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[nearlysnapping]

I was on the bus home from school, and this really cute girl sat next to me, not entirely by choice but there were plenty of other places for her to sit, so I must have been doing something right. Now, this wasn't a 71A ride to Oakland, or a 54C from Shadyside to the South Side, this was the 501. This bus singlehandedly cause me to spend more time in transt to and from class than I actually spend in the room. Due to the unique qualities of subspace vortexes in and around Pittsburgh, thiings get in quicker than you can blink, but while inside move around slower than previously thought possible. So, it takes like maybe 20 minutes to drive from HP to the North Side, but on a bus, its close to an hour. It's possible to get lucky, but usually, you're talking about a very serious bus ride. That is, assuming she wasn't getting off in downtown, which was semi-likely, especially given my luck. So I was pleased and content just to have a chance to sit next to someone who wasn't your ordinary average bus pirate, or that retarded guy who wishes every woman a nice day, or worse yet, the fattest black woman ever to shout through your head into a cellphone smaller than her earrings. But alas, I get off topic too easily. So I was listening to my portable CD player, casually tucked into my bag so that whilst in cahoots with my almost obsolete earbuds, it almost appeared as if I were satisfied with the sounds of the city, and I was listening to Hot Hot Heat, my favourite song too; Bandages. So I was listening contentedly, and drumming my finger across my new leather satchel, which I really only got in hopes of maybe soon purchasing the laptop I've been dreaming of for nigh on two years, and it kind of squeaks a little when you rub your fingers across it in the right way. Damn, I waste a lot of time discovering insignificant shit like that, like the way I figured out that I didn't need to punch holes in my favourite collectible to hang them from bags or whatever if I make small nooses out of those expensive plastic bracelets which I actually did wear as a child, not just now that its 'kitchy'. God I hate that word. Anyway, so towards the end of the song, you know, when it starts to get a little rockier and the dancer have to dance, she taps me on the shoulder. She then asks me if I'm a drummer. Everyone who knows anything at all about me knows me as a bassist. For three and a half years, my weapon of choice is my Ibanez, Five-String, slightly too pink to be comfortable tastylicks bass named Gwen (after my ex-favourite singer), so I am only a little aghast. No, says I, I'm a basser, why do you ask? I must admit that at this point I was a little intrigued. Do I come off as a musician, even if I missed a little? Or maybe, was she just so infatuated she made up the first dumb question just to break the ice? Or, and this was the scariest and coolest option, maybe deep down, I've got a little drummer in me, crying to be released. Well, she is a drummer, for a band or what I'll never know, and the way she tells it, I tap my fingers like a drummer. The method and stuff is too complicated for a normal person, she explains, and she's never met anyone who wasn't a drummer or a dancer that does that. So for a brief interlude, we talk a little about music, and the underplayed importance of our respective instruments in to-days guitar driven world. Guitarists ar a dime a dozen, whilst we we of two dying breeds, soon to be replaced by machines that suck or guitarists that don't know what they're doing (because yes, just because you're a guitarist you are not qualified to play the bass. They may look similar, but they are two different instruments played in two different ways (okay, hundreds of different ways)). Ok phase two. Some jerky dude walks past towards the back at some point during our conversation, and, get this, actually stands an waits until the seat next to my drummer friend is open to sit next to her. So he's quiet for a while, kind of imposing his presence by accentuating the buses turns and accelerations by strategically pressing into her. Then, during a lull, he, pretending to notice her Pitt sweatshirt, asks her if she knows where some building is in Oakland. I don't remember what it was, it doesn't really matter. She knew where it was, but furthermore, was fooled but his not so slick job of acting the part of a lost freshman and she offered to get off the bus several stops earlier than she was supposed to so he could be walked to his dumb place. I caught him licking his lips on the way out. Fucker. He managed to get out in such a way that she broke eye contact with me, so I couldn't like say goodbye or anything. It really bothers me, but most of all that I don't know her name. And to think, this all started mostly because I play stepmania too much.

Okay, deep breath. Airon is coming over to-night to watch some movies and practice dressing up for a fetish party we're going to on Sunday. Zabet and Frank were over a little while ago (alright, I guess Zabet is usually over, since she lives here) but they went out for a bit. They actually may be back without my knowing it. I got a new EP in the mail which I do not remember ordering, so I think it was free. This dude I buy from often on Amazon, his name is heel on the shovel, I think he sent it. He likes me, since I consistently buy all the things that he likes. He sometimes leaves little notes on the receipt, and once he gave me a free DVD; I guess since it was the third of a series which I bought 1 and 2 of. The EP is a band called Eisley. It's okay, it's kind of like The Cardigans. Ok, well I was considering posting more to-night after Airon and I do some things, so check back if you'd like. To-morrow is the prophesized date for me to post some F&P pics, so keep a lookout. Arright, goodnight for now.

Nice DreamS
R-19