With Gusto

Bloody, unconscious, and on the moon

I'm tired of waking up tired. Maybe I should eat more.
M.R.'s mom came with us to rehersal, and we were doing our regular thing, which was weird in front of a mom.
But we're adults now. Not kids.
Hah.
They still see us that way. I don't even know what it's like to be 25 years old. They do.
The album plays non-stop. I think I'm obsessed with it. The more I listen to it the more faults I hear, but I'm letting them slide. Just remembering never to do them again. But there are hardly any faults. The faults only musicians would notice. Except for some of those tambourine moments. Most of it sounds better than expected to me.

I was supposed to go to a birthday party last night, but I forgot that I had to rehearse. I operate in two time modes. One mode has all the time in the world for scheduling music, the other mode has to drink at other people's houses. So I end up in all these conflicting commitments that I try to juggle around, and in the end, I let everything smash to the ground except for my music ball. Then I go play music.
Bad Me. Because J. usually ends up with NEW, UNFORSEEN PLANS that she might not have wanted. Like being alone. I do like being warmed up on the kit though. The simplest things even simpler. My mind doesn't tell the body what to do, it just does it. The small accomplishments. I can't be counting on money from this enterprise. It's all about the confidence it brings to my ballsack, and how my fingers never stop twitching into strange beats that eventually get played on J. who eventually slaps my fingers away, angry at the the plans I made with her and then left to go drumming. "I'm the last person you should be drumming on, sir."
Then there's the understanding.