Corrections, mia culpas, etceteras...

Corrections:
Firstly, the song is called "Ballad of the Sin Eater" which makes a great deal more sense. In my defense, it also makes sense that I would conflate 'eating' with 'Father'--let's chalk this up to my weak Christianity and my strong appetite--for salvation.

Secondly, I really didn't mess this up, because you can't hear my voice saying it--which is the problem with reading and not speaking, leading to this sad, dark place--nearly 30 and I didn't know until tonight that Goethe is pronounced 'Greta' if pronounced, you know, correctly? It would be ridiculous to go into how I figured that out, but I did.

Mia Culpas:
Everything. And nothing. That's life. I'd like to update this blog daily with magic words that beam love into every lonely soul. At the least I should be funny, but maybe that's not where I'm at. Maybe I am a hot mess trying to piece it together, and that may mean terrible posts about dating (blech) or punk rock lyrics.

I can't say as I am guilty in this regard, but I certainly regret missing the nuptials of Paramjit and Jeff in California. There is a little guilt because their gift will arrive in time for their second or third anniversary (so, sixth or seventh). On the other hand, my gift will arrive when all their other friends have forgotten the initial magic induced by bhangra dancing and Punjabi drinking games. The loving couple will have settled into a staid life of medicine and scholarship, allowing my gift of pig-shaped salt and pepper shakers to rekindle the flame of their love.

Et Cetera:
Big news last week, for me. When I write my self help book/memoir of recovery/calendar, I will maybe call it "When the Pillow Comes Alive" in order to describe the countless times I have heard a bit of loving wisdom, thought condescendingly "that's the kind of crap I should embroider on a pillow" and then, at some later date, smack bam, the pillow comes alive and I gain a deeper understanding of my life and personal journey and other such crap suitable only for pillows. Repeat as needed: you are at a bar having your tattoo warmed by the breath of a sexy Boy Man, or in church in Athens, Ohio, or crying in a field in Gharibjonyan, Armenia, and a cosmic pillow flies up to hit you in the face like your sister threw it.