I’m getting tired of words not meaning what I think they mean.

I don’t know if this is me saying I don’t like lingo or me saying I don’t like myself for not knowing the lingo. I think it’s a little bit of both to be honest.

I’ve always been a fan of slang and how the meaning of certain words evolves over time with frequency and tone of use. But usually I’m on the front foot of those evolutions. I was there when “bulk” stopped being used exclusively as a prefix to “billing”. I was there when “keen” was the equivalent of “I just grew several penises and each one of them is erect at the prospect of joining your proposed Maccas run”. I was contributing to the cutting down of long words to one syllable or “syllb”. I was there for it all!

But now I’m out of the loop, and words are different to me. Words that used to mean one thing now confuse me. “Dank” is a pretty good example. Right now it’s being thrown around a lot, and it seems to have varying uses. Back in my day, which was only like five years ago, dank was absolutely a bad thing. For something to be described as “dank” meant for it to be grotty, shabby, unpleasant and just all around shit. I viewed it as a mix between “rank” and “damp”. So by that logic, one would use it in a sentence to describe an old, soiled mattress. Maybe a flanno left on the floor of a recovery party, soaked in food dye and beer, drenched in poor decision making. Hell, you could even use “dank” to describe a cave full of wet but warm dogs.

But now it’s being used to describe remixes and memes. Now, for the love of all things holy please do not ask me to define the word “meme” for you. Memes are like the meat in sausage rolls – everyone loves them and eats them right up, but no one can say with exact certainty what they are. They’re like funny pictures, mostly with accompanying text that are shared around the many corners of the vast World Wide Web we love so much. In the final throws (A.K.A. about a month out) of the federal election, everyone is banging on about “dank memes” that are going about as political propaganda, albeit shitty propaganda.

And despite all the hard work dedicated media minders do, sometimes politicians think they can own this whole social media game. They think it’s in their best interests if they handle their Twitter handles and put the “I” in their insty posts. It’s a real win for us, The Voters, because we get an understanding of the person behind the politician. The posts they make up themselves can be absolute gold. This is because most politicians running in this election are daggy old dads (I can say this because out of 10 candidates running in my electorate, not one of them is a woman). Case and point? Behold our Deputy Prime Minister:

Now, fest your eyes on some of the weird, completely dad-like posts he obviously made without the assistance of a trusted adult, like he was Ralph Wiggans and Lisa Simpson in a state costume contest:

You see, the thing about daggy old dads is that they don’t fully grasp this whole young people thing. If you make it to their ages, you can probably expect to develop some weird quirks, bank up a horrible repertoire of odd, and sometimes slightly racist, sayings and a general disconnect from the generations below you. My dad is a classic example. One time I caught him intensely reading The Many Uses of Vinegar recipe book like it was a novel while wearing his Akubra and belt with a pocket knife on it. Another time he asked my sign writer uncle to make him a stick for the back of his ute to tell other drivers to “stop sniffing my arse”. He thought it was both smart and hilarious. We [his offspring, general humanity] were mortified. Thankfully, this sticker was never fixed to his vehicle, but I feel like it is representative of the kind of political claptrap flying around the internet. I Googled “dank memes political Australia” and this is what came up:

So by looking at this garbage, one would assume that “dank” still meant bad. But the other day I was listening to the radio and heard a producer talking about how he spend his time making “dank tunes”. From memory, the sample of his work I heard on my commute was reasonably not shit. In fact I would have to say that this fellow had a track record of dropping bangers (not the sausage kind, the “this song is very enjoyable and encourages me to dance” kind; I at least understand that one). So in this sense, I would have to assume that “dank” not only meant “not shit” but also “quite fantastic” and “inspired gregarious dance moves”.

So where does this all leave me, a person unsure of whether it is an insult or a compliment? How do I prove myself to be “with it” when the definition of “it” keeps changing? I can only assume it is like the word “sick”. That word is usually used to explain a general state of being unwell, and sometimes is a euphamisim for vomit (e.g. “he was sick all over the back seat” or “the pile of sick in the corner of the room did little to dull the passions of the two 19-year-old drunkards”). As such, the word is often used in place of “gross” or “disgusting”, as in “this pantsuit is sick, I can’t be seen in it or I won’t get a date to the formz”. It is sometimes used to describe a deranged person; “sick puppy” is my favourite example of that. But when used as “sik”, the word sounds the same but takes on a whole new meaning. “Sik beatz”, “sik singlet” and straight up (language warning!) “sik cunt” are all massive compliments. In fact, that last one is probably the highest honour that can be bestowed on any Australian. “Sik” is the kind of “good” that is usually paired with a surfie hand gesture and even an outstretched tongue. It’s exclusively a young people term.

So maybe that’s the case with “dank”. Maybe “dank” is the new “sik”. Maybe the word can have multiple meanings; many other words do after all. Maybe I’ll be able to be with “it”, even if they change what “it” is. Even if what I’m with isn’t “it”. But I have to say that right now, what’s “it” seems weird and scary to me.

I made a cake with stevia and I feel like I betrayed my entire being.

It was a rainy weekend and I was doing some soul searching. It was a busy week beforehand and I needed to take time to reconnect with my spirit. I needed to reset my mindset and tune into me. I needed to peel back the layers of the great croissant that is my soul. I needed to take a step back and remember what was important to me and what I wanted out of life.

It took hours of laying down, but eventually the skies in my clouded mind dispersed and I could see clearly. I knew what I needed to do. I had plenty of oranges and a plastic bag for full of dreams. I had goals. I had ambitions. I aspired eat the entirety of something with a mini fork.

But there were competing forces at play. The eternal tussle between wanting to eat so much crap you practically sweat gravy and wanting to have the kind of rig that gives other people self-esteem issues is ever present in my mind. It’s a hell of a fight. Sometimes the ravenous wreck comes out on top, and sometimes I’m able to stay on the path of smug nutrition, because nothing motivates you to keep fit quite like the possibility of completely unhinging the mental stability of people you don’t know with your pert arse.

Of course, there are also times when you try to compromise. You can see the value in treating yourself to something tasty but also have the foresight to know you don’t ever want a weedy intern nurse to struggle under the weight of your fat apron should your crippling obesity hospitalise you.

This citrusy circle of shame was one of those compromises. I decided to make an orange and almond cake, and bought the necessary almond meal (which may as well be the ground bones of Jesus Christ himself it was that expensive, by the way) while on a long walk. Sure, the walk was just something for me to do to justify bathing for the second time that day but I still didn’t want to undo my activity. So as I trudged home with the dust of the rich in the plastic shopping bag I made a promise to myself.

I promised myself I could eat an entire family-sized dessert as long as I could pretend it was healthy. I’ve made this promise before. Mostly it’s pie or crumble related. I use ground oats instead of flour in my bases and olive oil spread instead of butter and I tell myself it’s an acceptable move to gorge myself on an entire industrial-sized pie in the space of 48 hours. So I was feeling pretty confident about my plan to replace the sugar content in the cake with stevia.

I’d heard nothing but praise for this plant-based sweetener. Everything from “just as sweet as a sugar” and “probably not as poisonous as most sweeteners” filled me with an unshakeable confidence. Not only was this cake going to taste fantastic, but because this powder of dreams was plant-based and the other ingredients were two whole oranges (yep, you used the whole fruity sphere), almonds, eggs and good intentions, it was going to be a health extravaganza.

Oh, how wrong I was. Once the hours-long process of preparing and cooking the cake was completed, I raised the confection to my mouth and had to swallow my pride. The stevia was far from the powdery dream I had expected.

Instead it tasted like I had replaced the sugar with the salt gathered from evaporated urine left out in the sun. It tasted like someone was angry with me. It tasted like citrusy hate. And it had done this all to myself.

All I wanted to do was to simply consume more the recommended daily intake of sugar and happiness. Instead, I had spent two hours crafting physical misery, and it wasn’t even moist! I just wanted a treat that wouldn’t make my hate myself completely but in doing so I had created tea anti-cake.

The only thing left to do was to hide my sins in a layer of unplanned icing. I combined the three superfoods of butter, icing sugar and cream cheese to create a delicious sludge of sinnery. I was sure it would cover the aftertaste of the stevia, which I read is a problem the world over. Apparently it is a great sweetener, but it leaves a dreadful taste WHICH IS COMPLETELY SENSELESS. What is the point of using a sweetener to replace sugar if it has an awful taste?! WHO ARE YOU MONSTERS?!

Unfortunately the great icing distraction didn’t work, and I was now with a horrible tasting cake that was drowning in calories. It was a disaster. No person should be subjected to that kind of shit. No one deserves it. So I did the only decent thing I could do.

I took it to work the next day.

I’m getting tired of people my age banging on about wine.

For some reason, every bastard is bloody obsessed with wine, and not the fun champagne rip-off kind. It’s the kind of wine that’s room temperature with no hint of carbonation. My generation’s fixation on it is inescabable. Every second meme you see about female-type people in their 20s has a wine component. “Everyone’s getting married and I’m just here with my wine” or “Tonight I’m going to Netflix and chill … with my wine” or the slightly more honest “look how different I am from other girls because I don’t care about uncool stuff like love or having children or being responsible with my money and like to drink wine, and aren’t I so self aware and hilarious and, let’s just say it, quirky for pointing it out? Hahahah… YOU SHOULD TOTALLY LOVE ME I’M SUCH A FUCKING CATCH! PLEASE VALIDATE MY MISERY BY LIKING MY PICTURE”.

Well here’s a truth bomb for your turnt fam squad goals. Wine actually tastes awful. I don’t care how juvenile it makes me look; I don’t care about being a traitor to my cynical generation of hermits. I’m just going to say it: most wines are yucky. Maybe I’m wrong. But maybe most wines taste like a mix of that water you find in olive jars blended with equal parts of distain and haughtiness, with overtones of liquid whiteout. Maybe I like the look of holding a wine glass, but don’t exactly enjoy the feeling of having my tastebuds scraped off with a blunt potato peeler.

I just want wines to taste the way I thought they would when I was watching the two kinds on Disney’s Sleeping Beauty get absolutely blotto to celebrate forcing their children into an unwanted marriage. It was a red variety, and looked hearty but sweet. My innocent mind imagined the two crown-wearing arseholes were drinking a nectary, plumy fruit drink. Of course, I was a pup of a child and didn’t understand that there would be other reasons to drink something other than the sweet taste.

You might say I lived a sheltered life growing up in my quaint country town where almost everyone knew your name and you could play multiple rounds of Spotlight up your street without fear of being stuffed into an unmarked van. Say what you like, but I did have a vague idea of what “getting high” meant. In fact, I knew it first hand. Sometimes my friends and I would get together in little clumps and spin around and around really fast to laugh at how incapacitated we were immediately after the stopped twirling. It turned out that was a gateway activity that led to more dangerous highs, like rolling down hills. Needless to say, I understood the notion of doing something silly for the good feels afterwards.

But the idea of putting something into your mouth that wasn’t nice tasting just because it made you feel good was completely out of my capacity of thought. The only not nice tasting thing you would put into you mouth to feel good (eventually, anyway) I knew of was medicine and it didn’t look like either of the two men on my family’s slightly green television set were suffering from any cold or flu symptoms. This was a time when my favourite food was hot chip and chicken sandwiches (let’s be honest, it’s still one of my top five meals) and I would consume the small amount of vegetables on my plate by swallowing them whole and washing them down with big gulps of milk, like an Echinacea tablet. When it came to matters of the mouth, it was all about taste, so it never crossed my mind that these irresponsible parents would be drinking anything other than zingy grape juice.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of wine. I love the glasses with the stall stems, I love the fact that it’s premixed, negating the need for a Lido mix-in and I love the look of sophisticated judgement that radiates from drinkers. I love it all. But if wine were a man and all those traits about them were reasons to love him, the taste would have to equate to his membership of the Shooters and Fishers Party or him supporting the Canterbury Bulldogs in the NRL. It’s something you try to put up with for a while and try to focus on all the other good things about him, but ultimately you decide you just can’t accept it inside you. Sometimes you might be in a pinch and need to get a quick buzz so you brace yourself and drink it quickly, but you can’t do it to yourself every weekend. It’s something you want to get over and done with which leaves a bad taste in your mouth and is best down while holding your nose.

That is not what I wanted wine to be. I wanted to be like a young, taut Courtney Cox in Cougartown pounding the grape like a tank. I wanted to be like the bitchy aunties you see at most weddings, tearing apart the bride’s whoreish dress over several bottle of sav blanc. Hell, I’d settle for the fat emperor man who drinks wine with a loose cannon donkey in Disney’s Fantasia. But it tastes awful. That’s not to say I wouldn’t drink it for the … health benefits. A friend and I would go to every single one of our brother college’s formal dinners in uni just because of the unlimited access to wine guests were privy to. I liked being drunk, and at that time I didn’t mind the looks of disgust I got as I mixed lemonade into my glass of red (like a shandy, only more shameful!) and happily bastardised a “good wine” with sugar while Kerry O’Brien addressed the room.

But I can’t do that now. Now I have to give off some kind of air of sophistication, and for some reason that means drinking room temperature horse piss and pretending to like it. Year 9 Dannielle would be horrified, but I do conform to the norm at times. I like to join the crowd, because then there’s plenty of people around to see when I do something cool. And I reckon there may be a few closet scrubbers like me who want to look classy, but can’t stomach a merlot. So here’s a tip. And you can trust my absolute sincerity on this one because heavens knows I haven’t got the reach to attract offers to write sponsored posts. The answer is Banrock Station’s Crimson Cabernet.

If you think it doesn’t sound like an actual type of wine, you’re probably right, but that’s the beauty of it.; it’s not a “proper wine”. A little while ago, my sister and I walked into a bottle shop and asked the assistant to recommend “a wine that looks like wine for people who don’t like wine”. This unnamed changed our lives. He presented us with a wine-shaped bottle of red liquid, which promised to be sweet, fruity and lightly spritzed. Sure, it’s a nectary drop, it’s probably about as thick as a piece of steak and most people to see my drinking it scrunch up their nose in disgust, but it’s everything seven-year-old me thought wine would be.

My sister made it the “house red” at her wedding and everyone hated her for it. Cheers!

I’m trying to offload my furniture, and I’m getting really sick of people not falling over themselves to buy my used items.

I’ve placed adverts which I thought were informative yet enticing descriptions of my old wares to tempt buyers to scramble for the privilege to own my unwanted gear. Most recently, I’ve put an ad on a website we’ll call “slumspree” for an old desk and an office chair. The desk came into my possession after I moved into an old college friend’s room. He didn’t seem to want to deal with the hassle of selling it and I couldn’t be arsed to get rid of it, so it stayed. The office chair was a gift I received from my old workplace after my boss’ wife’s work upgraded their chairs and gifted their old seats to us – like a game musical chairs except way less tense. The furnished multiple rooms nicely and have done their jobs of holding both myself and my stationery off the floor. But I’m downsizing and they have to go. Unfortunately, the word bait I used for buyers hasn’t attracted a single nibble.

Sure, “used” doesn’t sound overly enticing. But the items I try to sell are quality goods. It’s not a pair of stretched out, crusty knickers I’ve put up for sale. These things may be well loved, but they’re not total garbage.

Add this with the fact that I was given full marks on an assignment all about advertorial just this week (I don’t want to brag, but I’m going to because I need the validation. I don’t like my chances of getting any other gold stars in the near future so I’m going to cling to this high mark like Mark Latham clings to relevance), I’m not talking 87 per cent or 92 per cent. I’m talking about the triple-digit mark. I’ve never met my tutor face-to-face, but I imagine this learned sir is the kind of guy who has at least one tweed suit jacket and is a well-read savvy man with, as far as my baseless assumptions can tell, a cavadoodle (which means he has a good and true heart, I suspect). He wouldn’t just give me good marks if I didn’t deserve them, so I must be at least not total rubbish at floogin wares.

So I’m surpsied as to why I haven’t got a better track record with palming off my shit to other people.

Appalled, actually.

I’ve gone back through my computer files and pulled out two other ads that went on the same website, we’ll call it “dumfree” for now, and am scratching my head. The old saying “you can’t polish a turd” is an eternal truth, and while I’m not saying my items were dreadful, they weren’t brand new. So I thought that there was no point in pretending otherwise. And if I’m not going to set the bar too high, I might as well set it unremarkably low. Apparently advertising is all about building relationships with customers, and I didn’t want to be the advertising equivalent of a fuckboy. I wanted to be honest with my customers about what they were getting themselves into, but I also wanted them to like me. And I think my copy reflected that:

ADVERT FOR AN OLD ARMCHAIR

“If you’ve ever wanted to nestle yourself in the folds of a heavy smoker’s uterus, this is perhaps the closest you’re going to get without ending up having struggling actors doing terrible re-enactments of your behaviour on a late-night Channel 7 crime series. Sink into the plastic plushness of this armchair, and wonder no more what a close up of Donatella Versace’s neck looks like. Like leather but nowhere near as luxurious, this armchair covering makes you question your morals. Not because you’re picturing a calf having its skin peeled, but because you know you nestling in the sweat stains of strangers shouldn’t feel so good.

Features include: browness; authentic pleather wrinkles; sweat stains from the various relatives of mine who you don’t know but may just begin to smell like.

Bonus: Anything you find in the cushions if yours to keep. I haven’t checked what lingers in the folds of that imitation leather, so it is essentially a Lucky Dip wrapped in big, brown packaging. Who knows what treasures you could unearth!?”

ADVERT FOR AN OLD SHELF DAD SAVED FROM LANDFULL

“This excellent use of dead tree is far from a furniture abomination, but rather a technology buff’s dream. Equipped with state-of-the-art shelving technology, this piece will hold various items off the floor, nodding to the world-wide trend of using physical objects to create a barrier between household goods and the ground. A cutting edge hole has been added to this piece to maximise user versatility. Use the carefully-constructed void to thread through electrical cords, spy on your friends, or become the prankster of the year by shooting your grandmother with a Nerf Gun out of nowhere– the possibilities are endless! The shutters were engineered for multiple displaying options, as well as creating that highly sought after what-was-the-carpenter-actually-doing look. Yes, this piece is so on-trend that it needs its own hashtag.

Pounce now to become the envy of all the acquaintances you keep on social media purely to boost your self-esteem.”

I ended up dropping both pieces off at the local tip to be recycled.

Looking back, I think I can see my problem. I had neglected on very critical rule when it comes to online spruiking: include sizing. Thankfully I have learned from the mistakes of my past and tacked on some measurements to my ad before posting it.

I’ve got a bit of time left until my advert expires and I haven’t had anyone enquire about the items, but I’ve got a good feeling.

Some days you love your life, other days you hope that shooting pain in your pelvis is your appendix exploding and not just a super poo blocking your bowls so you can spend the whole day in bed.

Some days getting up out of bed and putting on clothes which haven’t been sourced from Peter Alexander seems impossible, and an emergency surgery seems like a far better option. Some days the idea of having to spend eight hours pretending you are a functioning person is exhausting. There are times when you feel like you can’t face people. When appearing cheerful seems painful. When using your brain seems daunting. Sometimes the weight is so heavy you can’t even move to peel your bed socks off. There are days you just need one more day to yourself. These days are usually Mondays.    These are the days you start thinking of what miracles might happen to give you that extra time. You find yourself in some pretty odd places that might concern hospital staff, and you start doing some weird bargaining in your head. You can live without your appendix, so getting a few days off to have it hacked out of your body seems a reasonable trade-off. So on the days when you’re laying in bed and you feel a quick shooting pain to the right of your abdomen, you think today could be your lucky day.

Your sister lost a heap of weight when she had her appendix out and they do keyhole surgeries now so the scarring would not even be that severe. Plus, you’re guaranteed at least one bunch of flowers, free magazines and the occasional comforting hand on those forehead bumps you usually keep out of sight with a curtain of hair. An added bonus: all the action is going on downstairs, meaning upstairs is an all-you-can-eat zone after they yank the little sucker out of you. This could be a real win. A second dull pain hits your side again and your spirits are buoyed.

You get up out of bed and waddle slowly to the bathroom, considering whether you should text your boss now or wait until you get into the office and dramatically collapse in the middle of everyone writhing on the floor in pain. The sympathy. The spectacle. The attention. You can feel it coming your way.

Unfortunately/fortunately (depending on what sort of mood you’re in) the only thing coming is the shit of the century; brown water spraying your porcelain bowl with a range you thought only possible for industrial-grade irrigation pumps.

It turns out imaginary appendicitis and raging diarrhoea feel the same before they reach the point of explosion. You wipe away a tear as you flush away your week of leave, and angrily slam the toilet lid down (while we’re on the topic, shut your bloody toilet lids people. I don’t care if you pee standing up, sitting down or in a reverse cowgirl style. Open, exposed toilet water is filthy and your displaying of it is yucky. We’ve got opposable thumbs for fuck’s sake and you still think it’s ok to have open passages to the sewer system in your home?! Are you a wild animal?!) You’ve had enough of this bullshit. What does your an appendix really do for you anyway? You’ve kept it alive for more than two decades now. The least it could do in return is to become inflamed and volatile when you needed a break. You just know the little prick will hold out until you’re in a remote jungle to explode and will probably kill you. Typical.

Fortunately for you, your body is still intact, reasonably healthy (unless you’ve swallowed a pipe bomb without realising, as far as you know you’re in pretty good shape) and you make it to work. And it’s not all bad.

Sure, you have to deal with ten zillion emails, make actual meaningful contributions to meetings and do three times the work you were expecting on that day. But then you might be sent out to an alpaca farm or a CWA event with unlimited scones. There’s generally something that happens that makes things that little bit less awful. Some rogue co-worker may act on a whim and bring out some toasted bagels complete with smear. You may have to take a photo of a puppy or interview a man about the ins and outs of honey and be told that neglecting bees is illegal. Heck, you might get retweeted by someone!

Sure, you’re much busier than you would be if you were home on the couch. You’re also wearing shoes. And doing work takes a lot more work than laying down. But it’s not all bad. Because going to work is much like remembering you forgot to brush your teeth after you’ve got all comfortable in bed – except you don’t get paid for brushing your teeth, and you can brush your teeth in just your knickers. It seems like a big deal. You feel like your body is a wax strip, and separating yourself from the mattress will be a painful affair. And so the whole ordeal is incredibly daunting. But the truth is, getting up out of the cocoon of your body heat and self-loathing is the biggest battle. Once you’re up and brushing, you realise it’s not that bad. Before you know it, you’re done.

At the end of the day, you’ve made it to the end of the day and before you know it you’re back in your seven-year-old Best and Less pyjama pants watching the home renovation channel. And you and your appendix are friends again.

Until next Monday.

May 19 marks 25 years since Daryl Braithwaite’s classic The Horses cracked the number 1 in the charts, and hour hearts.

It seems a fitting time to close the chapter on my three-part mega series epic The Daryl.

It was October when I first spoke the man. It was November when I saw him perform this audio gift to the world. And my last chapter in this gripping saga was published (and by published, I mean “made public via a free web platform” and not printed on actual paper or under any legitimate banner) in April. I realise this has been a drawn out progression, but it has taken me quite a lot to process what I experienced.

My Christian ancestors were right to think The Lord would rise again. But maybe they were wrong in thinking The Son of God would return to the earth as a physical human being. Maybe, just maybe, He came back to earth not as blood and bone, but through song. Perhaps this time the Big Boppa up Toppa came back to earth not through the vaginal canal of maiden who wears a lot of blue, but through the vocal chords of a humble man who also wears blue (in the film clip anyway). Maybe, like Mary’s uterus was the Sacred Vessel to carry The Son of God, Daryl’s diaphragm is a holy chalice for the Second Coming.

Think about it for a second. The Horses has the power to bring grown men to tears. It turns dance floors into one giant hug. It unites people. I guarantee you that blasting The Horses through speakers during a riot would by more effective in ending the madness than any amount of tear gas or water guns. The Horses is a spiritual force that cannot be denied.

The day I saw The Horses performed live changed my very genetic makeup. It was like a near death experience; a saw the light, and I saw a higher power. I believed.

Those opening bars were like nothing I had ever experienced before. I don’t know how to articulate how rapturous it was, but suffice to say that all the penises in the world could never achieve the euphoric heights I reached in those opening seconds. I was one with the universe. I was light. I was a sunset casting a thousand sparking reflections in the ocean. I transcended space and time and saw the colours of eternal love.

Behind me were rows and rows of indifferent middle-aged people sitting in their plastic chairs, keeping to their assigned seating. But I could not be contained. I cared not for their judgemental eyes and danced like a woman possessed. At one point I slipped past security guards and ran right up to the barrier to stare adoringly up at the figure emitting the sounds of ecstasy. His hair was greyed, his armskin was withered and his body sagged; but he was beautiful. As the stage lights formed a glowing aura outlining his aging shape, I knew I had seen true glory.

The rest of the song is a blur, with my memories mirroring that last scene in Grease when Danny and Sandy are in the clouds. Somehow I had reached the heavens. My feet were on the ground, but that man’s glorious voice took me there, way up in the sky.

I don’t know how to end this recount, nay, gospel. There are no words to convey the emotions that tsunamied over me, no definitions that can accurately describe how I felt. And so I leave you with this, a photo my snap happy co-worker captured in the aftermath of the great rhapsody. Amen.