Stories with no culmination, stories with no morale, stories with no story

I'll start off with the most interesting part of this entry.

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.

hey, faggots, i write poetry

EDIT: I'M APPROACHING 100 POSTS HERE, SO THERE'S GONNA BE A SURPRISE WHICH WILL PROBABLY BE DISAPPOINTING BECAUSE I HAVE NO TIME FOR THINGS AND STUFF.

i tend to put song lyrics up in the title, just like all the other teen girls, but tonight i wish i could put the synth from this song's chorus, because nothing could describe my mood better than that. let me open up paint and draw it for you.

i think that's correct.

in either case, a poem for all the lost souls. not a haiku.

as i walked through the city

there was a bottle of rum

and it wasn't exactly empty

no, still waiting for some bum.

of all the bright moments today

that was the finest one.

the sky was a light shade of grey

so not much help from the sun.

my rhyming skills suck, alright

i use an app for that

so the last two lines i write

don't make much sense. cat.

poetry is hard.

let me just do a haiku

in this moonless night.

oh, i wish i was

half as creative as now

at work, school or bars.

should i take up drugs?

would cocaine make me cooler?

what about a car?

i'll cut my hair soon.

if that doesn't get me laid,

nothing will, damn it.

god, to be honest,

i wouldn't complain much, but

life is tough, i'm not.

yes, i ended up on a superdepressive note, but i lost my acceleration in the poems.

and with this nightly comic i will catch some sleep before work.

island songs, window sills, drunks and was that what i think it was

1. I honestly thought Tallinn would be more friendly than Riga for several reasons, but today I've encountered more drunk assholes than in the cheap (and cancelled) summer festival I went to in 2009, where the only people not drunk were the people smoking weed.

2. Today I had one of the moments that nobody else can know about - and these moments are piling up and I don't like to forget and I don't to update the paper diary. If all those moments happened to me on the same day, I'd be sent to jail just in case, because the sum would be so discrediting, though technically not illegal.

3. My weekend is reserved for schoolwork. However, since I know it's the last day to relax before impending concerts and writing and working and exams and travels and so on, I accidentally stretched Friday 3 hours into Saturday.

4. It might not look obvious, but I like the Lithuanian family that I can't communicate with in my apartment. They like how I play the guitar behind the wall, I like how they feed me, holy shit, I hadn't had proper Baltic food in a long time. Lido has price issues, overdone quality and the table cleaning girl wears a parody of a national dress with ugly socks and a "Chinese" tattoo above them (and I really hope that's a menu for the restaurant she worked at before Lido). Living Room at least provides some friendliness, but the specials are always pasta with fancy cheeses and rucola. Tastes great, but today's potatoes, cutlets and borscht just kicked up memories of a better life, when meat was a daily treat, clouds of fat rained large drops of sour cream and potatoes appeared on the plate without the ritual of watching South Park while peeling them.

Too bad for my stubbornness, should have gone to Latvia earlier, can't go tomorrow night.

And then, as another parade of Finnish/Estonian/Russian drunks goes by my window, at 3:08 on a Saturday, I realize how important food is.

Here's me being all high.

Firsts and "good luck next time"s

The first public performance with L has been spent wonderfully. The mics were too quiet, the speakers were bad, guitar plugged to the mixer is not what I want to do often, but, fuck it, I love playing live. L seemed satisfied as well. She said some people came from the other room to see us, and, later, when I complimented a girls looks, L cried out that "she was the one!" Oh yes, I don't need no groupies or numbers, it's enough that pretty girls come listen to me.

The Canadian host was great as well! Miraculously, I picked Feist's song to play a few days earlier, so he liked that too. My blues song sounded the best for me, though, while Medicine Man was hard to comprehend due to my microphone falling away.

While trying to delete a letter, I pressed a key combination that just completely broke the layout for Chrome, and I can't seem to fix it, whoops.

And, finally, all results for news.err.ee flash fiction contest are in, and I'm not in the top 5. While my hopes were sky-high, the fact they published it is putting a stop to my worries. Winning the 200 euros was the most important part, and that's just money. As for the story, it's stupid. I wrote to fill the guidelines and that never works. There are always next times.

I don't have pictures, so this will do.

Security

Apparently, my apartment door was left open, so the guy maintaining the house wanted to be helpful and notify me of that.

The only thing I remember is how I half-chased him out, while he repeated "open" in broken English.

Jesus fucking christ, strangers in my home have always been the worst part of my nightmares. How the fuck do I go to sleep now?

My laptop is not super-expensive, but contains everything study and work related, besides all my pictures (only "backup" on the blogs). Lying on the table.

Ashtray used 4h ago on the window. Provably the smell of tobacco.

Keys to my everything.

Wallet.

If I wasn't scared shitless, paranoid about someone hiding somewhere here, I should really go check everything.

I wrote a song and not a day passed until I realized that it's actually the 4 chord song in disguise

F#m E D A E Fm

The masterful rhythms can't hide that now. Also, after years of talking about this, how can I still come back.

Other news: guests, who got me real bread and rumors from Latvia; headaches; drinking with almost no physical consequences; too many guitars for a flat my size; a surprise performance in 44h from now on, holy shit; work not done; plans on running away from home just to be rediscovered 30 years later as a bum, so when I pick up a guitar to play, my talents don't matter but people like me because they don't expect bums to play guitar. YES, JELLY.

No pictures, because you got like a million last post.

Oh shit, deadline for random mammals. fuck me, not tonight

Music should be nice

I believe it was the Latvian magazine "Rīgas Laiks" that had an interview which mentioned that "Calling a musical piece "background music" is the worst insult of them all." Which is agreeable in a way, of course.

What worries me more is that some people completely ignore the possibilities that music can give us. Next week I'm playing with such people, who don't understand how the organization of a song should be done, but all my suggestions are waved away, "it's more about the feeling, it should come from the heart" no, fuck you, it can be done better, it could be done beautifully, and the public is partially to blame if they only require a bunch of kids on stage.