i tried, but the old devils, they found me in my hut, poured through the windows; they cornered me so i cried out, to no one:

i give up.

you know, if i were a rock star, no one would care that i was "suitably eccentric". they would think it was cool. they would be so excited to be the beneficiary (i was going to say victim) of my insanity. i would get all kinds of slack for all kinds of oddities. and the thing is, really, i wouldn't even have to be talented. just brazen enough to be a rock star.

my mom once said i had the soul of a rock star. as near as i could tell she said it because when i sing along to music, i don't sing so much as imitate, mimic, the singer i'm listening to. she said i could "capture" any voice (not true in the slightest) but she only had her voice. only one way of singing. i, on the other hand, have no idea what my own voice sounds like because the only time i sing is if i'm trying to sound like someone else. i wanted that to be a metaphor for life, but it's not. not my life. happily, not my life at all.
maybe that's what she meant.



mondays oughtn't to feel like fridays. i had good intentions, but i'm still not in bed and i haven't accomplished a durn thing since 6:30pm.

people are going away. it's sad and it's not sad, somehow.



sincere. earnest. erin hoffman is good for words. she's not wrong.





but then again, maybe people would be just as patronizing to a rock star, when it came to real life, as they are to me.