The Internet Soothes My Savage Beats. Beast. Breast.

I woke up this morning with a song in my head. No, not a song, a line from a song. And no, not a song, but one of them new fangled hip-hop thingees where there’s one guy and then another guy who is feat. and they take turns hollering about drugs and girls. I was stuck in terrible traffic yesterday afternoon and Trombone was enjoying waving his hands in the air to the so-called “Traffic Jam” on The Beat radio station so I was indulging him. The line, as part of a longer description of how the performer is slaying, totally slaying all the people in the club that night:

“…Shorty droppin’ to the floor like she ain’t got manners”

So I was searching on that lyric, hoping to find the rest of the lyrics and get all righteously indignant about why the hell all the women in the club gotta be “shorty” even if YOU are the dude with the baggy pants from the kids’ section of Sears and you know, buddy, if I have to hear one more time how proud you are that you HIT THAT and how entitled you are to having women drop to their knees in the club (how short is she then, exactly? If Shorty has to drop to her knees for you, how short are YOU?) I am going to have to take away your Gameboy and hold your allowance until you’re of legal age to live on the same planet as me.

But before I could get to the page of lyrics, I followed a link to a short story that totally grabbed me by the throat and dragged me into its world, so I am going to share that link with you before I go eat some breakfast. I think that’s a better turn for the day to take, as starting the day with righteous indignation is rarely the way to go. Unless you’re a lawyer on Big Case Day or someone who needs her anger to sustain her through a treacherous time. I am trying to be neither of those things.