As my journey down the two lane dusty road called country music continues, I stumbled upon this gem below.

And my mama always taught me not to be rude by ignoring a question when I’m asked.

Even if you do, ya know, rhyme “looking” with… “looking”.

.

So, Mr. Shelton, I’ve nicely narrowed my succinct reply to what you’ll see below.

Who I am when you’re not looking.

Enjoy.

I – in the absence of your watchful eye, Mr. Shelton – am like that one Kaley-Cuoco-a-la-Big-Bang-Theory-esque girl in the kitchen of your music video. Except, ya know, far worse. My Disney princess morning initiates with first waking up about as limber as a dick on viagra. Then, I take a good ten minutes to remember what (yes, not “who” but “what”, darling) I actually am. After sorting out that, I thusly commence my Frankenstein saunter to the coffee pot with bits of last night’s eyeliner raining down my face like gang prison teardrop tattoos (for my fallen pride instead of fallen homies) while my curls have gone full on medusa on me. Taming my soul into my body (yoga) and my hair into compliance (combo of krishna’s magical flute and the jaws of life) comes next.

Both jobs fit for a circus tiger trainer.

If you could pay them enough.

Then, I intentionally descend into madness for several hours (’cause that’s my job; I’m a writer.)

Finally, for a reward, comes a bit of jogging outside. Then a bit of crying about my jog back at home because that one other jogger passed me on the trail again and it made me feel insecure. Then, at night, I watch “Dogs of War”. This makes me happy. But then I remember how lonely I am. This makes me sad. So I start binging on expensive fruit (that I can’t afford and probably shouldn’t have bought so much of anyway) while reading the same paragraph of whatever novel I’m currently on twenty point five times because all my brain blood is now rushing to my belly organ and I apparently can’t process words and strawberries simultaneously.

Then, I feel shame.

Especially since the aftermath of my fruit frenzy’s raspberry drippings onto my shirt now look like I’ve just performed a classical style execution on someone at very, very close range. So, after a few hours, I do a bunch of late night squats, arm toning, and situps to curb my guilt – all the while listening to Radiohead on vinyl (because there’s something soothing about that scratchy sound that’s kind of like ASMR except it doesn’t make me want to take a power drill to my eardrums quite as much). Soon after, it’s time to sleep. I put this off, knowing that I’ll wake up every few hours in the position Emily Rose assumes when she’s being possessed by Legion (plot twist: maybe it wasn’t satan? And she just had a herniated disc all along like me too?), before finally starting the whole 5 A.M. Frankenstein thing again.

So…yep.

That’s who I am when I’m not educing my Oscar worthy OMG-sex-partner-is-present performance.

And I’ve a feeling that whoever wrote this song was “not looking” for this kinda reply.

Or the kinda person who wrote it.