I told my old lady once that every one from my daddy to my boss has tried to make me fly straight.

My heart broke while telling her that I couldn’t be held to any ground, couldn’t trim my legs, couldn’t stop being out there in the world, surrounded by everything I could touch and if I got burned then that was the way it was going to be.

“”Freebird” is my song,” I choked. I could see the tinge in her eyes, the painted red around the pupils, my reflection in those glossy green ocular orbs stretching wide my quivering lips from ear to silly-shining ear.

“”Freebird”’s your song?” she smiled. “You couldn’t be any more generic.” She walked out of my apartment laughing all the way down the stairs.

When I was a kid, I watched Tom Arnold pull a practical joke on Rosanne for a tv show. I don’t remember the prank but my family and I laughed.  Then Tom hugged Rosanne.

Media darlings. Lovers in love. Newlyweds.

We were just happy that someone married that fat harpy.