I sang it alone, no backup of drunk friends leaning on my shoulders while we laughed like we didn't give a damn about anyone else in the room. It was a solo, a joyous, drunken solo from a woman who had just turned thirty, barely escaped an emotionally abusive relationship, and found herself in the exact place doing the exact thing she wanted to do.
Which was to sing Don't Stop Believin' at a bar in Athens, GA at around the coldest time of the year, solo.
I was drunk. I mean, I said it, but also, obviously. I killed my voice, along with the song. There was a crowd of college girls, stumbling over themselves at my feet, mascara running down their perfect faces as they sang along. The boys stood back, secretly enjoying every minute, but also terrified of what it would mean to have to get to know a woman like this and how it would take too many beers to even have the nerve to say something, much less run wide-eyed into the abyss with her.
Afterwards, exhausted and sweating, but inspired by my own achievement (to sing Don't Stop Believin' at a bar in Athens, Georgia as the bitter winds of winter swept lands much further north than GA), I accepted everyone's accolades as one drunk to another.
"You have balls bigger than my dad's!"
One girl shouted over and over until I made hazy eye-contact. Then, she leaned forward and fingered my collar.
"But seriously. Your balls are bigger than my dad's."
"When and how did you manage to see your dad's balls?"
Later, I fell asleep on some guy's couch with his dogs while he and the lady friend played records and smoked pot until the sun came up. Like hipster bitches.
|This is from a different karaoke event, but the sentiment is the same.|