| | this isn't really about birds but i am skeptical and rather concerned by the fact that anything i write is usually about nothing regardless of me naming it and giving it wings.
i've nearly gotten hit by a car several times this week and i'm really developing a concise and resounding death-glare that i serve up like a faux pas frisbee throw to the usually befuddled and miffed receiver (terrible atlanta drivers numbers 1-56). you should see it; the quality and sincerity is appalling. no, motherfuckers, i am not afraid of you hitting me and yes, motherfuckers, i will get your mon-mons. just you wait.
sucking at the violin still isn't working out for me but i have to keep it around at least for a little while longer because i'm pretty sure it's been a fixture of my identity for far too long to just give up. besides, i come from a clan of non-quitters who'd all be ashamed and annoyed by the amount of time/money i/they've put out in my endeavors to be, dare i say, a musician.
the new andrew bird album is great. love you, andy.
as of late, i'm not interested in the immaturity and tactlessness of certain bespectacled woodwind assclowns and so they should probably never speak again--this will aid them in the evasion of finding out that they are truly only mentally, physically, and socially comparable to this gum i stepped in last week or the blister i had between my toes in october or the scaffold a court jester was lynched upon in the middle ages. because the lord knows finding that out would crush their significant egos and we canNOT have that on our consciouses, can we, america?
i love french but french does not love me, sniffle sniffle. but i don't want to just take a few years of it and be done with it like i was spanish and latin. you know what i remember from latin? indicative mood and how to say slave dealer and slave girl and once upon a time. isn't that sad?
it's 9:00 p.m. and i have a music theory quiz tomorrow morn that i have and will not study for. you know why? actually, let's not play--i'll probably wake up thirty minutes early on accident just out of some subconscious urge and frantically leaf through my notes only to find that i utilized my pencil as the medium of transfer of a pretty wicked school of cartoon fish from my head to the margins of some staff paper. then i'll be pissed, i'll fail the quiz, fail out of school, and work in the lobby of the music building and press the handicapped automatic door open button for people who are carrying lots of things or who are too lazy to dig somewhere and find their i.d. or are just handicapped, i guess. whatever it is, i'll do a damn good job of it! i am the future liaison between the music world and the out-of-doors. i will control a portal linking two realms of vast disparity. it's like i'm miss cleo.
this weekend i will be writing that fight club paper, and david fincher will somehow acquire the proud twinkle in his left eye upon my printing of it. it will be warm, crisp, and fresh when i give it to my english teacher. i will get a 100 on this paper and it will be published in philosophical journals across the globe and i'll be famous. people will say, "hey, weren't you just a hispanic house-servant who worked his way to the top from practically nothing except the clothes on his back and a ..macbook?" and i'll say, "yes" and pull it off because i'll be a lot tanner when they ask me that question for some reason even though we both know i'm not hispanic nor will i work any way from any sort of anything to something better. what am i even talking about? insert an answer here. i feel like i'm being permanently analyzed by lacan and freud because THAT'S ALL I READ NOW and it's so frightening. i will not let the mirror me overcome the me-me. asdfghjkl
no matter how weird animal collective is, i'll still always love them. emily is practicing and she sounds like godiva chocolate (silky and rich) and my laundry is beckoning me. my theory book is alienated because i haven't touched it in a century, i miss not having a cough and not blowing swamps out of my nose and general wellness. i miss going to the park a lot and cotton-ball clouds and the general inclination to picnic at least bi-daily. i can't believe poulenc composed such rubbish for us to play to back up SINGERS and i can't believe we haven't revolted yet. dernier means last or past in context, i am pas de english class tomorrow and i ne have pas the time to do all of the things i've been mandated to do by the man but i enjoy it somehow anyway. are we going to china? yessss.
my lexicon has dwindled and i'm sure i'm dyslexic by now just from reading all the graffiti but you know what? it's all just words anyways. |
| | Posted 2/19/2009 9:51 PM - 8 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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