Before Miss Sasha was born, I picked her first name and her father picked her middle name. When the time came to sign her birth certificate, her father was off on a bender of some sort. I didn’t know how to spell her exotic French middle name, so I guessed and guessed wrong. Dad said, “Great. You named her Bicycle Seat.” Of course, I really hadn’t. I could spell that. Years later, the Fabulous Ex-Husband(tm) adopted Miss Sasha, and I took the opportunity to correct the misspelling on the new birth certificate. Live and learn.
In May and early June, I heard a whole bunch of people use a phrase over and over. I tried hard to keep a straight face. It is really important to note when communicating with the other humans that what you’re saying is not what the other humans hear. It can’t be. You have your own way of stringing together words that is uniquely yours. My next door neighbor sits outside on warm evenings with a cell and a pack of smokes, and for a couple of hours seems to say nothing more than, “Like…like…you know what I mean?” and I can tell by her inflection she believes her friend does. I don’t have a fucking clue what she means without the ordinary clues provided by nouns and verbs, and I have to say, this neighbor provides me with a very unsatifying eavesdropping experience.
She says one thing. I hear something else. That’s fairly standard.
The phrase I heard everywhere in May and June was “come to Jesus,” as in people were having “a come to Jesus moment.” My brain is of course uniquely mine, but in this case, I’m not sure, so as a public service, I’m saying this in a reasonably public place.
When you say “come to Jesus,” I hear –
I’m just sayin’.