Do drama queens get crowns? 'Cause I've always wanted a crown.
Okay, so I may or may not be a drama queen. In any case, I am emoting in spades (my therapist thought it was a good idea) and if that makes me overly dramatic, it's probably because I'm still learning to express in appropriate amounts instead of spewing like a garden hose. Patience with the new kid.
Given the previous bit of information, I will try to be as stoic as possible when I announce that Phil has passed away. My first-gen direct-USB iPod Shuffle, the last remaining material piece of my former life, has breathed his last. I know, I've said that I thought he was on his way out before, but this time there's no mistaking that he's gone. I can't help but feel a little responsible... I was very rough with him on Sunday - unceremoniously pitched him into J's backseat as a matter of fact, and I did it with intent, too - I was pissed. BUT... if I look on the bright side, I can confirm without a doubt that Phil's last earthly act was to play 'Come On, Get Higher', J and I sharing earbuds at 70mph on my second favorite stretch of highway in the whole wide world. Which is not overly dramatic because it really is my second favorite stretch of highway in the whole wide world.
In fact, now that I think about it... I'm not overly dramatic. I'm hopelessly romantic. There's a huge, gaping chasm of difference between the two, carved out by the flowing waters of intent.
There... THAT was overly dramatic. Hey, it works well on paper.
Of course, all that I need to do to return to being firmly grounded in sad, sad reality is to remember that I read Stephen King's latest short story collection, Just After Sunset, on my travels to and from home this weekend. And because I found the best parts of the book, unequivocally, to be the introduction and the story notes at the end, I am forced to admit that it is as I feared... I have outgrown Steve's writing. Make no mistake, I will always love Steve for the wonderful gifts he's given me, not the least of which is my love of writing... it's just that since the accident he writes like it must feel to breathe through soggy oatmeal. It's tedious to read. I find myself looking ahead not to see what happens as I used to do, but to see how many more pages I have to endure. (Though I must admit, 'A Very Tight Place' hit the mark - total gross-out, just ew - he still managed to disappoint me by pussing out on the end... it was like the old Steve went half-way, got tired, and stopped.) C'est la vie. Things change. People grow up, I guess.
And speaking of growing and changing, you can teach an old dog new tricks. I have proof.
Given the previous bit of information, I will try to be as stoic as possible when I announce that Phil has passed away. My first-gen direct-USB iPod Shuffle, the last remaining material piece of my former life, has breathed his last. I know, I've said that I thought he was on his way out before, but this time there's no mistaking that he's gone. I can't help but feel a little responsible... I was very rough with him on Sunday - unceremoniously pitched him into J's backseat as a matter of fact, and I did it with intent, too - I was pissed. BUT... if I look on the bright side, I can confirm without a doubt that Phil's last earthly act was to play 'Come On, Get Higher', J and I sharing earbuds at 70mph on my second favorite stretch of highway in the whole wide world. Which is not overly dramatic because it really is my second favorite stretch of highway in the whole wide world.
In fact, now that I think about it... I'm not overly dramatic. I'm hopelessly romantic. There's a huge, gaping chasm of difference between the two, carved out by the flowing waters of intent.
There... THAT was overly dramatic. Hey, it works well on paper.
Of course, all that I need to do to return to being firmly grounded in sad, sad reality is to remember that I read Stephen King's latest short story collection, Just After Sunset, on my travels to and from home this weekend. And because I found the best parts of the book, unequivocally, to be the introduction and the story notes at the end, I am forced to admit that it is as I feared... I have outgrown Steve's writing. Make no mistake, I will always love Steve for the wonderful gifts he's given me, not the least of which is my love of writing... it's just that since the accident he writes like it must feel to breathe through soggy oatmeal. It's tedious to read. I find myself looking ahead not to see what happens as I used to do, but to see how many more pages I have to endure. (Though I must admit, 'A Very Tight Place' hit the mark - total gross-out, just ew - he still managed to disappoint me by pussing out on the end... it was like the old Steve went half-way, got tired, and stopped.) C'est la vie. Things change. People grow up, I guess.
And speaking of growing and changing, you can teach an old dog new tricks. I have proof.