Mary Birdsong
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  • January23rd

    Not only will this slip flatter the curvy figure, it’ll make ANY woman look ten times Jung-er! IMG_2573.JPG
    I dream about a LOTTA crazy shit. My dreams are (thankfully) almost always chock full o’ symbols that make my dreams, well … psychologically TASTIER.
    The weird symbols in my dreams are like the raisins in my subconscious’ Raisin Bran; they’re the pink hearts and blue diamonds in the lucid dreamer’s Lucky Charms. Without them? Well, lemme put it this way: They’d be about as exciting as watching five hours of C-Span.
    I think symbols in dreams are just plain FUN. They’re COOL and enlightening. But, I don’t know how much stock I put in Sigmund Freud’s assertion that they mean X, or Y, or even G.
    By taking the time to draw whatever I can remember from my dreams each morning, and writing down (in words) any narrative I can recall, nine times out of ten I discover WHY (for example) a Q-Tip chasing me on a pink tiger is actually NOT about some secret desire to have a cotton swab instead of my vagina, but is in fact about some meaningful but totally unrelated thought I had the day before in the span of a nano-second while I happened to glance at a Q-Tip in my medicine cabinet. When that happens… When my brain happens to be thinking “You’re going to die alone” when my eye inadvertently catches sight of a Q-Tip, that little cotton swab will become inextricably linked to that depressing prediction. It never ASKED to represent something like that, but like it or not, that little cotton swab
    just got promoted to…
    Cotton SYMBOL.
    (Warning! Aviso! Achtung! Never insert a subconscious symbol into your ear canal!)
    So Dr. Freud… I don’t think it’s a “one size fits all” formula.
    Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go clean my ear holes.

  • January7th

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  • January7th

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  • December3rd

    I’m DISGUSTED, ASHAMED of the US. Like a child of six who knows her mom or her dad is evil/sick. That she’s on her own, morally. And she wants to un-know what she knows.

  • October22nd

    Apparently the all-boys Catholic highschool, which had previously agreed to be one of the locations for the Moore/Page vehicle FREEHELD, wasted no time backing out of the deal once they found out the film was about…

    (bum bum bum buhhhhm…) a lesbian couple!??!

    Currently “filming in sin.”

    This leads me to believe that the students themselves were not consulted on this decision at all.

    ‘Cause I can’t think of ANYONE who’d be more psyched to watch two hot chicks shoot a movie about lesbians in their school than a bunch of teenage Catholic boys. Can you?

    Oh, Roman Catholic Church! Stop being so… well so CATHOLIC!

    I’m lucky enough to have been cast in the role of Ellen Page’s mom in the film.  And I’m so proud to take part in this project.  And even though I truly love Pope Francis, this latest (typical) behavior by the Catholic church makes me so glad I am NOT counted among its army of “good Christian soldiers.” From baptism onward, I was definitely on the Catholic fast track, to be sure.  So what happened to lead me astray?  Well the groovy seventies happened, for one.  But it was more complicated than that.

    Prima comunione modificato-1.jpg

    Does this go?

    You see, I have a small, but meaningful, bit of first-hand knowledge on all things Catholic.  My mom used to cook and clean for the “sisters” at a convent in NJ. I was baptized in a Catholic church. I attended Catholic kindergarten. And then at the age of seven I received first communion as a Catholic. (Oh, the sweet taste of “Jesus Wafer!”)  The clouds parted, the holy dove appeared, and then so did Neil Diamond, singing “Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon!”

    In my teenage years I was supposed to seal the deal (so to speak) with Hayzoo Crisco® by having my Catholic confirmation ceremony, but I never GOT confirmed.

    Many Catholic kids my age were doing it. So why didn’t I? Did my mom oversleep that day? Maybe I was sick. Or maybe we just plain couldn’t afford the fancy white outfit. I don’t remember the reason.  But I know I wasn’t a conscientious objector either.

    Whatever it was that stopped me from experiencing the sacrament of confirmation, the bottom line is this:

    Since I am not a confirmed Catholic, it follows that I must be an UN-confirmed Catholic, ergo…

    I AM A CATHOLIC RUMOR.

    I wasn’t EXCOMMUNICATED from the Catholic Church. I’m still allowed to go there and eat the body of Christ and sing and stuff like that. But I’m merely someone for confirmed Catholics to gossip about.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have LOTS of sinning to get to, so those who are confirmed will have some juicy rumors to spread about me.

     

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