Let me preface this post with something I’d meant to say all along:

Divorce, nervous breakdowns, and losing best friends, those are all things that happen to (some of) us. Some of us cope publicly, some privately, each singular situation a personal nightmare for all parties involved. I’ve shared my sides of the stories, but, as any of us knows, the truth is somewhere in the middle.

Because this is my personal blog, and not a group blog like Band Back Together, you’re hearing my side of the story. I’ve done my best to explain the situation without pointing fingers, tainting reputations, while still telling you the stories as I’ve experienced them. I don’t write them to hurt the people involved, and I’ve done my level best to explain the series of events as I perceived them.

Have I always succeeded? No. Will I always succeed? No. I’m not perfect and I’m no victim. Nor is Dave.

In the end, we’re both simply two people, trying to find our way in the world.

Which, when you think on it, is what we’re ALL are trying to do.

——————

July 13, 2012

We were on our way to NashVegas, tunes jamming, as I noticed the sheer amount of blown-out tires peppering the Indiana freeway. She was attempting to have a little fun and I was simply pretending that my life was in proper working order again – just for a few days.

“Dude,” I said to Dawn. “What the shit is up with the tires? Are there those spiky roadblocks or zombies or something?”

“I haven’t seen a SINGLE dead animal carcass,” she replied. “WHERE THE SHIT IS THE ROADKILL?”

“I saw a dead something a couple of miles back,” I gestured with my hand. “It was probably a hairy tire.”

“That’d be a GREAT band name,” Dawn gushed. “We should start a band.”

“I’ll totally play a kick-ass kazoo – unless we need a cellist,” I suggested.

“I think a kazoo is more your speed,” Dawn replied, truthfully, drawing the “think” out to be approximately 10 syllables long. Fucking Southerners – they always sound like they’re speaking through a mouth of delicious candy, and I swear that if one of them tried to insult me, I’d probably hug them for being as cute as a tick in a rug (unless it was a knife fight – we ALL know that one should always bring a tampon to a knife fight – it distracts your opponent ESPECIALLY if he is, well, in possession of a dingus).

I nodded – she was right. I can’t really see myself as a “rock cellist.” Disco cellist, perhaps, but alas, I digress.

Before we hit NashTucky proper, Dawn got a gleam in her eye, and not the “I got to pee on you,” kind of gleam. More of a “I’m about to fuck with you,” look. And fuck with me, she did. I’d expect nothing less.

“So,” she announced smugly, clearly proud of herself. “I got you a birthday present. Rachel helped me.”

“Dude,” I responded. “You SO didn’t have to do this – I’m all but pretending the day of my birth is sometime in November. Or October. I always did love October.”

“Oh,” she replied. “Yes. Yes, we did.”

Involuntarily, I shuddered.

She reached into the backseat, which she’d thoughtfully filled with things that ended in “andy, “ookies,” “hips,” even though I’d warned her that I’d been unable to keep food down for weeks. She’s thoughtful like that. I don’t always eat, but when I do? Diabeetus.

From the backseat, she grabbed a small nondescript brown cloth bag and handed it to me. “Happy Birthday,” she announced. “It’s from me and Rachel.” I groaned. I work with them on Band Back Together, creating the zillions of resource pages we have, knowing both of them are fairly nefarious and tricky.

I unzipped it as Dawn cackled. First thing I saw? A double box of Lil Debbie Nutty bars, minus one pack. Because we all know that Nutty Bars taste FAR better than skinny feels. I gave Dawn a quizzical look and she shrugged, “I got hungry.”

I nodded – that made sense.

Then, I pulled THIS out:

Because a highlighter that doubles as a sex toy? FULL of the win.

At the very bottom of the bag was a CD. A CD marked, “Becky’s birthday JAMS, beyoch.” I was immediately drenched in an uncomfortably cold sweat, despite the summer crotch I had going on from sitting in the sun for six hours.

“Oh NO,” I moaned.

“Pop that motherfucker in,” Dawn demanded. “Rachel has been waiting all morning to hear what you think.”

I hung my head, terrified by what my two best friends had come up with as appropriate “birthday jams,” for someone who was still recovering from a nervous breakdown and reeling from my upcoming divorce.

She popped it into the car’s CD player with the preface that, “this song came from the ‘Kids’ section of iTunes.”

It was some version of the Beatles “Birthday,” which did not include, as I’d feared, dogs singing, but did have children singing it. I nearly vomited.

After what seemed like an eternity, the next song queued up. The opening strains familiar, I craned my neck so as to better (somehow) figure out what it was. Dawn was alternating between staring at the road and staring at me, waiting for the chords to trickle into the dark, unused recesses of my brain until the lightbulb went on over my head.

He began to sing. Something about the world changing. And I knew exactly who I was listening to, ice water coursing through my veins.

John C. Fucking Mayer.

The next song.

John C. Fucking Mayer.

The next song.

John C. Fucking Mayer.

I sat grimly through the songs, teeth gritted.

“You can change it,” Dawn said, an offer that sounded a lot more like a plea.

I stared at her, a wicked smile drawing out over my face. “Oh HELL no. We’re going to listen to this. Over. And. Over. And Over.”

She gaped at me.

“And,” I said smugly over the irritating strains of John C. Mayer’s voice, coupled with his amazaballs guitar riffs, “Now you own John C. Mayer’s music. You can finally profess your love for him to the whole world.”

She continued with her best trout impression until a wicked smile began to play at the corners of her lips. She began to flip through the CD, pausing briefly on a Rick Astley song (if you haven’t read this, you should – I promise it’s not a video and it WILL make you laugh), just so I could experience the wonder that is Mr. Astley and finally landed at the end of the CD. She turned smugly to me and said, “Eat it, bitch.”

The chords began and immediately I began to tear up. Because OMFG those sad puppies! Those sad kitties! THOSE ANIMALS NEED MY LOVE.

Luckily, I was able to get to the CD in time and turn it off before I began wailing.

Dawn, as per usual, continued cracking up until tears of laughter coursed down her cheeks.

“Imma get the two of you back for this,” I said grimly.

“Just you wait.”