I dreamed last night - get this, you're gonna love this - that I wrote a whole post, laughing outloud the WHOLE time I was writing it, about how, lamentably, I wasn't ever going to be the next Luther Vandross.
Which, to me, IS in fact, on many levels, indeed lamentable. And, you know, OBVIOUS.
But deep, deeeeeeeeeeep inside me there does, I kid you not, live a heavy-set black man in a funky suit (PLEASE DO NOT TELL MY HUSBAND) who could croon the theme to Clifford the Big Red Dog and make couples the world over fall in love.
Oh yeah -
Giddy-up giddy-up giddy-up!
Clifford, he neeeeeeeeeeeded his Em-i-ly,
And baby, love, oh oh uh-LOOOOOVE made her choose hi-im for her own.
Buddoh doh dee oh day yay yay yay yay yay yea-eah...
Are ya feelin' it yet, y'all?
Okay, yeah. No. I recognize that despite my inner Lutha, out here on the surface in, you know, Realityville, none of us has to think too hard to come up with the countless searingly bold-faced ways in which I am, in fact, not he. And that's without your ever even having heard me sing, which would pretty much put the final nail in THAT coffin for you.
But try as I may, I can NOT turn this unfortunate twist of fate into a funny post, here in the painfully honest light of day.
Ah, life's cruel, cruel ironies.