Thank you, Eric Elz, for putting Party All the Time back into my head. I mentioned to my boss that I had Party All the Time stuck in my head, and he said, "Yeah, that song's not bad, but the album is terrible." The dude owns the damned album. There are many moments when my boss is completely and utterly frustrating, and then there are moments like that when I love him.
Jeannie is upstairs babysitting Samuel, and I just got home from work, and I'm a bit hungry. It's pretty dim in this room, there's just one lamp on over there by the wall, and there's a tiny little $1.00 clock from IKEA sitting on our bookshelf, and it ticks remarkably loudly for just costing $1.00. I'm wearing a horrible shirt that reminds of something that Pat Robertson might wear on Easter. Every now and again, this laptop makes a sound like there's a little bird trapped inside of it.
There are several things today that I wanted to write about, but I've forgotten them, so they must have been, in the long run, stupid. I think important things generally stay in our heads, and stupid things go away. It's always been a big part of my lyric writing, and why I tend not to write things down.
Does anyone think I use too many commas? I've always been very pro-comma, but sometimes I think I might over-use them.
I remember one of the things I wanted to write about: dream last night where I, maybe Jeannie and I, were visiting the Schlueter-Steinmetz' and although Henry was only supposed to be about 5 or six in this dream, he looked like he was about 13 and looked nothing like the cute little Henry we all know and love. His teeth were all messed up and he looked very....dumb. There's not really any other way to say it. He looked like your stereotypical midwestern farmboy. It was a vaguely terrifying dream.
I hear Jeannie walking across the floor upstairs. Samuel must be asleep and she's coming downstairs to our place.
1 comment:
Where my progeny is concerned, your nightmare is nowhere near the most disturbing peek into one of my friends' psyches. Because there's always Riley's post-Spades-loss declaration of "I hope all your babies come out dead" .... long long pre-Henry-conception, but still, one of those "plague on both your houses" sort of curses that sticks with ya; this last followed closely by Elz's threats to skull-fuck our really stupid dog...not that the dog doesn't deserve it, but I recall the threat being bandied about in relation to the kid as well.
But I'm a snob about smarts and so having the kid turn out a toothless dullard is tapping into my own deep-seated fears. Glad to know my maternal anxiety is now free-floating in the collective subconscious.
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