Something turned over, something clicked, something not so wicked this way comes.

Josie (my ukulele named for my Mom who passed on in 2011) has been giving off strummed vibes for better than two years. Attempts were first made trying out the Izzy classic “Click the Rubies and Poof You’re Hone” cover that was homicidally horrific.

When I remembered I wasn’t playing at the wedding for a blond blushing busty bimbo bride in Darbury, Connecticut (all the cool kids are using consonation), I came to better decisions and moved on to other four chord marvels like “Stand By Me” and “Stand By Me While I Learn to Play the Ukulele and I’ll Give You Cool Stuff I Was Going to Return to Amazon Anyway.”

I mastered a heaping handful of songs… yet only the uke component. Never was I able to belt out the lyrics simultaneously. Until the past week or so.

It’s good times creating a mix tape for myself following an aborted romantic ordeal, which I surmise is less frivolous than pissing away my sadness on crying, petting soft animals, or other healthier pursuits holding better odds of purging the inevitable grief following an aborted romantic ordeal.

This time around I chose to bypass the “nick the tune off YouTube” phase and replace this with learning my grief soundteack on Josie.

“Fragile Thing” was first at bat because I recently composed an article on the late Stuart Adamson, so his tunes were fresh in mind. Let me give you some lyrics… the chorus.

Love is a small
And fragile thing
I spend a lot of cold nights missing you
Keep it in your hands or
Let it take wing
I spend a lot of cold nights missing you

Parfait. Six chords I know (by ear only… I never bought in to this music theory nonsense) and a tune ready at hand by both music and lyrics. Also, I often would sing this song while weeping openly and drenching my poor rabbit Bailey in salty anguish (posh way of saying “tears” for dramatic appeal).

I got the strum pattern down, and then I started singing along. Hold up. I was singing along. In perfect parroting of Stuart’s vocals minus being on key vocally. I was singing and strumming. What the fook?

Something turned over. Something clicked. Sussing it out, I fingered it almost straight away. I was unburdened. I sensed empowerment. I was honestly happy. And this translates to a clairty I’ve not possessed the entire time Josie and I have mindfully carried on.

Dude! Stoked! Here I was in wallowing, and the underlying clarity had its druthers. I was playing and singing. Something wild, baby baby.

Important wedged in exposition. I’ve got a new friend forged over violently throwing hefty acrylic balls at unsuspecting pins, and we’ve been texting so much I’ve bested in one week the sum total of the quantity of texts the prior 13 years. And I hate texting almost as much as I hate puns. Nearly equal.

My new pal’s moniker is Clare, bestie to my concert buddy Charee (pronounced “cherry”) And we’re texting up a storm where the ratio favors more texts from me than her. And I hate texting.

Let’s put this in real life terms. We’re texting so much that I’m now a fifth grade girl, so I’d better get writing my diary because Nickelback needs lyrics for their next album. And I hate texting.

Right. New pal Clare (a fascinating lass, by the by) had fallen victim to a tirade of texts widely ranging from girl troubles all the way to girl troubles. Soz, Clare, my life is not so fifth grade girl dramatic, honest to the core. And I hate texting.

Amongst the girl troubles texts are a good number of yeehaw moments primarily dealing with “Dude, I’m totally singing and strumming my uke!” New pal Clare got the first text declaring triumph. And I hate texting.

Apoatently, divulging girl troubles galore earned her the booya yeehaw first announcement. Weird. My new pal is really easy and comfortable to gab with. And I hate texting.

Crikey. Revelation and the point of all this, is it’s texting through all this stuff with my new pal, especially the strum/sing breakthrough, revealed that something’s turned, something’s different, and something’s … doubleplusgood. And I hate texting.

We all get there in our own time (a common theme at DBSA), and my recovery journey led me here. New thoughts, clarity, and awareness. (have I mentioned I hate texting?)

The verdict? There are always forks in the road and alternative routes presented in my recovery journey. This new trail is going sonewhere so cool. Reference “Sliding Doors.” And, more importantly… I lost my chain of thought. Right. New trail.

I’ve set non-negotiable boundaries and for the first time I’m sticking to them with zero regret.

Those who’ve been privy to my recovery journey a touch longer than my new pal know how shitty I am with boundaries. Example: I’d push my best gal off a cliff and then run to the bottom of the cliff to catch her. This is the turn, the click, the epiphany.

It’s a strong recognition of how much I’ve learned and grown. Hard work, every day. All this clarity and awareness,it’s got a way cool side effect. I’ve got a sense of serenity that”s got me strumming and singing. And I hate Nickelback.

Okay, enough of all the goopy gibberish. We’ve established everything needful. This life changing directive manifests as me playing the uke and singing while playing the uke. Moving on. I want to give a rundown of strum/sing songs I’ve mastered in the past week.

– Song Sung Blue by Neil Diamond
– You’re Wondeful by Madness
– Macy’s Day Parade by Green Day
– Summertime by My Chemical Romance
– Eight Days A Week by The Beatles
– Still Breathing by Green Day

There you go. Epiphany via a ukulele named Josie and a tolerant new pal introduced to me by a sagely old pal.

And I hate texting as much as I Nickelback. But I loved having a positive tale to share despite the girl troubles and miscellaneous various assorted bothersome crap.

That’s all I got for you. Final thought? Help stamp out and obliterate redundancy.

You totally thought I’d have a final go at texting and Nickelback, didn’t you? Psych your mind!

Dedicated to Charee & Clare.