got to the door and couldn't stop
10:42 a.m. on 2005-05-05
I don't sleep anymore. I stay up all night typing and writing songs on my guitar until my knuckles are swollen and the pads of my fingers look froggy. I do all my dreaming in the daytime. I've dropped more than ten pounds, living on coffee and tootsie rolls. On my way back home from an appointment the other day, listening to Modest Mouse, ended up hours away at the top of the Cascades. Limbs are getting twitchy, my left eye is getting lazy flushed my Zoloft down the toilet it's too fun to be crazy. And I keep having this teenage girl daydream that Isaac Brock is going to come play guitar fon some of my songs and pay for my studio time. I'm too old for this. The baby is very cooperative during all this. She sleeps in the car with the stereo turned up until the bass vibrations make the mirrors useless, and she dances when I play guitar. Of course, I've made her listen to Man is the Bastard and Butthole Surfers so much that she dances to the sound of the vacuum cleaner now. It's my husband that's starting to worry about me. And get pissed off. Fuck him. Just a few more months, and I'll have outlived all the drug-marinated musical geniuses. There's just something about 27. I feel old. Everybody is so young, or so used up, on the commercials. But I'm not old and I'm not going to waste my fucking life anymore. If the world doesn't live up to my expectations, I'll blast it into new shapes with the power of my imagination. I've had songs flowing around in my head for years, stories unwritten, too involved in drugs and prison and depression and self-repression. Time for a little ambition.
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