Why, oh, WHY can I never sleep when I really need to? It’s almost 3am and I am getting up for work at 6am. And ANDNDDD this shit happens EVERYTIME I have to get up early. I can’t stand how much my brain hates me. For no good reason, I’ve just been laying in bed thinking.
Thinking about the last night I spent with a certain someone. And how she asked me to sing to her in bed. And how I just couldn’t seem to do it. So I went downstairs for my acoustic guitar. Laid in bed with it and sang/played very softly. Tonight, I thought about how stupid and clunky that was. I should be less self-conscious about singing without a guitar.
I once sang to a pretty girl on the phone. Years ago. It was maybe 2am or something. Everyone in the house was sleeping. And I was in the downstairs living room, singing to a pretty girl on the phone. Because she was relentless in her begging. I fucking hate that. And I fucking love that. Women. So powerful. Persuasive. Magic. “PLEEEEEAAAASE, Rob? It would mean a lot.” WTF! Why does this never work when I say this to people? Okay, fine, it does work for me, but that would defeat my own point. So. Women. Are crazy good at making me do things.
The song this particular girl got me to sing for her was this Blind Melon song:
I remember going to see “the one that got away” one time. I didn’t have much money at all. And somehow, I lost my bus ticket. So I just bought another one, even though that meant I’d be stuck in suburban Pennsylvania with no money and no way back to NY. But my brain went into this place. I was in love, and I missed this girl, and I was going to get to her regardless of circumstance. Man, she was pissed when I told her though! AND I got there at like VERY LATE O’CLOCK, when she was just coming home. Goddamn, it was worth it though. This was maybe 7 years ago now, but I still remember the length and thickness and placement of every single eyelash on this girl on that specific night. Beautiful, beautiful girl that drove me crazy.
When the thing with her ended (for the first of many times), I actually puked. I mean, you hear the thing about emotions making a person sick. I never felt anything THAT MUCH before. I didn’t cry, as I never seem to cry about my own life (just about the lives of people in bad movies). But I was sick. Crazy.
You know, it’s weird. I am thinking about this blog, and about the last ten years. There are so many things that I have yet to write about, and tons of things that I just… don’t tell people. I mean. I spent most of a year getting drunk in the High Desert. I took some pretty amazing road trips. I spent a few months living a VERY strange life in New Orleans. There were some bizarre and beautiful people in there, many whose names I don’t even remember, many I’ll never see again. God, there were SONGS written about these people, songs that will probably never be heard again. There were those years when I was political, and then that slid itself right into being completely paranoid and a near shut-in. There was the party house on NE Everett. There was a lot of pot smoking with famous musicians. God damn, I wish I had the follow-thru to write a book. And it’s weird, right?
I mentioned a long time ago here, that I used to lie constantly. To make myself seem cooler, because I wanted acceptance and admiration from my peers. But then I got older, led a totally weird life, and have a million strange stories of my own to share. But I don’t really tell the stories because I don’t want to be one of those people, you know? Those dickheads that sit around saying how fucking righteous they are all day? God, I can’t win, can I?
I’m reading a book called Less Than Zero. I guess it’s a modern classic or something? I’m only like 70 pages in, but I think it’s pretty cool so far. I don’t know if anything’s ever going to actually happen… but yeah, it’s okay. But the thing is, I could have written that book. The guy who wrote it is TERRIBLE, man. I mean he really kinda sucks at using big words, and imagery and all the grammar stuff. But the book is entertaining. The story isn’t even that cool, but the characters are odd enough to make me want to read on. So. I mean, I could do that shit. I’m bad with words and grammar and imagery, so far so good. And I think I’m a fairly interesting character. And I could probably make some people up, based on all the weird people I’ve ever met. Oh crap, and rehab! Oh, the stories I could tell about rehab!!
I don’t know. I guess my point is that maybe I will start telling some stories. I know I’ve said this before. But I have the guilt and worry. About trying too hard. But I guess I could just tell the stories out of… my desperation to have Oprah Dollars? I definitely want to get paid. And to not have a job. So I guess maybe I could exploit my mental illnesses, drug addictions, and my adventurishness… I don’t know. Fuck it, right?
Here’s another video, for the sake of breaking up this massive, mind-numbing post. So. This is good tunes by Metallic Falcons (a pretty great project with Sierra Casady from CocoRosie), a song called Snakes & Tea:
You guys don’t think I should just work retail forever, right? And I’m probably too weird to ever get over the fear of success thing, so my musical career will probably stay where it is. But writing is cool because I’d never have to leave the house if I didn’t want to. Yeah. That’s a good point.
Maybe I can start telling A LOT of my stories. And then I’ll have them here. And THEN I can just organize them into some sort of timeline. And then THAT could be how I write a book! I mean, I wouldn’t even NEED an attention span for that! Okay, this is good thinking.
I once told my most recent girlfriend, “Don’t be weirded out if I become a religious cult-leader someday.” I also told her, another time, “Remember when I once told you that I might start a cult eventually? You know I was being very serious, right? Will you still love me when this happens?” I think she said yes, but I didn’t believe her.
I’m going back to bed now.