So, last night I was at the local pub with both my dad and my fiancée. We wanted to take my dad out for supper and a couple brews. Well, we forgot supper and instead we went straight for the drinks. And I drank a bit. Okay, that was my first lie. Actually I drank a lot. A tonne. Too much. In fact, enough that I convinced myself I was a musician. Yep, I awoke this morning to the dreadful memory of playing and singing (barf) guitar on stage. Ugh. Kill me. Please God take this memory away. Lord have mercy.
Now, here I am, you know, trying to convince myself that most people have probably forgot about it. Except my dad, who, looking out for me, lovingly whispered to me to get down. There was my one small mercy. Get down from there crazy daughter. I was embarrassing myself. Em-bar-ass-sing. Do you see the irony in that word?
So, I caught myself dwelling and ruminating on this drunken memory. And I can feel my day after anxiety running a little high. so you know what I did? Well, of course you don’t, I haven’t told you yet. Silly Mandy.
What I did was, I decided to have a funeral for that memory. Die memory. I decided that that memory is like a balloon. And I’m holding the balloon. And now guess what I’m going to do? I’m jus’ going to just let it go. I’m a’gonna let that shit go.
Yep.”Buh-bye stupid buzzed Mandy move.”
“Psssst don’t do that again. Ever”