Olivia
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For my 8 year anniversary on X, it would be incredible to meet some new people on here!
LIKE, SHARE, FOLLOW me, pretty, pretty, please!
Always pray for PEACE!
🚨 BREAKING: Just HOURS before his 8pm deadline for Iran, President Trump says he is in “HEATED NEGOTIATIONS” with the Islamic Republic
It’s coming down to the wire here…
Pray for peace 🙏🏻
These are the REAL Iranian people, not the lines of people, men 1st, covered women and children next and nearest to where the majority of the infrastructure is. The Iranian regime are murderers!
🚨 Iranians are OUT IN THE STREETS CELEBRATING, cheering President Trump and the collapse of the brutal regime!
After decades of oppression, the people are dancing, waving flags, and thanking Trump for finally taking action.
Freedom is coming to Iran
Who to follow
GreatLakesLady 
@GreatlakesladyM
Artist 🖌🎨
✵•.¸🩸America First🩸¸.•✵
Coleen Mac
@colleen_torp1
Canadian eh 🇨🇦, Family, God, Motorcycles, Guns, MAGA/MAHA, Pure Blood 🩸, RN, Pronouns: Told/You/So, IFB Patriots, We’re Stronger United, Together. ❌ DM’s.
Martin R Brown
@MartinRBrown76
Pure Blood, Pro life, 1A, 2A, Proud Patriot, Vietnam Vet. Hard core truther. #IFBAP No DM
#IrynaZarutska I will never forget your final moments. I will always remember the seconds where you were sad for humanity as you took your last breathe. I cry for humanity too, but my light hasn't been put out like yours, so I will carry yours too.
Bring home the world championship boys!
Best of luck to the boys from Brooksville!
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
There’s a chapter missing from Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir, and somehow, it’s mine.
It was a stupid-hot October afternoon, and I was standing in the parking lot of Tower Records on Commonwealth Ave in Boston, clutching a freshly bought Black Sabbath CD. Not for me, this was for my friend Bella, a Berklee musician with actual taste in music. Me? I was just a girl in a gray and white spandex dress, not a Berklee student, not even a college student. I was, in fact, technically homeless, crashing on Bella’s couch while I figured out life. But hey, when in Rome (or Boston), you hang where the music people hang.
So there I was, waiting in line with a bunch of metalheads, thinking, “Cool, Ozzy Osbourne. That’s the bat guy, right?” I wasn’t even into his music,but I did have a soft spot for that duet with Lita Ford. You know the one. 'Close your eyes foreverrrrr...'
I must’ve been singing it to myself, because the guys behind me went dead quiet, then said, “Sing it again.” From their accents, I could tell they were friends of the Greeks I knew. So I tried to greet them in Greek... emphasis on tried. They laughed, absolutely charmed by how not-Greek I was. One of them, Mario, offered to run to the package store for “liquid courage.”
Perfect! We had hours before the band showed up. Or so we thought.
As Mario returned, brown bag in hand, the crowd started losing their minds, the band had arrived. Suddenly, it was game time.
Security rolled out the rules: no phones, no photos, no flash, no fun, just grab the rope and hold on as you’re led through the dark stairwell like you’re entering a sacred metal temple.
As we ascended, Luis called out from behind, “Sing, Jeni! Sing!”
I let go of the rope for a second, rookie mistake, and bumped into someone. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, Mario shouted, “Do it now!”
So I did.
I started belting out Close Your Eyes Forever like my life depended on it, and the tall man beside me, escorting me to the autograph table, joined in.
His voice?
Was it him?
Then he signed my CD.
It was him.
That was Ozzy.
I didn’t get a photo. There were no selfies. But I didn't care if anyone believed me.
Because I sang with Ozzy Osbourne.
Not in a dream, not at karaoke, but in a Tower Records in Boston, half buzzed, fully blessed, and wildly mesmerized by the gentleman who had gently held my hand.
Rest in peace, Ozzy. You signed more than just a CD that day; you signed my story, too.
🖤🕊️
#RIP #ozzyosbourne
@FFT1776 Just because the #EpsteinClientList was #Hillaried does not mean the Hollywood pedophile cabal has won. We will expose those responsible. And while we may not hold the gavel of justice in this life, make no mistake, God will judge them without mercy!
@GuntherEagleman That's the most moronic thing I've ever heard anyone say!
I’ve been quiet on here… because honestly, it feels like shouting into the void.
But someone has to say it:
7 months after Hurricane Milton, Ridge Manor is still in ruins.
People are still fighting to save their homes.
Others? They’ve already walked away.
Doors left open. Drug users moved in. The county turned its back.
And yes, our small, tight-knit Florida town is being erased while no one notices.
We need help. We need awareness. We need action.
This isn't just about Ridge Manor. It's about how easily a whole community can be forgotten.
Small accounts like mine may not scream loud enough alone, but together, we can be deafening!
#HurricaneMilton #RidgeManorFL #RidgeManorStrong
Or it's a real fight, but friends like that will figure it out in the long run!
@elonmusk @realDonaldTrump perhaps a golfing duel will solve this? 🙃
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