The sound that your mind makes when you are speaking and you know you’re just making shit up. Trying to sound intelligent or just wanting attention.

I know that sound. I listen to it more and more. Baderps get louder around this year, competing with other noises of the Holiday Season.

When it hits me: I have a very, very good life. No joke.
I have a great boyfriend. Great friends. I’m spoiled rotten.
Now, time for ripening.

All indications are that the committe for which such accidents are relegated to have already made their judgement. I am guilty of making a mess.

Still, I want a DNA test. I want due process.

I want a chance to tell my story to any Network that will have me.

It’s piling around you, like rabbits. Scampering items that are hard to categorize or prioritize or shred. It’s time to clean out that closet.
You find a pair of Louboutins. They are juicy shoes: straps of suede, studded with baubles, bleeding bright menstrual red on their bottoms. Alive and glowing.

How the fuck did those get there?
Oh right: You have stolen them. Well, since they are stolen, you might as well try them on, but they are too small for your manly, hairy feet.
So you have no choice but to treat them as Tonka trucks. You crouch down on the floor and have them chase and crash into each other. Speeding shoes.
The police get involved, tell you to pull your shoes over. You are asked to show identification. You are busted.

You have return the shoes to their rightful owner. She shows clemency, she forgives. She invites you over for brie and apple tartlets. This is you Binda. You are so forgiving.

Doused with this morningedicts, the paper is torn into little pieces and thrown in the trash.

It continues speaking from the trashcan. Someone happens by, hears the commotion inside the trashcan, the burble-speak, the claymont-clamorings for attention.  That someone (not me) picks up the pieces from the trash bin, then painstakingly, the pieces back together, stringing along the message, discovering the message:

The message is now loud and clear: You love someone.

You can’t tear up the pieces again; it only works once. From then on you love them and nothing can tear that apart.

Pull it around the perimeter of your shack and watch your dreams come true. Accolades. Riches. Cherry Lips.  A litter of puppies. Popsicles.

Your life is wonderful because you have the boyfriend and you get to order an eye shadow palette from Sephora and you talk about your woeful time at Fairway, when you couldn’t find your favorite tuna for your cat and your cat is pissed off at you for no reason you can think of and come to think of it, so is your boyfriend who is only now making a big deal about the red wagon that you brought into the bedroom.

Leave the damn toy outside, he says.

No, you intone. I will not.

Impasse. For about twenty minutes.

You pull. So does he.

But you will be graded for it. There’s no way around it. So be graded. Make an F.

You know what F stands for, don’t you? Yes you do.It stand for hahahahahahah.

Oh, alright. If you don’t believe in dawn, then you won’t be graded for it.

But I will give you an A. Awesome.

You saw your parents kissing just outside a broom closet. You found the Bourne Identity Series novels underneath your nephew’s bed.

What were you doing there, looking under his mattress? You were looking for something else.

During a particularly compelling kitchen moment you are told that in order to find the paprika you have to clean the entire spice rack. You don’t know how to do this since it was never explained, along with a lot of other things in this world.

Cleaning a spice rack just means you rub a damp cloth over the top lids of the spices. And that’s all. No need to unclog, or determine if any new spices need to be added. No  no alphabetizing, contrary to popular belief.

But you haven’t yet found the paprika.

I don’t know. I’ve never asked that question when a hot towel has been presented to me. I just accept it. I do question some things, but usually alone, in private, when I have time to formulate the question.

A question, in real life, is usually in my expression. A sort of “Oh, okay.” look about me.