What to say?
How do I even describe the past week? the absolute over-the-falls insanity of it all? The strange but gratifying clarity? The things fixed and the things that will never be fixed? The realization that no matter where your heart is, you can't go around fixing everything? (Unless of course you're a computer technician, in which case you HAVE to fix everything if you want to get paid... unless of course you work for Mac, or Roadrunner, or Dell, or Best Buy, or Cicruit City, or really, any place I've ever brought a computer to get fixed, because after I bring home the fucker, it is actually sicker and angrier than it was before, kind of like Tara Reid when she has the Herp, and when I complain to the techs about this, they just shrug and tell me that there's nothing they can do. And meanwhile, they are text messaging one another from across the store or or talking to each other in Klingon or something, and I am all, "What about my FUCKING computer, huh?" And they are all, "Bitch, get out of our store before we CUT you." Which is when I scream, "NO, I WILL NOT SLEEP WITH YOU FOR A GOOD PRICE ON A NEW DVD DRIVE!", and in the commotion of people trying to figure out where this supposed-hooker is and who she might be, I get the hell out of there and I steal some of their coaxial cables, too, those BASTARDS.)
Where was I?
Oh. Yes. So anyway, I found this song at work, and I really liked it.
STORY
By Judd and Maggie
As cold as they come, I need to hear stories;
what has been finished in people like me.
And I've often wondered how good stories end.
The closer, the more I'm impressed.
I try, like the rest, to write my own story.
But somehow, your pen gets in the way.
And I've often wondered how nothing compares,
watching the night be repaired.
As pilgrims we come and we need to hear stories
that offer a memory; of virtue, of love.
And I've often wondered how after we mend
we'll all see how good stories end.
Where was I?
Oh. Yes. So anyway, I found this song at work, and I really liked it.
STORY
By Judd and Maggie
As cold as they come, I need to hear stories;
what has been finished in people like me.
And I've often wondered how good stories end.
The closer, the more I'm impressed.
I try, like the rest, to write my own story.
But somehow, your pen gets in the way.
And I've often wondered how nothing compares,
watching the night be repaired.
As pilgrims we come and we need to hear stories
that offer a memory; of virtue, of love.
And I've often wondered how after we mend
we'll all see how good stories end.