Nobody Loves A Farting Princess

by Jeni Birr

  Night after night ‘til the first signs of light

  I try and I try with all of my might

  I practice for hours, to no avail

  No matter how I hard I try, I still seem to fail

  I have to keep going, my head towards the sky

  But when I when I seem to get nowhere, it’s so hard to try

  I want to be good like you

  I want to be talented too

  I want to play the way that you do

  I want to be loved like you

  I want to feel that rush from the crowd

  Simply for pouring my heart out

  Though it remains to be seen who I’m trying to please

  When the sound of my voice brings a man to his knees

  Maybe then I’ll be satisfied

  But what if that day never comes…

  I’ve got a devil on one shoulder, the other is bare

  I’m my own worst critic, my own worst nightmare

  That mirror mirror on the wall

  Saying “you’ll never make it to the best of them all

  “So why don’t you finally admit you’re defeat

  “No matter how hard you try, you’ll never join the elite”

  I want to be good like you

  I want to be talented too

  I want to play the way that you do

  I want to be loved like you

  I want to feel the rush from the crowd

  Simply for pouring my heart out

  Though I’ve tried and I’ve tried, through all of the years

  When the sound of my voice brings a grown man to tears

  Maybe then I’ll be satisfied

  But what if that day never comes

  What if that day never comes

  What if that day…

  ~*~

  I remember keeping a journal during this time and I would write down nice or funny things that people would say and I remember it said “Dan Minard said HE would OPEN for ME when I start playing shows!” I was like a teeny-bopper for these people; it was pretty ridiculous. They were just all so good. Blair, Dale, Sean, and Dan, as well as Marcus, Audra, Ian, Tone and Niche, Allison Lewis, Hugo, and Lisa Hurt were some of my favorites. There were many others, but we’d be here for days if I mentioned every open-mic-er that I was enthralled with. There was one that I was particularly enthralled with, and I’m pretty sure the entire state of Michigan knew I was enthralled with him. Let me tell you, there is no greater confidence booster than attaining someone you really want, but thought you would never have. Even if it’s only for one drunken, blurry night.

  Unrequited*2002

  I’m sorry her beautiful face

  Isn’t the one that I wear

  I’m sorry her beautiful name

  Isn’t the one that I bare

  I’m sorry that I’m not enough

  I’m sorry I can’t ease your pain

  I’m trying to warm your heart

  I guess I’ll just love you in vain

  She wants what she can’t have

  Can’t see what she’s got

  But I’m the one who loves you

  While she loves you not

  I know when you hold me

  You’re thinking of her

  But yours are the only

  Arms I prefer

  I’m sorry I don’t have the power

  To bring back her feelings for you

  All I want is for you to be happy

  But it seems that there’s nothing I can do

  I’m sorry I won’t feed you lies

  And I’m sorry I won’t waste your time

  I’m so sorry her beautiful eyes

  Can’t see you the way that do mine

  She wants what she can’t have

  Can’t see what she’s got

  But I’m the one who loves you

  While she loves you not

  And I know when you hold me

  You wish I was her

  But yours are the only

  Arms I prefer

  Maybe if I didn’t love you

  If I could just walk away

  Maybe then you’d notice

  Finally want me to stay

  I know why you’re crying

  I feel the same way for you

  If you can’t be with the one you love

  No one else will do

  I’m sorry I don’t wear her face

  I’m sorry I don’t bare her name

  I’m sorry I’m not what you need

  But I love you, all the same

  ~*~

  Blair had a band for a while called The Urban Folk Collective made up of him, Dale, Ken Comstock, Afeni Ngozi Hill, and either Chris Winter on drums, or Eric “Other” Jilson on turntables/production. The members rotated a little bit, but the show they put on was always amazing. I remember going to one of their cd release parties at The Magic Stick, a concert venue downtown, and you would have thought I was going to prom. I spent all day getting ready for that show, and I remember what I wore: black slacks with the foot high boots I had recently stolen with a very fitted white button-down collared shirt underneath a black cummerbund and a black neck tie, untied, with my shirt unbuttoned enough to let my girls show. I had dark make-up on, and a black scarf in my still very short hair as I had just shaved off my first set of dreadlocks only a few months prior. My favorite pretty boy gave me a lap dance and I think a few of us had a bit too much to drink; but the night made for a good story I don’t remember so well, and would probably be discouraged from telling if I did.

  A few weeks later, Leah and I went to City Club, a Goth Industrial club in downtown Detroit at Cass and Bagley. We needed our ID and cover money to get in so we brought that with us, but we left our purses in the car, which hers had her phone in it, and mine had my journal, the one I mentioned earlier, with everything I’d ever written in it, my list of quotes and funny moments, and the autograph of my favorite musician at the time, John Mayer, on the back. Yes, we being silly, stupid naïve little suburban girls, left our purses, under the seat mind you, in a car with a back window that unzipped, in downtown Detroit. You can see where this is going. When we came out of the club a few hours later we found the back window unzipped, the purses missing and the driver side door open. We filed a police report, but of course the purses were never found. We called our phones the next day from my house and we were going to go get them ourselves, but thankfully, we thought better of it and let my dad know what happened and he took us. The people that had them by this point had clearly bought them off other people who bought them off other people and I think we paid maybe $30 a piece to get them back. I wanted so badly to be angry at whomever had stolen my journal because it wasn’t worth pennies on the street, but meant everything to me. I knew I’d deserved it though. This is when I learned that Karma is very real, and she is a cold hearted bitch. I haven’t even taken a penny candy since.

  The following autumn I started a job at a chain café and sandwich shop called Cosi that was attached to a book store on one side with an arcade I had been to many times with Steve on the other side of the alley. I was a barista for quite a while, and let me tell you, people in Farmington are VERY particular about their coffee. I had one lady that came in very regularly and she would spell out her complicated but never changing drink to me in the most condescending tone of voice, as if I hadn’t made it for her a hundred times and couldn’t possibly remember what it was. One day she came in and did this in her usual tone, and I, in my typical friendly and always professional manner made her drink quickly and efficiently and wished her a lovely afternoon. Five minutes later, she came back up to the counter with it spilled all down her front and in an even ruder tone asked me “are you having a problem with cups and lids today?” as if it were my fault she had spilled her drink. After I explained that no, this was the first I’d heard of it, but I would certainly remake her drink for her, she then demanded I do so, and respelled it out for me as if I hadn’t just made it for he
r five minutes prior, in that tone of hers, so I spit in it. Yes, I did. It was not my proudest moment, but it sure did make me feel better. This was the only time I ever spit in a customer’s order, or even served anything questionable as far as I remember, but this lady was rude, and I don’t like rude people, and I’m sure she didn’t even notice.

  The Barista Poem*2002

  (Spoken word piece)

  Hi.

  My name is Jeni, and I………..

  am a barista.

  Not an alcoholic, a crackfiend, speedfreak, republican, net-head, midnight-toker, or even, depending who you ask, a nympho, clepto, or smoker.

  I simply………

  ……………………….make the coffee.

  I supply the fix to all the caffeine junkies and the left-over, wanna-be beatniks who need an image boost.

  As of two months ago, I didn’t even like coffee,

  and I sure as hell didn’t speak it,

  But when there is such a thing as free lunch, you eat.

  And when there are upper middle class yuppies barking at you all day long

  you learn the language.

  You have to know it inside and out because half of them don’t even know what the hell they’re trying to say, and two thirds of those are going to pretend they are completely aware;

  and it will always be your fault when a mistake is made

  no matter where the error occurred, it is still, indeed, your fault.

  (Hence the button “server error” on the register. Have you ever seen the “customer is a dumbshit button? I rest my case.)

  When they order an iced mocha, when in reality, they want a frozen mocha

  it is you who should have known full well what they desired.

  To hell with learning the language, just read minds!

  And yes, iced and frozen are two completely different concepts,

  as are single, double and so forth,

  regular and decaf,

  whole, skim, soy and breve!

  It’s really very simple.

  If you do not specify, you will get the default beverage.

  Whole……..regular…….hot.

  If you still don’t like it, might I suggest you take your ass to Starbucks.

  They will at least make you a coconut frappuccinno.

  I, on the other hand

  will not.

  I will, however, charge you extra for being stupid

  and will absolutely charge you double for stupid orders!

  No, you may not have a gigante, no foam, decaf latte!

  I did not wake my ass up at the crack of too damned early to open this store at six in the morning so you could order nothing but a cup of HOT MILK!

  Maybe if you wanted a quad Americano, or if it were obvious you just got off the graveyard shift and just have a thing for overpriced sedatives

  then maybe I could justify this order

  but not for you to go next door to Barnes and Noble, turn on your Kenny G.

  and “wake up” to your decaf latte!

  Why don’t I just throw in a few sominex for you?!

  (I could still be sleeping for crying out loud.)

  And NO! You may not have a skim, decaf, sugarfree vanilla steamer!

  This drink tastes like ass!!!

  There is no fat, no caffeine, no sugar, and sure as shit no flavor!

  There is absolutely no logical reason for you to ingest this beverage

  And therefor, no reason for me to make it.

  (Get the hell out of my store.)

  And yes, bitch, your fat free caramel mocha cappuccino is indeed, fat free.

  Here is the chocolate syrup: fat free.

  Here is the caramel flavoring: fat free.

  Here is the skim milk that I personally removed all of the fat from before steaming to make your lame-ass drink, and even the whipped cream is fucking FAT FREE!

  Please do not sue the restaurant. You do not need to rearrange your entire week of weight watchers points to compensate for the zero grams of fat in your coffee.

  (You might want to consider our signature salad instead of that triple cheese pizza, but hell, what do I know, I’m just the barista.)

  Yes, I will make your doppio machiatto, because it’s early.

  And yes, I will make your wildberry smoothie, because you’re cute.

  But you sir, may absolutely NOT have a mint mocha with your broccoli and cheese furtada because that is gross. And no, little girl, you really don’t want a frozen s’more because between you and me, honey, no one wants little bits of marshmallow swimming around their drink, and ground graham crackers? I can’t do it. It’s against my religion. I’m sorry.

  (You’re all gonna burn in hell, I swear it.)

  And for the love of everything good and evil,

  PLEASE!

  DO NOT ATTACK THE BARISTA!!

  Do not feed the barista

  Do not complain to the barista

  Do not hit on the barista

  and do not, I REPEAT, do NOT, under any circumstances proceed to tell the barista your entire life story.

  Frankly, I don’t care what you had for breakfast and

  Frankly, I don’t care what your co-workers are up to and

  Frankly, I don’t care whom you suspect your boyfriend is seeing behind your back.

  I am here to take your order

  take your money

  make your beverage

  give you a smile

  and send you on your way!

  Nowhere in my job description was I informed that I’m supposed to give a damn about your day.

  I am the barista. The BARISTA!

  Not hooker

  Not therapist

  Not friend, or beloved helpless pet.

  I am not here to solve your problems.

  I am not here to help you find your place in this world.

  And I am not here to tell you the meaning of life.

  I am simply here to blend the ice

  steam the milk

  and brew the coffee.

  This is what I do.

  I am simply, the barista.

  Now get the hell out of my store.

  ~*~

  This job is also where I met Chriggy and Schneider, my two best girls for a year or so. We called ourselves “the trio” as any group of three normally does, and we used to hang out constantly, and drink more than any underage person should. If you’ve seen the movie “Waiting,” it was very much like that. Most restaurants are, as far as I can tell, and I’ve worked in quite a few by now. We went mini-golfing, drunk. We went bowling, drunk. We just went to the bowling alley and got drunk in the parking lot once and didn’t even go in. This was not a fun night for me as I got very sick and vomited just from the smell of the burger joint across the street. There were several nights I just slept in my car in the parking lot because I had to open the next morning. How I did this I have no idea, because I certainly couldn’t anymore. It was only ten years ago, but I honestly think I would die if I tried half of it now.

  We made up this “language” like pig-Latin, or Ithig, or whatever the kids are doing these days where we would throw the sound “iggity” into the middle of the word. Why did we do this? Who knows?! But it was our thing. There were four different Jenny’s at our Cosi, so we gave them each nick-names. I think one was “hostess Jeni,” one was “Oren’s Jenny” (for a bit, until they broke up, and then I slept with Oren,) I don’t remember the other one, and I was lovingly nick-named “Slut Jeni,” which of course was shortened to “Sliggity Jiggity,” and then just “Slig Jig.” It may very well have been my own idea to call me this, I’m really not sure. I was proud of my sexual freedom and didn’t care who knew it. My theory was, as long as you’re open and honest with people, and you USE PROTECTION, there’s nothing wrong with a little playtime. I will admit though, I think I may have broken a heart or two. Not that I’m Miss Thang, or some magical perfect woman, but it did get back to me that a few of my suitors felt u
sed, which was never my intention. I was young and ignorant and foolishly assumed that all men just wanted casual flings; and for this, I am sorry.

  One of my best stories was the summer after my freshman year at Michigan State, I was flying out to Orange County, California to visit my Aunt Jan and then very young cousins, Michael and Collin. On the way back, I had a layover in Denver, Colorado where a former camp friend had recently moved to for the mountains as he was an avid snowboarder. We had kept in touch through email and social media and whatnot, and had become rather flirtatious, but hadn’t seen each other in many years, since before I had even discovered my sexual side. Before my trip I called him up, asked if he’d be up for some company for a few hours, and then called the airline to see if I could change my flight. They explained that this would incur a fairly substantial fee; so I asked “so if I happen to miss my connecting flight, what happens at that point?” Obviously, the customer service representative knew what I was really asking, but she had to politely tell me that I would be booked on the next flight out, for free. So, being that my connection was only 30 minutes out, I waited until I had missed it, went up to the counter (teddy bear in hand, of course) and cried to the woman that my watch was still on California time and I missed my flight, whatever would I do?! And she booked me on the next flight out to Detroit, four hours later. Being that my friend only lived about a half hour from the airport, this was more than enough time.

  Maybe Baby*2004

  Maybe if my eyes were just a little bluer

  Or maybe if my lies were just a little truer

  Maybe if my thighs were just a little smoother

  Maybe if I were less a dreamer, more a doer

  Maybe if my skin was just a little darker

  Or maybe if my tits were just a little larger

  Maybe if my tummy was just a little more toned

  If you had a warm meal on your table every night when you got home

  Then maybe baby, maybe baby

  Maybe baby

  Would you want me then?

  Maybe if my feet were just a little smaller

  Or maybe if I could just be just a little bit taller

  Maybe if my legs were just a little longer

  Or maybe if I could just be just a little bit stronger