To Hell in a Handbasket

…carry me.


how’s this for bipolar: i wrote that last entry, turned around and recorded live on the mic on my laptop my newest song, sent it off to Scott, listened to the new CPM demos, and was otherwise feeling much, much better. then {}, and now i’m alone and {}

{}, no music can save me now. it had been pulling my head just above the water all week; quite a few times already; of course week is relative; i just don’t know anymore; i want to smash my guitar into little tiny pieces and forget about it forevermore

don’t move, people. i am convinced if there is one thing people were not meant to be it is geographically/socially mobile. stay in one spot. have friends that last for years. piss in the same can. drink the same beers. travel but always come back and have a slideshow and get drunk in the comfort and safety of your own home

so glamorous. so stupid. so interesting. so tiring

so cool. so pathetic. so adventurous. so angry

so angry over nothing