Ramblin' WOMAN
"Anxiety-ridden depressants are the best in bed." I couldn't help but laugh when I heard that. Thank you for the quick pick-up.
Going to Modesto this weekend was almost refreshing, yet still such a drag. I feel like a foreigner in Sacramento, even though I partly grew up here. And in L.A. San Jose was fun too. Why can't I ever be stationary? I feel like I'm on the move too much. I have no 'attachments' to people in the area in which I live. They're always far away. But maybe I like the distance. I can turn them on/off as I please. Ignore them whenever I feel like it. And I never have to worry about sudden drop-ins, freaky stalkers, etc. Especially now that I live in a prison. In order for visitors to pass through the Front Gate, I must authorize it with the guards on duty. And they have no problem turning away people who have not called me prior to their arrival. It's already happened.
Yesterday, I spent the afternoon going through my records and listening to old, now-refreshed favorite songs of mine. I had fun. I laughed to myself as I laid on the floor singing along to the Stones' "Lets Spend The Night Together" and Blondie's "Fade Away And Radiate". I miss my record player. I thought about transporting it up to my current quarters, but then I'd probably lose my zest for it if I were able to use it whenever I pleased. In other words, it's still in Modesto.
Speaking of records, I found a shop I really like. The owner is English and puts in his own two-cents on whatever you're either looking for or buying. When I questioned him about old country, rockabilly, and surf, he said, "Hmmm, interesting..." He then looked at me strangely and continued on, "...I guess I can see it." Afterwards, he pointed me in the right direction, and away I, along with my bank account, went. Ohh, why must I enjoy music so much?
I quit my job.
Blah.
Oh yeah, here's me with my first pet ever:
Hella Country
At the age of three, on a fine afternoon, as I ran outside to greet my terribly beautiful cow whom I loved, I was told that he had "ran away". I cried. I searched the woods. I cried some more. Later, at age sixteen, my father, the vegetarian, broke the news to me that my baby cow had been slaughtered that fine afternoon when I was a child, and that I had eaten him... happily. I cried again.
Ok, that's all for now. Thank you, and goodnight.
Going to Modesto this weekend was almost refreshing, yet still such a drag. I feel like a foreigner in Sacramento, even though I partly grew up here. And in L.A. San Jose was fun too. Why can't I ever be stationary? I feel like I'm on the move too much. I have no 'attachments' to people in the area in which I live. They're always far away. But maybe I like the distance. I can turn them on/off as I please. Ignore them whenever I feel like it. And I never have to worry about sudden drop-ins, freaky stalkers, etc. Especially now that I live in a prison. In order for visitors to pass through the Front Gate, I must authorize it with the guards on duty. And they have no problem turning away people who have not called me prior to their arrival. It's already happened.
Yesterday, I spent the afternoon going through my records and listening to old, now-refreshed favorite songs of mine. I had fun. I laughed to myself as I laid on the floor singing along to the Stones' "Lets Spend The Night Together" and Blondie's "Fade Away And Radiate". I miss my record player. I thought about transporting it up to my current quarters, but then I'd probably lose my zest for it if I were able to use it whenever I pleased. In other words, it's still in Modesto.
Speaking of records, I found a shop I really like. The owner is English and puts in his own two-cents on whatever you're either looking for or buying. When I questioned him about old country, rockabilly, and surf, he said, "Hmmm, interesting..." He then looked at me strangely and continued on, "...I guess I can see it." Afterwards, he pointed me in the right direction, and away I, along with my bank account, went. Ohh, why must I enjoy music so much?
I quit my job.
Blah.
Oh yeah, here's me with my first pet ever:
Hella Country
At the age of three, on a fine afternoon, as I ran outside to greet my terribly beautiful cow whom I loved, I was told that he had "ran away". I cried. I searched the woods. I cried some more. Later, at age sixteen, my father, the vegetarian, broke the news to me that my baby cow had been slaughtered that fine afternoon when I was a child, and that I had eaten him... happily. I cried again.
Ok, that's all for now. Thank you, and goodnight.