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Tell your mother you want to be a singer

I told my mother and she just laughed, ruffled my hair, and told me that I couldn’t hit a proper note if it landed on my tongue. And it was true. While most kids had sweet and lilting singing voices, mine was like a bag filled with broken glass being swung at a chalkboard.

And that was on a good day. People would run from the room when I tried to sing, or they would rush inside to see who was murdering so many cats. Nothing would dissuade me from my goal, though. I practiced every day and finally got my voice to not sound like it belonged to a monster in some B horror flick. Then I started writing country tunes. I wrote them about all the trials in my life and filled them with all kinds of wailing grief.

I had one called “The Cold Coffee Blues” with the refrain “I brewed you up, you let me down… my cold, cold coffee.” My all-time favorite song was called “Cow Fetuses Need Love Too” which had the heartbreaking line “You sit there floating and free, but nobody loves you like little old me.”

What do you choose to do now?

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