wknd update, august is dragging me along
I didn't see Conor this weekend, but I did see Shakermaker at Nightlight. It was fun seeing everyone and dancing around to their jams.
I keep accidentally pepper-bombing my house by using cayenne on the grill pan. I have to figure out a solution to this, but i like the flavor! I just dont like the sneezing and coughing and burning eyes!
Ren was very cute yesterday. She got into a cardboard box that had lots of packing paper in it, and managed to somehow push all of the paper out of the box. I should have taken a picture.
Depressed about work and having to take trips for the job, and not being offered a position yet or a better wage. Hence this lyric:
" And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your life's one track, can't you see it's pointless?
But just then, my knees give under me.
My head feels weak and suddenly it's clear to see
it's not them but me, who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read,
while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me,
with some ideal ideology
that no one could hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.
And everything I made is trite
and cheap
and a waste
of paint,
of tape,
of time."
I keep accidentally pepper-bombing my house by using cayenne on the grill pan. I have to figure out a solution to this, but i like the flavor! I just dont like the sneezing and coughing and burning eyes!
Ren was very cute yesterday. She got into a cardboard box that had lots of packing paper in it, and managed to somehow push all of the paper out of the box. I should have taken a picture.
Depressed about work and having to take trips for the job, and not being offered a position yet or a better wage. Hence this lyric:
" And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your life's one track, can't you see it's pointless?
But just then, my knees give under me.
My head feels weak and suddenly it's clear to see
it's not them but me, who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read,
while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me,
with some ideal ideology
that no one could hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.
And everything I made is trite
and cheap
and a waste
of paint,
of tape,
of time."