I am tired of music that makes or is composed of sense. That’s not true. But lately I like music that takes things I am familiar with and pulls it apart, pushes it together, makes it into something new. Cut off the fat, make a dress out of it. Take all the meat, so lean and red, and create a hat.
I have spent a long time for the most part not reading. I am done with this, I have decided. No longer can I sit around and not further my reading. That isn’t to say that I have just wasted roughly two years. In these last two years I caught up on quite a long time of music, new and old. And I learned of some other things. But it is high time I stopped focusing on things that aren’t my favorite things, and my favorite things are words. Words come in books, so I have to read books.
I’ve got to delve into more classics, but not every classic. I should brush up on more modern literature. I should probably begin to pay attention to poetry, but often times I think I don’t like poetry. There is some I like. Largely I feel like I am missing something and don’t understand it. It’s bothersome. I also still can’t stand reading screenplays or things like that. I only do so when forced.
I am going to the library tomorrow.
I don’t remember why I ever grew my hair out. I remember my first crush. I don’t remember her last name. I remember the first boy I realized I liked. I don’t remember his face. I remember the first penis I ever saw that wasn’t mine. I don’t remember cracking my head open. I remember when my uncle said he was snorting cocaine off the blade of a knife. I don’t remember the rest of that night. I remember being under the stars with all my friends in a field, so drunk. I don’t remember my first house. I remember the first time I smoked hookah. I don’t remember middle school at all. I remember meeting everyone I’ve ever met. I don’t remember half their names or what they were like. I remember who gave me my first Beatles album. I don’t remember much else.
I spend all my time watching YouTube Poop. What does that say about me? Probably nothing good.
I would probably update more often if it weren’t for Twitter. At this point, anyone who makes fun of Twitter is probably a moron. I don’t know.
I have to start classes soon. I think I am going to go with intro to philosophy, creative writing, and some class about programming. That’ll keep me busy for the full 16 week semester, and be nearly full time, I think. I don’t really want to tell people I’ll be taking a creative writing course because I don’t like to talk to people about writing things, but I guess I am writing it here anyway.
When I was young I had two dogs, a boy and a girl. They were named Arizona and Shelby, respectively. Awful names for dogs. Arizona was a black labrador, and Shelby was a spotted cattle dog. She had puppies under the deck by the pool in our backyard, and the blind little puppies would escape from her while she was exhausted in the afternoon sun and stumble into the pool. We’d come home after school and work and see these dead puppies floating in the pool, lifeless. The first day this happened my dad thought he could save it. The fourth day this happened he tore the deck up with a pickaxe and a sledgehammer to save the rest of them. Those remaining puppies we handed out in front of Raley’s, and their parents jumped our six foot fence. Or maybe they were sent away. The more I have thought about my childhood in recent years, the more I think animals were sent away.
We had a cat named Moustache when I was young. We went away for a weekend, and when we came back, Moustache was gone. He was an inside cat. He couldn’t have gotten out. This is a puzzle I won’t solve. We had a dog named Casey. He had terrible cancer, and drank the chlorinated pool water all day, pissing right where he laid, to dull the pain. We should have sent him away sooner.
