I've got blisters on me fingers!
Toast: Best enjoyed with butter, spread liberally. Fuck jelly. FUCK JELLY.
I slept at two last night. Drag. But, I learned all about system of a down from Rolling Stone. Super.
I've been particularly moody these past two days, perhaps a reason for my failure to sleep last night. I'd peg it on hormones, chemicals, pre-menstruals, post-musical blues (not bloody likely), social anxiety. Who knows. All I know is that I'm at least offering justification for my impossible whininess. I'm not going to tell you about it now. Y'all can bring it up to me if you want to. I guarantee it's more interesting than watching paint dry. I doubt it'll hold a candle to watching grass grow, however.
Who the hell has a cast party on a sunday afternoon? At some kid's house with parents and directors there? Fucking lame.
I'll tell you who. The bexley theatre arts dept. Hardcore. oooh yeah.
Fucking lame.
Next year, we'll have a drunken barn dance. At my house.
No, better yet, at my barn.......
So I tied my hair back for the musical, and I took my glasses off when I went onstage, and I'm now really really annoyed. First of all, people, some of whom with I am well acquainted, told me that they didn't even recognise me. LITERALLY. As in, not until curtain call or afterwards. Who can't fucking recognize me? I feel like my damn hair is what people use to define me. And that is not ok. If you don't know who I am without my fucking mop head, I don't like you. Secondly, people I've scarcely spoken to before have come up to me and told me how much better I would look if I cut my hair. As if I'm not worth speaking to when I have hair, but once it's outta the way, I'm definitely visible, all of a sudden. If they only want to talk to me on behalf of my cutting my hair, so be it. They can try to carry out their stupid little agenda, but it's just annoying to me that I am not as important as the way my hair looks. That's really how it feels to me. I hate people. I hate bexley people. I hate them so much.
Fuck 'em all. I'm moving.
To somewhere that doesn't judge by the length of one's hair, but the quality of their character.
Comfest?
I wonder if they'd accept a resident.
Sweet, by the way, comfest is in like a month.
And I'm playing, as well. Super duper. Not with either of my bands, but with drew and noah. We're playing on friday in late morning/early afternoon. We should start rehearsing, by the way.
New gig opportunity. The saturday of comfest, as a matter of fact, that night at Scarlet and Gray avec the artists formerly known as the Wacky Neighbors. Come on out, it'll be a pow-wow.
So yesterday, Mercury Retrograde was scheduled to record at this studio out in the middle of nowhere, a block east of burger king, and I got up extra early on exra little sleep to pack my drums and get out there. So, we got there twenty minutes early, then waited for almost two hours in pouring rain with scarcely enough room to keep us all dry in vehicles, waiting for the damn producer to show up. He didn't, and it turns out he just forgot completely. SWEET. Professional, good form, indeed. At least Space-Out McGee is giving us a free hour as consolation. His punk ass should mix on his own time, too.
Mes amis d'universite commencent de revenir. Emily's already back, Alisson is back, Misty's coming back this week, awesome. I think it's time for a dinner party. I'm cookin'.
I'm tired now. I'm glad I got to bed early.
Go away now. Stop prying into my personal life. Sick fuck.
I slept at two last night. Drag. But, I learned all about system of a down from Rolling Stone. Super.
I've been particularly moody these past two days, perhaps a reason for my failure to sleep last night. I'd peg it on hormones, chemicals, pre-menstruals, post-musical blues (not bloody likely), social anxiety. Who knows. All I know is that I'm at least offering justification for my impossible whininess. I'm not going to tell you about it now. Y'all can bring it up to me if you want to. I guarantee it's more interesting than watching paint dry. I doubt it'll hold a candle to watching grass grow, however.
Who the hell has a cast party on a sunday afternoon? At some kid's house with parents and directors there? Fucking lame.
I'll tell you who. The bexley theatre arts dept. Hardcore. oooh yeah.
Fucking lame.
Next year, we'll have a drunken barn dance. At my house.
No, better yet, at my barn.......
So I tied my hair back for the musical, and I took my glasses off when I went onstage, and I'm now really really annoyed. First of all, people, some of whom with I am well acquainted, told me that they didn't even recognise me. LITERALLY. As in, not until curtain call or afterwards. Who can't fucking recognize me? I feel like my damn hair is what people use to define me. And that is not ok. If you don't know who I am without my fucking mop head, I don't like you. Secondly, people I've scarcely spoken to before have come up to me and told me how much better I would look if I cut my hair. As if I'm not worth speaking to when I have hair, but once it's outta the way, I'm definitely visible, all of a sudden. If they only want to talk to me on behalf of my cutting my hair, so be it. They can try to carry out their stupid little agenda, but it's just annoying to me that I am not as important as the way my hair looks. That's really how it feels to me. I hate people. I hate bexley people. I hate them so much.
Fuck 'em all. I'm moving.
To somewhere that doesn't judge by the length of one's hair, but the quality of their character.
Comfest?
I wonder if they'd accept a resident.
Sweet, by the way, comfest is in like a month.
And I'm playing, as well. Super duper. Not with either of my bands, but with drew and noah. We're playing on friday in late morning/early afternoon. We should start rehearsing, by the way.
New gig opportunity. The saturday of comfest, as a matter of fact, that night at Scarlet and Gray avec the artists formerly known as the Wacky Neighbors. Come on out, it'll be a pow-wow.
So yesterday, Mercury Retrograde was scheduled to record at this studio out in the middle of nowhere, a block east of burger king, and I got up extra early on exra little sleep to pack my drums and get out there. So, we got there twenty minutes early, then waited for almost two hours in pouring rain with scarcely enough room to keep us all dry in vehicles, waiting for the damn producer to show up. He didn't, and it turns out he just forgot completely. SWEET. Professional, good form, indeed. At least Space-Out McGee is giving us a free hour as consolation. His punk ass should mix on his own time, too.
Mes amis d'universite commencent de revenir. Emily's already back, Alisson is back, Misty's coming back this week, awesome. I think it's time for a dinner party. I'm cookin'.
I'm tired now. I'm glad I got to bed early.
Go away now. Stop prying into my personal life. Sick fuck.