Let’s get one thing straight: we’re all misfits here.
Maybe your neighbors/parents/landlord/housecat (damn judgy cat) think it’s weird that you grow peas on the windowsill. Or make your own ketchup. Or brew your own beer. Maybe you wear baggy pants…or no pants (guilty!). Maybe someone said you were too goth, or too ghetto, or too geek, or too urban to garden. Too freaking unwholesome to milk a herd of miniature goats. Maybe you live in a high rise, but you’re making moonshine in your tiny-ass closet.
What, isn’t everyone?
Or maybe you don’t think a barbell through your nose or hot pink paint on your lips should mean you can’t whip up a souffle that will TOTALLY KICK ASS AND TAKE NAMES, BITCHES. In other news, souffles can now perform such activities as kicking ass and taking names, were you aware? FASCINATING!
Maybe you don’t think green hair should disqualify you from the green movement.
Well, neither do I.
Maybe growing the perfect heirloom pumpkin excites you as much as the scent of leather. Maybe you’re a gamer. A hipster. A rockabilly. A hillbilly. Too young. Too old. Too cool for school. Not cool enough for school. A little too Dungeons & Dragons. Or maybe you wore red patent leather platform Go-Go boots to the 8 A.M. meeting and there have been whispers ever since.
I’ll be your den mother. I collect weird.
Are you a bad boy? A bad girl? A bad boy who wants to be a bad girl? I want you. You’re all my misfits.
Maybe you wear too much makeup for other people’s tastes, or maybe too little. Maybe you slow dance to “Black Hole Sun” or garden in a tutu and fishnets. Fly that freak flag, baby!
We’ve been called free-spirited. Wild. Anarchist, maybe. Freaky. Too dark. Too bright. Too different. We definitely play our music too loudly, that’s for damn sure. Air guitar mandatory.
So maybe the conservative branch of the back to the land movement has discouraged you. Here you set out to plant some vegetables or brew some beer or sew a quilt or roll your own tobacco but then you got saddled with a whole buncha stuffed shirts hijacking the movement with their talk about simpler times, ankle-length skirts, needing to restore good old-fashioned family values, clean up our acts, BLAH BLAH FREAKING BLAH. Maybe you had something to contribute but didn’t wanna be put into a box? Weren’t well-behaved enough? Not a lady? Not a rule follower?
Good. You’re one of mine.
You can come here for a recipe, or a project, or a totally boss non-dairy caramel sauce, or a tutorial on turning vodka into gin, or just a solid laugh at whatever fine mess I’ve gotten us into this time. And you don’t have to be well-behaved or sit with your hands folded or hang with Jesus (unless Jesus is the name of the guy who raises your mini goats, in which case, you know what, it wouldn’t kill you to hang with Jesus, he’s actually pretty nice and the goats seem to like him and all and aren’t goats supposed to be good judges of character or something? Oh god I am now hopelessly lost, what was I saying?) Oh right, and I will NEVER tell you you can’t garden in fishnets. No, sir, I will not.
We may roll rough. We may roll sweet. Whatever, man–rolls are awesome.
We just wanna have some fun and do something cool. And we don’t need anyone’s permission or validation or approval. We’ve given it to ourselves.
We’re fabulous. We’re green. We’re sexy. And our mouths are as dirty as our fingernails.
Consider the mold pre-broken, misfits. If you’re worried about being the square peg next to the round hole, well guess what, YOUR BAD MAMA GENNY TOOK A CHAINSAW TO THAT ROUND HOLE AND IT’S JUST A HUNCH, BUT I DON’T THINK IT’LL BE AROUND TO BOTHER US ANYMORE.
Pull up to my blog, have a seat on the couch, put your feet on my coffeetable, grab a cold one…and for Delilah’s sake, don’t use a motherfucking coaster!
Hi! I’m your Bad Mama Genny, equal parts salty and sweet. Welcome, misfits.
Bad Mama Genny 