A year ago or so, I discovered a single hair growing right next to my nipple. While the ability to grow chest beard has escaped me, there is a tiny bit of fur noticeable, however this one hair somehow reached incredible lengths, surpassing its peers multiple times. The only-love-of-my-life of the time made me kill it, but now it's back, and it has a brother. It is as if my right nipple is radiating some unknown wavelength (hint).
Alright, I'm done with the interesting stuff now. While body hair is in at least some way amusing to society (hey, this is a nice song), my concerns include the monthly identity crisis, what to do with music, what to do with career, studies, work, etc. I can't even do the blogs properly, my comic project, a fucking easy one, I have enough material for 4 entries, require exactly one hour more than I want to spend on it a week. The entries here and the other one now consist of haikus and poems, because there is nothing happening, nothing to tell, nothing to worry about except for my mistakes and misdoings, which are non-debatable, since the only morale is "I should have studied more" or "I shouldn't have spent my nights re-watching films".
In the intense moments of sadness, the friendly neighborhood Christian cafe welcomes me with pretty girls, who all fucking know my name now, coffee and new burgers every day. There was this one girl, who recognized me from her friends picture on facebook, asked me something about that, and that was maybe the second time she served me ever. Today she knows my name, knows my food preferences, knows my habits, remembers what I told her briefly during small talk a week ago, makes a[n actually funny] joke, gives me a discount, besides the student discount, of course. And all I do is advertise that place on my blog every week, and I'm pretty sure that the target audience is not the same.
I wrote a shitty song in November, the only reason it's still alive is that it actually held some story, and the story is not exactly about a broken heart, but, you know, nothing is happening at all. Like depression, but in a very specific direction. Last week, I accidentally wrote it again, different key, different rhythm, progression, lyrics, structure, everything, just the underlying idea is the same. And while I have no difficulty publishing my half-assed poems here, I'm still ashamed to put the fucking lyrics publicly, meanwhile, I hope someone would finally get it.
My plan for Tuesday is to go to the open mic again, this time alone, and just do the fucking song to the drunk, rude and uninterested crowd of a hostel bar, where you'll be lucky not to get splinters up your ass.
Because, fuck it, there ain't many things beside music that actually make me happy today.
I want to meet people and talk to them, but my struggles include *nagging them to a point where they get tired of me, *walking around the old town like an asshole, *leaving the one place where I had a discussion because
i'm a terrible writer, i still don't know what i wanted to say, so i quit for today.
next stop, 100th entry since october, wow. one of the persons that i specifically wanted to read my blog opened it once, when it had exactly one entry. pretty sure she never opened it again. it's not that the blog is important, but i hoped she'd talk to me more. fuck, i don't know what i expect anymore.
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