cry, baby, cry
12.30.03 @ 11:59 p.m.
I haven't yet read this recent interview with Pete Townshend except that the only way I found out about it was that the celeb gossip column in the Oregonian (which I read without even thinking of the fact that I'm reading a celeb gossip column, ferchristssake) mentioned that in it, Pete said he seriously contemplated suicide. Which depressed the hell out of me.
I'm overall feeling pretty okay today, but going back over the cumulative things, it was a fairly lousy day.
Sledding was cancelled last night, probably due to the fact that it's snowing (incongruous, but hey) and no one wanted to drive and the planning was here, there and everywhere. It's been postponed until late January. The terribly odd thing about that is that when I got up this morning (uh, afternoon... shhh, I didn't just say that), my mom handed me the paper and demanded that I read my horoscope (which is also hers)... "Recreational activity won't go as planned" or something astonishing like that. (Horoscopes and celeb gossip... I read the classy parts of the paper.)
I hung around the house, baked terrible cookies that I didn't want to eat (not that it mattered; they got eaten anyway). I listened to some new albums, at that was good.
I should have called Andrew during the day today, but I didn't. I waited until about 8 and called a couple of times with no answer. He wants to go to some arcades or something tomorrow with me, Martha, and Miranda. I'm not sure what's going on, because I haven't talked to him and I deleted the voicemail he left last night.
I wanted to be in bed by now, because (yet another lousy thing about today, all I do is complain) I've apparently caught the fast-acting cold from hell. Actually, it's not that bad, but it struck with a suddenness and intensity that I've not often encountered in a cold. Ah well, I'm finishing what I'm writing here, and then bed. Which is why I'm saving that Townshend interview until tomorrow.
So the last thing was things I don't want to hear, as told to me by my dad. God only knows how it came up, but my dad was all "I'll feel sorry for you when you really fall in love, because you'll fall hard. This stuff just gets pent up, you know." Gee, thanks, Dad. I wanted to listen to a speech that implies that I will go psycho stalker and irrational and etc. etc. Then he was waxing rhapsotic about crushes and "Wouldn't it be nice to just have a crush on someone?" Apparently because I do not speak of such things (and who speaks of madly cute Who Boys in Rock and Roll History classes with their father? Not me) he assumes that I do not have non-rock star crushes. It may be hard to believe, but I do fancy other people in this universe who are not actually Pete Townshend circa 1966-1976. Or Mike Nesmith. Don't worry, I'm not breaking out the whole list, though I've done it before. Renting videos from the season of Monty Python I don't have certainly gave the old Michael Palin love a little nudge back into the front of my brain. I just cannot see why my dad assumes that anything I don't tell him about doesn't exist.
Ending on a more upbeat note, I have a picture that Moni took at Starbucks on Sunday.
Several (four) people are cut out of the image, but for the most part they aren't that important. I'm down at the end on the right, clearly not realizing that there are photos being taken. I think that Martha and I (Martha is sitting next to me) were involved in the Stupid Question book and I was designing the album covers for Unusual Fornication with her, which I will try to remember to scan tomorrow. Because, quite frankly, I think they are awesome.
Edit: Oh, silly me! I forgot to mention a fantastic thing that happened today: I got a lovely package from my friend Jessica in Rhode Island. She sent many things, including a very pretty necklace. She wrote a card saying that she sent one to Rachel and kept one for herself, kind of an 'internet friendship necklace' thing. I thought it was just about the sweetest thing ever and thanked her over IM after wandering around stressing about what I can do/make for her that's as nice. And it reminds me that I should write an email to Rach. Haven't talked to her in a while. Maybe I'll send her "I Can't Reach You" for girly writer workshopping, even if we dabble in different interests now. I've watched Rach's writing just blossom in the time I've known her. I suppose I just have to connect up the bits I've written, since there are at least two major gaps.
[Title: Beatles song, White album.]
Previously
fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05
