"But for me the earth is new today and the sky is raining sunshine"~ Ralph Waldo Emerson. This is one of my favorite quotes and has been for years. I see it as a doorway to start over, to walk away from my faults and failures of the previous days and let the sun shine on my potentials. Many times I have heard the phrase, "at the end of the day..." I understand how that is meant but I cannot expect to tally up my successes at the end of the day if I have started my days carrying the broken and beaten down baggage of the previous. At the end of the day I can lay my head down and rest because at the beginning of the day I stepped through a new door with strength to take on brand new challenges with ambition and determination.
"You're playing and you think everything is going fine. Then one thing goes wrong. And then another. And another. You try to fight back, but the harder you fight, the deeper you sink. Until you can't move... you can't breathe... because you're in over your head. Like quicksand." ~Shane Falco (The Replacements). Concerning fears, the question was "what scares you?" I think the question is nearly as important as the answer. We have to know we have fears. I have fears that I don't even like to admit to myself. I certainly don't want to admit them to you. Nonetheless, I have to deal with them, come to terms with them or let them conquer my tomorrows by paralyzing my wiliness to find a way. I acknowledge my fears and look every day for a new way to move beyond the limitations that fear puts in my sunshine.
"It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are."~E.E.Cummings It takes a lot of courage to figure out who you really are sometimes. Some days I look in the mirror and think about what defines me; what the mirror cannot reflect; what the smiles and jovial laughter can disguise. Quite honestly I wonder if I will ever grow up but that’s okay. Of all the ambitions I have to build on the one that stands taller and stronger is my drive to be real. This is it; it's the real me, faults and all of my fears, shortcomings, failures, skeletons, scars, and dreams. One thing I learned in 45+ years on this globe is that I can’t be you or what you want me to be; it’s hard enough just being me.
"He’s one of those who knows that life is just a leap of faith, Spread your arms and hold your breath and always trust your cape."~ Guy Clark (The Cape) I like this for many reasons. Guy Clark is an awesome songwriter. I know that no one read this quote and envisioned a 45 year old woman jumping off of the garage. While that would be fun to see, once, I know that we all saw a child, at least a childlike faith, on the garage with a beach towel for a cape wrapped around his neck, the sun shining on his face and his chin raised with high with invincible pride. That is who I want to be everyday against every challenge; when the odds are against me and when my fears tug at my ambitions and the obstacles are piled high. When doubt hangs like smog over my confidence Guy Clark reminds me to trust my cape.
And last, I treasure the words of poet and activist, Muriel Rukeyser. Please don't Google the poem from which I extracted this quote. You will be disheartened by the harshness of her words. "The universe is made of stories, not of atoms." What describes you? I took a quiz online where I answer nine simple questions about myself and through the use of witchcraft or voodoo it determined the perfect one word to describe me, charismatic. I like it! I think I want to be charismatic but I can't be charismatic 24/7. While my friends sorrow or grieve I need to be a comforter. Charismatic will not replace kindness when I need to lend a hand at a homeless shelter. I need more than one word.
What if the one word that described you was the name of the street you live on? I would live at 101 Charismatic Lane. That isn't far down the street; does the number speak to the quality or quantity of my charisma? Who else lives on this street and do we have any community unity? Probably the most important piece of information about 101 Charismatic Lane is how you get there. Drag out the GPS and I shall tell you. "turn right on Tragedy Circle in 1.2 miles"; or maybe, "merge right on to Disappointment Trace." Curving and winding past missed turns and toll roads, over speed bumps, dodging pot holes, enduring construction zones in foul weather, that's how I got here. That's my story. That's what makes me who I am.
I hope you have enjoyed these quotes and thoughts. Leave me a comment or visit my website www.thatguyilivewith.com
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Monday, February 16, 2015
Welcome the new Salesman.
Um, Um, Thanks for coming here, um, to hear me say
The details I’ve memorized to present them just this way.
Ultimately, essentially as markers of degree
Decorate, as verbalized, so you’re impressed with me.
Actually, technically, with some regard to fact
Validate my statements until I take them back.
With all due respect given freedom of the tongue,
No offense intended – none taken, Um, Um.
But again, then again, in addition to and more,
Repetition of the statement, again, as I said before.
Mumbling; subtle hand gestures and a poor display of graphs
Disguise my insecurities to push this line of crap.
Exactly, absolutely, I couldn’t agree with you more,
I see what your saying, more than you know; Galore.
Everyone, always and never, trust me on this please.
Promise, in regard to, with all the guarantees.
Worth its weight in gold, let’s not reinvent the wheel.
I know I’m preaching to the choir, I think we’ve got a deal.
I wrote this little poem several years ago while I was working at Nacogdoches Memorial Hospital. I was in the adminstrative conference room with a group of managers and directors listening to a GPO salesman present a new software program that was going to help the hostipal save a million dollars in one year. As you can tell I listened intently without distraction.
It seemed appropriate to post this now since I am in San Diego at a Tri-Area Sales Meeting...Um, Um, yes, I am the new salesman...
The details I’ve memorized to present them just this way.
Ultimately, essentially as markers of degree
Decorate, as verbalized, so you’re impressed with me.
Actually, technically, with some regard to fact
Validate my statements until I take them back.
With all due respect given freedom of the tongue,
No offense intended – none taken, Um, Um.
But again, then again, in addition to and more,
Repetition of the statement, again, as I said before.
Mumbling; subtle hand gestures and a poor display of graphs
Disguise my insecurities to push this line of crap.
Exactly, absolutely, I couldn’t agree with you more,
I see what your saying, more than you know; Galore.
Everyone, always and never, trust me on this please.
Promise, in regard to, with all the guarantees.
Worth its weight in gold, let’s not reinvent the wheel.
I know I’m preaching to the choir, I think we’ve got a deal.
I wrote this little poem several years ago while I was working at Nacogdoches Memorial Hospital. I was in the adminstrative conference room with a group of managers and directors listening to a GPO salesman present a new software program that was going to help the hostipal save a million dollars in one year. As you can tell I listened intently without distraction.
It seemed appropriate to post this now since I am in San Diego at a Tri-Area Sales Meeting...Um, Um, yes, I am the new salesman...
Sunday, February 8, 2015
My last ride with Grandmother
I rode many miles in the car with Grandmother selling Avon, visiting family, and going fishing. Under her direction I tried to stay focused on the road while listening to her sing, "they crowned him with thorns, he was beaten with stripes, he was spit on and nailed to the tree, but the pain in his heart was the hardest to bare, The heart that was broken for me...” Still a song I sing often as I crisscross the state and sometimes the nation. She gazed across the fields with her elbow on the window sill as she sang, keeping time with the back of her hand against her lips, barely muffling the melody. Occasionally she would pause to tell me a story or correct my driving. Though I hold some regret from that day it remains one of my dearest memories; my last ride with Grandmother.
My intention had been to post my thoughts as I wrote them in 1998. They may not have been written well but they were originally only scribbled down for my review. Unfortunately I wasn't able to find those scribblings so this morning as I jet to Virginia for a week of presentations for work, I will attempt to recall that day for you and myself. I hope you find encouragement in events of that day.
It was March of 1998, the sun was shining and the air was getting warmer as we looked forward to the spring. Grandmother was staying with Uncle Shorty while Mom and Daddy were living in the motorhome and building a house near Lakeport. It was a transitioning time.
Angel was in grade school, so I took Levi (3) and Stacey (3 months) to visit with Grandmother on my way to Lakeport to see my mom and dad. She was at Uncle Shorty's house alone. She seemed weak and was having trouble swallowing due to the aortic aneurism putting pressure on her throat. She was confused; she referred to me as Anna, my cousin, but that wasn't really anything to be concerned about. She told me that Anna had given her some quilt scraps but then when Anna called she told her that someone gave her some quilts scraps but she couldn’t remember who. None of this seemed extremely abnormal as she often called people by the wrong name; Reba, Rosie, Anna, Kathy, Donna, Becky....I was usually last on the list of at least three generations.
Despite the names and the scraps we had a good conversation. She talked to Levi which wasn't always easy because of his speech problems. She played with his hair and bounced him on her knee. She held Stacey up on her lap and talked to him in a baby voice. She played "headacher, eye winker, tom tinker, nose dropper, mouth water..." She played peepie and all those silly games we often played with little babies. She asked about Angel.
I told her we were going over to Lakeport to see Mom and Daddy and asked did she want to ride along. At first she said no but then she said, "I believe I will".
I know exactly where I was on State Highway 149 near Lake Cherokee when it first occurred to me to ask. She had not been talking much other than the one sided conversions she held off and on with Levi and Stacey. She sang some but I got the impression that her throat hurt. In hindsight I can see that she was uncomfortable but at the time I thought maybe she was just reflecting as we drove. I struggled with the thought. I loved this woman as a grandmother and a friend; as a kindred soul and a travel mate. She was logistically and emotionally as close to me as my own mother. I grew up with her. As a young child she took me fishing at the lake, running trotlines and playing 42 half of the night. As a pre-teen she carried me and my friends to the movies and to the circus. She let me drive her Buick and her boat. I have often said that I didn't love her more than my cousins but I loved her different. She was the answer to many of the questions I asked myself. But that day the question I wanted to ask lumped up in my throat. We talked about many things through my lifetime and we had shared emotional memories and stories but on that day I established a limit, a barrier that I couldn't crawl over.
We arrived in Lakeport to find the construction progressing. We pulled up a lawn chair and visited for a couple of hours. Perhaps my original notes documented the topics and stories but I can't remember now.
What I do remember was loading the boys to go home. Grandmother was going to stay there with Mom and Daddy and I had to get back to get Angel from school. I backed out of the driveway without kissing my grandmother goodbye and that just was not acceptable. I turned around and drove back up the driveway, got out of the car, trekked across to the lawn chair to give her a kiss and tell her I loved her. I’m sure she knew but I needed to tell her anyway.
That was the last time I saw her before she stepped into her new eternal body. It was a difficult time. I shed many tears; I hurt like I never had.
Now, 17 years later, I focus on so many beautiful memories; the way she whistled and the way she carried her walking stick. The apron she wrapped around her waist while the biscuits were cooking. The coveralls she wore while she fished and the flowery sheets on her bed. I only hold one regret and only for the sole purpose of learning from my regrets. On that last ride I wanted to ask Grandmother to share with me the day that she accepted Jesus as her savior. Growing up with her I knew He was Lord of her life but I wanted her personal testimony. I wanted to tell my own kids. I wanted to know who led her to find Jesus and I wanted to hear her praise Him through the recalling of a time that must have been many years ago. I had never planned to write about it.
I was the youngest grandchild and often I didn't remember the times that my cousins recalled so gaily. I wanted that one for me. I would have filed it away in my memory with the story of how Aunt Ozella got the stick jabbed in her leg when the wheel fell off the wagon and the story of the day Gran died and Steve drove the truck into the ditch going to meet the ambulance. I wanted to file it for safe keeping in my memory like the pistol she stashed under the mattress of the bed Gran died on. I wanted to cherish it like the porcelain doll with the red velvet dress that she made; carry it like the buckeye she had deep in the bottom of her purse. I wanted to wrap the story around me and my boys like an old quilt as we bundled up on the couch.
Why hadn't I asked? I can only speculate now that by asking I thought I would be giving her permission to leave me. It seemed to have the weight of a final conversation of the final ride while the last song was sang.
I can't get that opportunity back. I don't lose sleep over it now but I do listen to the little voice in my heart a little more often and think of the last ride with grandmother.
If you don't have a story to tell about the day you asked Jesus to be your Savior, you can. It's as simple as ABC.
A. Admit that you are a sinner and that you need forgiveness
B. Believe that Jesus died on a cross for your sins, he paid for your forgiveness.
C. Confess your sins and ask thru a personal prayer for Jesus to save you, to come into your heart.
I hope that I will have an opportunity to ask you about your story one day.
My intention had been to post my thoughts as I wrote them in 1998. They may not have been written well but they were originally only scribbled down for my review. Unfortunately I wasn't able to find those scribblings so this morning as I jet to Virginia for a week of presentations for work, I will attempt to recall that day for you and myself. I hope you find encouragement in events of that day.
It was March of 1998, the sun was shining and the air was getting warmer as we looked forward to the spring. Grandmother was staying with Uncle Shorty while Mom and Daddy were living in the motorhome and building a house near Lakeport. It was a transitioning time.
Angel was in grade school, so I took Levi (3) and Stacey (3 months) to visit with Grandmother on my way to Lakeport to see my mom and dad. She was at Uncle Shorty's house alone. She seemed weak and was having trouble swallowing due to the aortic aneurism putting pressure on her throat. She was confused; she referred to me as Anna, my cousin, but that wasn't really anything to be concerned about. She told me that Anna had given her some quilt scraps but then when Anna called she told her that someone gave her some quilts scraps but she couldn’t remember who. None of this seemed extremely abnormal as she often called people by the wrong name; Reba, Rosie, Anna, Kathy, Donna, Becky....I was usually last on the list of at least three generations.
Despite the names and the scraps we had a good conversation. She talked to Levi which wasn't always easy because of his speech problems. She played with his hair and bounced him on her knee. She held Stacey up on her lap and talked to him in a baby voice. She played "headacher, eye winker, tom tinker, nose dropper, mouth water..." She played peepie and all those silly games we often played with little babies. She asked about Angel.
I told her we were going over to Lakeport to see Mom and Daddy and asked did she want to ride along. At first she said no but then she said, "I believe I will".
I know exactly where I was on State Highway 149 near Lake Cherokee when it first occurred to me to ask. She had not been talking much other than the one sided conversions she held off and on with Levi and Stacey. She sang some but I got the impression that her throat hurt. In hindsight I can see that she was uncomfortable but at the time I thought maybe she was just reflecting as we drove. I struggled with the thought. I loved this woman as a grandmother and a friend; as a kindred soul and a travel mate. She was logistically and emotionally as close to me as my own mother. I grew up with her. As a young child she took me fishing at the lake, running trotlines and playing 42 half of the night. As a pre-teen she carried me and my friends to the movies and to the circus. She let me drive her Buick and her boat. I have often said that I didn't love her more than my cousins but I loved her different. She was the answer to many of the questions I asked myself. But that day the question I wanted to ask lumped up in my throat. We talked about many things through my lifetime and we had shared emotional memories and stories but on that day I established a limit, a barrier that I couldn't crawl over.
We arrived in Lakeport to find the construction progressing. We pulled up a lawn chair and visited for a couple of hours. Perhaps my original notes documented the topics and stories but I can't remember now.
What I do remember was loading the boys to go home. Grandmother was going to stay there with Mom and Daddy and I had to get back to get Angel from school. I backed out of the driveway without kissing my grandmother goodbye and that just was not acceptable. I turned around and drove back up the driveway, got out of the car, trekked across to the lawn chair to give her a kiss and tell her I loved her. I’m sure she knew but I needed to tell her anyway.
That was the last time I saw her before she stepped into her new eternal body. It was a difficult time. I shed many tears; I hurt like I never had.
Now, 17 years later, I focus on so many beautiful memories; the way she whistled and the way she carried her walking stick. The apron she wrapped around her waist while the biscuits were cooking. The coveralls she wore while she fished and the flowery sheets on her bed. I only hold one regret and only for the sole purpose of learning from my regrets. On that last ride I wanted to ask Grandmother to share with me the day that she accepted Jesus as her savior. Growing up with her I knew He was Lord of her life but I wanted her personal testimony. I wanted to tell my own kids. I wanted to know who led her to find Jesus and I wanted to hear her praise Him through the recalling of a time that must have been many years ago. I had never planned to write about it.
I was the youngest grandchild and often I didn't remember the times that my cousins recalled so gaily. I wanted that one for me. I would have filed it away in my memory with the story of how Aunt Ozella got the stick jabbed in her leg when the wheel fell off the wagon and the story of the day Gran died and Steve drove the truck into the ditch going to meet the ambulance. I wanted to file it for safe keeping in my memory like the pistol she stashed under the mattress of the bed Gran died on. I wanted to cherish it like the porcelain doll with the red velvet dress that she made; carry it like the buckeye she had deep in the bottom of her purse. I wanted to wrap the story around me and my boys like an old quilt as we bundled up on the couch.
Why hadn't I asked? I can only speculate now that by asking I thought I would be giving her permission to leave me. It seemed to have the weight of a final conversation of the final ride while the last song was sang.
I can't get that opportunity back. I don't lose sleep over it now but I do listen to the little voice in my heart a little more often and think of the last ride with grandmother.
If you don't have a story to tell about the day you asked Jesus to be your Savior, you can. It's as simple as ABC.
A. Admit that you are a sinner and that you need forgiveness
B. Believe that Jesus died on a cross for your sins, he paid for your forgiveness.
C. Confess your sins and ask thru a personal prayer for Jesus to save you, to come into your heart.
I hope that I will have an opportunity to ask you about your story one day.
Things you may not know about me....
He was tall and thin. His hair was permed to a taut curl and dreadfully fashionable in rural1983. He played football, was a UIL regional qualifier in pole vaulting, and he played the snare drum in the marching band. After graduation, he married my classmate; I married his. I played cymbals in the high school band because I had a crush on this drummer. This is just one of the many particulars you didn’t know about me.
In the second grade I sat across the table from my first crush. He could wiggle his ears like no one I had ever known. Through the next summer I practiced twitching and wiggling with all my facial muscle. Now, proudly, I can wiggle my ears.
“Fourscore and seven years ago our Father’s brought forth on this continen, a new nations, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equally…” I can recite two-thirds of the Gettysburg Address, the recording of the Emergency Broadcast Systems and OSHA’s definition of Regulated Waste.
On Christmas day in 1995 my husband, two sons ages 5 and 1, and a Great Dane named Spencer, packed our clothes, furniture, house wares and Christmas presents into a 10X12 storage building on Padre Island. Unable to pay the rent on the 1950 ranch style house that we had called home for the previous six months, we took only what we couldn’t live without and lived in our 1985 suburban. Sometimes, if we could find something to hock at the local pawn shop we would stay in a cheap hotel for a night. Or we would pitch our tent at the lake and pretend we were on a camping excursion. Mostly we stayed at Mustang Island State Park where the showers were warm and safe. We lived this way for nine weeks before we were able to move into a trailer park in the refinery district of Corpus Christi, TX. I have been ‘homeless’.
I was having a bad day. Maybe I was throwing a pity party. It was voting day at the high school, popularity showdown, all tears and no tiaras, and I found myself to be not terribly fond of anyone. I voted because I had to but I was class favorite my Junior year because I voted for myself in the first election and the run off.
My grandmother told me I could sing just like Kitty Wells and Donna Fargo and because of that I secretly dreamed of being on stage at the Grand Ole Opry. I could almost feel the crowds roar. I could smell the excitement as they waited anxiously for the moment I stepped gracefully onto the stage covered in sequins and rhinestones.
There once was a flamingo named Marty, He was pink and fluffy yet hardy,
He had lots of fun drinking Malibu rum. And he threw on heck of a party.
There once was a chick named Maria She walked in the sand by the sea
She ran into Marty, who was throwing a party. There was no need to RSVP –a.
I have two pink flamingos in my backyard named Marty and Maria. They entertain a host of friends and family for a Memorial Day Party on Lake Murvaul.
In the second grade I sat across the table from my first crush. He could wiggle his ears like no one I had ever known. Through the next summer I practiced twitching and wiggling with all my facial muscle. Now, proudly, I can wiggle my ears.
“Fourscore and seven years ago our Father’s brought forth on this continen, a new nations, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equally…” I can recite two-thirds of the Gettysburg Address, the recording of the Emergency Broadcast Systems and OSHA’s definition of Regulated Waste.
On Christmas day in 1995 my husband, two sons ages 5 and 1, and a Great Dane named Spencer, packed our clothes, furniture, house wares and Christmas presents into a 10X12 storage building on Padre Island. Unable to pay the rent on the 1950 ranch style house that we had called home for the previous six months, we took only what we couldn’t live without and lived in our 1985 suburban. Sometimes, if we could find something to hock at the local pawn shop we would stay in a cheap hotel for a night. Or we would pitch our tent at the lake and pretend we were on a camping excursion. Mostly we stayed at Mustang Island State Park where the showers were warm and safe. We lived this way for nine weeks before we were able to move into a trailer park in the refinery district of Corpus Christi, TX. I have been ‘homeless’.
I was having a bad day. Maybe I was throwing a pity party. It was voting day at the high school, popularity showdown, all tears and no tiaras, and I found myself to be not terribly fond of anyone. I voted because I had to but I was class favorite my Junior year because I voted for myself in the first election and the run off.
My grandmother told me I could sing just like Kitty Wells and Donna Fargo and because of that I secretly dreamed of being on stage at the Grand Ole Opry. I could almost feel the crowds roar. I could smell the excitement as they waited anxiously for the moment I stepped gracefully onto the stage covered in sequins and rhinestones.
There once was a flamingo named Marty, He was pink and fluffy yet hardy,
He had lots of fun drinking Malibu rum. And he threw on heck of a party.
There once was a chick named Maria She walked in the sand by the sea
She ran into Marty, who was throwing a party. There was no need to RSVP –a.
I have two pink flamingos in my backyard named Marty and Maria. They entertain a host of friends and family for a Memorial Day Party on Lake Murvaul.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
the fizz
It is likely that I will never get a tattoo but lately I have been taking note of some I see and I have come to this final conclusion. If I ever get a tattoo it will be a tramp stamp because that way I will never have to stare at it in the mirror and others will only see it as I am walking away..The other thing I have decided is the design will be effervescence. Yes, I am going to have fizz coming out of the back of my pants. And I googled it; its never been done. I could be the first!
Do you still want that picture?
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
The Questions I found at the Oklahome City Federal Building Memorial
Oklahoma City Bombing
empty chairs
Memorial Symbolism
I know that one day family and friends will gather around the table on a Sunday after church for lunch and my chair will be empty. They will bow their heads to thank God for the blessings of their lives and I wont be there and that's okay because I know where I will be.
In April of 1995, an individual I choose not to call by name or direct my attention to, and his associate parked a rental truck loaded with explosives at the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, Ok. At 9:02am, after the office chairs were filled with moms and dads, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles, MeMes and PeePaws; after they had walked their babies, toddlers, and preschoolers to the day care for safety; a brick scattering blast rumbled through the morter and cement of downtown Oklahoma City.
As I walked around the memorial grounds I reflected on more than the beautiful pool placed to represent the street on the north side of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Thoughts that flooded my mind:
1. When my chair is empty how will those that gathered around the table with me my entire life remember me? Will they have laughter and tears? Will they continue to hug one another and make memories they can pass from generation to generation?
2. When bombs go off in my life do I focus on the bomber and the blast or do I reflect on the positives? Do I seek ways to change the unchangeable, to turn back the clock, or do I look for ways to grow despite the pain like a survior tree that withstood the full blast?
3. When others, even strangers, are in trying and difficult times will I give and give and give more? Will I have compassion on them and the ones they love? Will I have the strength to help them carry their burdens? Will I give of my time, my resources (not just money), my heart? Will the things that are important to them be important to me?
Some days I have more questions than answers.
empty chairs
Memorial Symbolism
I know that one day family and friends will gather around the table on a Sunday after church for lunch and my chair will be empty. They will bow their heads to thank God for the blessings of their lives and I wont be there and that's okay because I know where I will be.
In April of 1995, an individual I choose not to call by name or direct my attention to, and his associate parked a rental truck loaded with explosives at the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, Ok. At 9:02am, after the office chairs were filled with moms and dads, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles, MeMes and PeePaws; after they had walked their babies, toddlers, and preschoolers to the day care for safety; a brick scattering blast rumbled through the morter and cement of downtown Oklahoma City.
As I walked around the memorial grounds I reflected on more than the beautiful pool placed to represent the street on the north side of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Thoughts that flooded my mind:
1. When my chair is empty how will those that gathered around the table with me my entire life remember me? Will they have laughter and tears? Will they continue to hug one another and make memories they can pass from generation to generation?
2. When bombs go off in my life do I focus on the bomber and the blast or do I reflect on the positives? Do I seek ways to change the unchangeable, to turn back the clock, or do I look for ways to grow despite the pain like a survior tree that withstood the full blast?
3. When others, even strangers, are in trying and difficult times will I give and give and give more? Will I have compassion on them and the ones they love? Will I have the strength to help them carry their burdens? Will I give of my time, my resources (not just money), my heart? Will the things that are important to them be important to me?
Some days I have more questions than answers.
the day the music died
http://www.whrc-wi.org/americanpie.htm
Feb 3,1959 The day the music died. Have you ever wondered what the lyrics were referring to? Hope you enjoy the breakdown of this song.
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