My ceiling talked to me again. If you’re unsure as to what that means, you can read “Your house is on fire.”

In the style of John Edward, I’m being asked to acknowledge a person out there (I don’t know where) who has a penchant for eating canned corn on top of plain waffles. So there you have it.

So when I thought that the universe was talking to me last week, I pretty excited. But not too excited. I thought that someone had pocket-dialed me and happened to be a music producer and I was going to Skype or FaceTime with time with him and that I would have a career in music and that I would make money doing what I loved and that mostly everything would work out except for the temptations of alcohol and cigarettes. And being a slut. Holy shit that went off the rails quickly.

Turns out it was someone who was just drunk and stoned and looking to hook up. Ya, you wanna stick your dick in me? Great. What time should we meet up? Oh, don’t worry I’ll bring condoms, wet wipes, and money for a cab. I’ll be in and out of your life in a jiffy. No commitment required. I have no STDs. Discretion assured. Jesus H. Christ.

Low Expectations

I once told a Facebook friend that I look to Jenna Marbles for advice – sort of like humor-therapy. He exclaimed “You look up to Jenna Marbles for life advice?!?” and I was like “Yes, actually, I do.”

Instead of getting all excited that my vocal and artistic talents would take me anywhere, I stayed “low” emotionally.

It turns out that a poorly-produced video of me chopping off my own hair after wetting it with vinegar in a spray bottle gets 12 times as many views (and counting) on YouTube as a music video which took hours and hours (and days) of fine-tuning and computer problems and vocal warm-ups and two hours to apply makeup and put my hair in hot rollers which I haven’t done in 17 years and setting up lighting and camera and angles trying not to ratchet my voice. Not that I didn’t enjoy the process and not that I wasn’t proud of the end result, but it was a lot of bloody work. And it set me back a few weeks in terms of my fatigue.

And They Were Not Entertained

The crowd is fickle brother. He’ll be forgotten in a month.



Well, no one is chanting my name. And if you are, you’re fucking weird.

Why This Time is Different

I expected this result. The market is heavily saturated with female singers doing covers. Hell, even doing original videos. People want young, virginal prodigies, not an old fart like me. (If you haven’t already figured it out, I’m no virgin and certainly not a prodigy.)

I actually have already learned that, but somehow thought that maybe this time, on social media instead of in a karaoke bar, things would be different. I was slightly disappointed.

The last time I was disappointed I WAS singing in a karaoke bar. I was talking to this really fat lady (sorry fat lady I don’t remember your name) and saying to her I would love to record a demo. She nearly fell out of the vinyl booth she was comfortably wedged into and laughed, saying “The day you record a demo is the day I come to produce it for you. And weigh 115 pounds! Hahahahahahaha.”

This sort of ridicule is par for the course for me. Kind of like hate comments on YouTube. It comes with the territory. I’ve been made fun of a LOT.

This time, the fall to disappointment was very short. Like maybe a drop from a height of six inches. Landing with a “thump” on a large, soft pillow.

I live in a reality where my ceiling actually does not talk to me and science and reason rule supreme. I need to stay in that reality.

All magic, entertainment, and “dreams coming true” are illusions. We don’t see the darkness and the pain behind the illusion. Look at the bloodied birds who have perished in the “disappear/reappear” bird trick. Ask any famous celebrity how truly happy they are. ~Marlies Vonn

Having high expectations is not only stupid but can be emotionally devastating. Here’s an example of why high expectations are ridiculous (to me, anyway):

You know you have no money in your bank. You hope that a magical fairy will have put $1056.21 in your savings account over the course of the night. Upon logging in to your online profile, you are devastated to see a balance of -$21.02.

You go on a three-day bender, consuming copious amounts of alcohol, cocaine, PCP, crack, speed, utilizing the services of prostitutes, watching pornography and running naked through your parking lot screaming “I am GOD!” and all because the money fairy paid no attention to you.

That’s how ridiculous high expectations are. Not to say that you shouldn’t set goals and work to achieve them, just don’t think that you are going to get the exact result you were hoping for. To the point where you get all depressed and shit.

Here’s Jenna Marbles’ take on the topic. She actually explains the whole concept quite well. The difference between goals/standards and expectations called “The Surprise Life Theory“:



I never expected my blog to go anywhere, and it actually did exceed my expectations in terms of viewership, for which I am very thankful.

As far as the singing thing goes, well, those days are over. I have a combined total of about 17 years of musical training, performance, auditions, and high hopes that have been dashed to pieces over and over. I’m just not going to go to that place anymore. Ya gotta know when to quit. I also have my health to consider. Jesus Christ isn’t going to come back and touch me on the shoulder and pronounce loudly “You are now healed!” Fuck that shit.

Winners never quit. And quitters never win. But those who never win and never quit are idiots.

So yeah, that’s about it. I ain’t asking for pity or money or sympathy or anything.

Just letting you know that my ceiling doesn’t talk to me and that I’ll keep on writing.

Thank you for continuing to visit the White Padded Room.


Oh and P.S. here’s the unfinished rendition of my cover of Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Ya, it has a watermark on it. I can’t afford the software. Who cares.

Contains just B-roll which again took me like 48 hours to string together, audio of me singing (another 12 hours to figure out how to artificially add reverb), but no visuals of me because I have no more energy and I have adult things to do. Just imagine me mouthing the words in the spots where you see the still shot of the street with it snowing. I guess it’s not a still then, is it. Fuck. Whatever.



In the future, you might see me breaking out into song spontaneously in a funny video but other than that it’s time to put down the microphone.

I’m gonna go make myself a cheese sandwich and try to do one load of laundry.