reasons:
One, that I love singing even though I am a bad singer.
Two, I love adventure even though I am very far from being brave.

I mean, if I were Tracy Chapman, I would just HAVE to love singing, right? It wouldn't be fair otherwise. But I am not Chapman. In case you need proof you should ask anybody who was at Sing Sing (the Karaoke Bar on 81 Ave A New York) around 10 pm last week. And I really mean anyone. If you still doubt my talent, how about this: I sang Papa Don't Preach, Jump and Black Dog in the same tone, volume and pitch! It must have been agonizing for everyone else around me but I loved it and myself to the hilt. So there.

There is a lot of ice outside on the roads of Boston this month. Life still goes on. Women stomp by in high heels and short skirts. Men jog around with their red blue noses and ears. Even oldies breeze by with their walkers. But Sudophish? Oh no. Queen Phish stays in till absolutely necessary. Walks only in the middle of the road so that she doesn't go sliding in the snow. And yesterday was unashamedly grabbing on to a friend's hand while the friend managed her baby's stroller, a back pack and herself. Yes, I am chicken shit. I walk side ways down the stairs, go hysterical when there is a 2 inch slide on the sidewalk, block doors with furniture and keep all lights on when I am home alone (and I am 28). The list of bravery goes on...

But tell me once that you are going river rafting in the Ganges or camping and trekking in the Himalayas. And I'll pack my bags and beam at you. You are taking me, right? Even if you have to roll me down after my 100th hysterical sobbing attacks "I CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN'T"