mainsqueeze's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- definition of my life Matt, Matt. Has this year not been the longest of all long years yet? Sure as hell feels like it. Too much has happened. Too much that was supposed to happen hasn't. Sigh. Such is life, I suppose. I re-read Slaughterhouse Five the other week, thought of you, thought of the favorite books we have in common, and then thought back to Ms French's English class. Remember: You, me, Aaron Stivers, and Apfel performing a song about Othello to the tune of "Louie, Louie." Remember: The army man and plastic animal diorama we did for "Illusions," with Conrad. I've still got one of those army men stowed away somewhere, rifle broken off and forest green platform dimpled and ragged from the dog chewing it up. So, yeah. If you couldn't tell, I'm in this strangely nostalgic mood. Because, in case you don't remember, I used to have Big Dreams, once. Dreams of singing and writing and making art and brightening the fucking world up, one tiny bit at a time. Sigh. And here I am now, twenty years old, resigned to the fact that no matter how much I fight it, I will always be This Girl in This Body with This Mind, and the vast majority of people really don't care much for me or my kind. Am I being melodramatic? Probably. Well, you know my Mom. That shit's genetic. I'm listening to a cd I stole from you a couple of years ago-- the Kid Dynamite/Smoking Popes/Beta Band mix. I don't know the title of this song, but it goes like this: "I don't wanna be held down/ I don't want to think about you when you're not around/ listen to this crazy new sound/ it's the beat of a heart that is bigger than you now." Good stuff. I finally bought the White Album the other day. Why weren't we born in the sixties? We so should have been. Beatles, the Kinks, Elvis, Nancy Sinatra, the British fucking Invasion, Carole King, Simon and Garfunkle, James Taylor... But we were born in the era of Cindi Lauper and Bananarama, and now we've got shit like Limp Biscuit (bizcuit? I have no idea how to spell that) and Drowning Pool. And another sigh for that. I should be drinking tonight. This is definitely a drinky night, but I have to study and type notes and and and and too much stuff going on for me to be able to get drunk. And I miss you. And I miss feeling like I was a part of something when I was with you and Ozzy and even Jon and Adrian. On that rather depressing note, I should go now. Things to do, unfortunately. Love you. Miss you. Sweet dreams, friend. --Angela 2:07 a.m. - 2004-03-13 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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