Hollerin’ and Fussin’, Fussin’ and Hollerin’

Preface

Sometimes the world speaks

in unexpected ways.

You hear a back-alley voice

hollerin’ at two in the mornin’ —

“Don’t mock me! Don’t mock me! Don’t mock me!” —

And for a brief, strange moment,

it feels like the world

is exactly as it should be.

Not because the yellin’ is good,

or the chaos is welcome,

but because there’s a pulse of life,

raw and unfiltered,

cuttin’ through the quiet.

It’s ironic.

Unsettlin’.

And oddly groundin’

all at once.

This is why we watch.

This is why we listen.

It’s two in the mornin’ again —

that same broken‑record hour

when the world feels thinner.

From the alley comes her voice,

sharp and cracked:

“Don’t mock me! Don’t mock me! Don’t mock me!”

He answers back —

maybe her husband, maybe not —

just a man bound to her

by years of smoke, sweat, and habit.

They say they’re married.

Then say they aren’t.

Still, there they are,

every night,

circlin’ the same fire.

Sometimes it sounds like anger.

Sometimes pain.

Sometimes both.

And for a moment,

you almost laugh —

not because it’s funny,

but because it’s human.

And wild.

And so heartbreakingly familiar.

Maybe that’s the real sound

of what drugs take from people —

not just peace,

but the quiet that should live

between two hearts.

⚠️ Please whatever you do, DO NOT MOCK Tammy-Marie.