Today, I began with the intention of creating something, but instead chose to waste blah blah blah... I don't even care enough to finish this fucking sentence. Fuck wordsELLIPSES ELLIPSES ELLIPSES I had meant to say something really deep here at the top of this textbox concerning my complex mood, but then my brain rejected it. I leave it here as a reminder to any who might question my cognitive dissonance.
Allow a moment of silence for my 1992 Ford Taurus which passed away last tuesday... the moment of silence being a device for you to hear the whimpers of my immobility. I would like to issue a big posthumous "I never loved you and I am glad that you are gone" to my old car/new driveway-statue. If there is a car heaven, Automobile-Jesus will surely smite me at his next "Coming" for metaphorically pissing on one of his own. I never believed in Automobile-Jesus anyway, he's was a myth... also, despite what history has told us, he was black (with a single stripe I imagine).
My primary mode of transportation is currently a sort of transdimensional folding of space-time itself, quantum tunneling using electromagnetic propulsion and dark negative energy to avoid the collapse of the destination event horizon. Of course this macroscopic mobility is on hold until I find an efficient method of transporting and manipulating super-dense matter, as well as devising a method for faster than light-speed travel and adjusting for quantum probability issues. So my secondary method of transportation is a bicycle.
Rather than type out some annoying bit of circumlocution to illustrate my current mood to you, I will type it directly. I feel old.
The current music project is beginning to take shape. That shape being some form of Kaluza-Klein eleven-dimensional geometry that I still haven't completely worked out. My "sound" has taken direction though, and lyrics are coming much easier. My playing has improved much since my brief hiatus and even my singing has taken leaps in a good direction. I still question my abilities as a vocalist daily. I struggle with it more than most issues in my life, more than money, girls, friends, luck, grasp of reality... for some reason this voice thing is consuming me. For every day that I sound really great, I get two or three that make me consider being instrumental as a show of mercy to anybody that might hear me. Hopefully practice will tip that ratio for the better. I've decided for the moment to call my new project the Abstractionists.
As for "real life" the ticker-tape reads -- "Robbie is immobile, confined to his inhospitable home, nocturnal, living on a diet of turkey provolone and bujillo bread, reading cash by johnny cash, waiting until his birthday or a deal to buy a new car, and doesn't have much work to do or much of anything to do in general". Ticker-tape is such an inefficient method of diatribe, but that's out of my hands now.
I've just purchased the new Rogue Wave album from iTunes. (Insert witty superprosaic brain-spit about whatever the fuck I'm talking about here).
It's 4:32 AM. My only comfort in being an insomniac is that time is an abstract and 4:32 AM doesn't really exist. My brain sucks. Holla.
Allow a moment of silence for my 1992 Ford Taurus which passed away last tuesday... the moment of silence being a device for you to hear the whimpers of my immobility. I would like to issue a big posthumous "I never loved you and I am glad that you are gone" to my old car/new driveway-statue. If there is a car heaven, Automobile-Jesus will surely smite me at his next "Coming" for metaphorically pissing on one of his own. I never believed in Automobile-Jesus anyway, he's was a myth... also, despite what history has told us, he was black (with a single stripe I imagine).
My primary mode of transportation is currently a sort of transdimensional folding of space-time itself, quantum tunneling using electromagnetic propulsion and dark negative energy to avoid the collapse of the destination event horizon. Of course this macroscopic mobility is on hold until I find an efficient method of transporting and manipulating super-dense matter, as well as devising a method for faster than light-speed travel and adjusting for quantum probability issues. So my secondary method of transportation is a bicycle.
Rather than type out some annoying bit of circumlocution to illustrate my current mood to you, I will type it directly. I feel old.
The current music project is beginning to take shape. That shape being some form of Kaluza-Klein eleven-dimensional geometry that I still haven't completely worked out. My "sound" has taken direction though, and lyrics are coming much easier. My playing has improved much since my brief hiatus and even my singing has taken leaps in a good direction. I still question my abilities as a vocalist daily. I struggle with it more than most issues in my life, more than money, girls, friends, luck, grasp of reality... for some reason this voice thing is consuming me. For every day that I sound really great, I get two or three that make me consider being instrumental as a show of mercy to anybody that might hear me. Hopefully practice will tip that ratio for the better. I've decided for the moment to call my new project the Abstractionists.
As for "real life" the ticker-tape reads -- "Robbie is immobile, confined to his inhospitable home, nocturnal, living on a diet of turkey provolone and bujillo bread, reading cash by johnny cash, waiting until his birthday or a deal to buy a new car, and doesn't have much work to do or much of anything to do in general". Ticker-tape is such an inefficient method of diatribe, but that's out of my hands now.
I've just purchased the new Rogue Wave album from iTunes. (Insert witty superprosaic brain-spit about whatever the fuck I'm talking about here).
It's 4:32 AM. My only comfort in being an insomniac is that time is an abstract and 4:32 AM doesn't really exist. My brain sucks. Holla.
VIEW 17 of 17 COMMENTS
citizencruz:
Racism ? What'd I miss, Robbie?
citizencruz:
When I was a kid I used to rock out with my blocks out!