If I could sing

Sometimes (every night as I’m falling asleep) I think about what life would be like if I could sing. This fantasy contains a few key elements such as: becoming a bitch, putting up with both nothing and nobody ever, and burning most all of my bridges (friends and family, I don’t play favorites) to the everloving ground. With the voice of an angel I would spend my days eating honey, gargling salt water, and hammering out my do-re-mi’s whenever I hear the low drone of someone trying to tell me about whatever little hobby they distract themselves with. 

“Don’t they see how little I care?”, I would wonder. Woodworking, photography, writing, how do I explain to these desperate wannabe losers that if it’s not singing to shut up and scram. Leave the real art to those with stage presence and a talent people care about. I wouldn’t be shy, either. Fundraisers, farmer’s markets, funerals, no venue is safe if there’s minimal security and a microphone plugged in. I would compulsively dash toward speaker systems and tell the audience I was forced by friends and family who “just love to see me perform”. The reality, however, would be I have no friends and my family I would have abandoned after my first musical. 

While the ability to sing is nice to have in the back pocket, the real prize is the ability to emotionally manipulate through the power of song. This would be heavily capitalized upon; every performance would end in tears. I would convince the audience that it is my voice, given directly from God, that saves me from my mysterious past I would only reference vaguely so I could play into any rumors about experiencing horrible tragedy, if they were to arise and garner intrigue. If I were to look out onto an audience and see someone not completely overcome with emotion, I would make direct eye contact and mouth things such as, “family, car wreck, no survivors” between verses. 

If I could sing it would be over for all you dregs. I would humor aspiring vocalists with make-believe stories about hard work and dedication. I would tell these delusional freaks that singing is a skill like any other, then immediately turn around to my acapella group and laugh in perfect pitch at the notion that someone could “learn to sing”. We’d give each other lozenges and thank God we’re not talentless hacks. “It’s no ‘skill’”, I’d say. “I’m a walking miracle”. 

Some of you may be wondering by now if my inability to sing has forced me to pursue other artistic mediums, or if I have merely convinced myself that by writing out what it must be like to be talented, I can clamber myself to a position in which I, too, can look down on others. You may be wondering if my pursuit of creative ability is not found in a love for art, but as a means of justifying disdain for those around me. Well let me put it to you this way, you perceptive, insightful, louse: zip your lid.