Bad Music
2005-01-14 3:46 a.m.
I was dead asleep. I was dreaming of something nice, although I�ve no idea what it was. The finest sleep I�ve had in a very long time. I was awaken by a hand scraping at my chest.�Get up!!! Get Up!!�
My right hand went for my bat and my left for my glasses. Fuck, I gave that bat away ages ago.
�Get Up!!!�
My eyes shot open and my girl was trembling halfway across the room.
�Get out of bed!! Now!!�
I was on my feet in half a reflex and I grabbed her by the shoulder. Flipped around surveying the room, expecting some terrible shit. I�ve been robbed / jumped in my own house a couple times before and it never ends pretty for anyone involved�
�What�s goin on?!?!�
By then she was on my chair.
�There�s a huge rat! Right there!�
I�d been far beyond relieved.
�Ok honey, in the future you have to say that first.�
I grabbed one of my size 14�s and went hunting. Heard the bastard scuttle across the room. Poked and prodded piles of magazines, papers and folded boxes trying to get the fucker in the open so I could unleash the wrath of breaking a perfect sleep.
No luck. Within 2 minutes the fucker was sitting still somewhere beyond the reach of my prodding. I knew I wouldn�t find it now, but I had to keep looking to ease my girl. This is the first time I�ve seen a rat around here in 3 years. I mean there�s been baby mice and whatnot, but that�s pretty normal in any city worth its grime.
After a couple more minutes with all the lights blaring, I threw my girl over my shoulder and carried her back to the bed. Her thighs were still trembling as she held on tight� Poor girl.
So I have a new unwanted guest which is going to keep fucking with us until this weekend when I tear the whole place apart. It�s something we�ve needed to do for a while now.
180 or so square feet is too little of a space for two people to live. Especially when one of them actually works there all day. And by too small a space, I mean that clutter is inevitable. Every time you read a magazine, you end up with no place to put it. You put it on the dresser, and then you move what was on the dresser to some miscellaneous pile. And you eventually end up with 50 miscellaneous piles and no surfaces.
The idea of someone maintaining some semblance of sanity in such a setting seems unimaginable. Then you realize you�ve done it for 3 years.
So this weekend, I�m packing everything into boxes. My shit and hers. Although some of mine will stay in boxes to only be unleashed 3500 miles away from here. I�ll be taking apart furniture and whatnot and we�ll begin the rearranging that will eventually become my ex-girl�s place.
This is where the sadness sets in.
I�ve been on cruise control for a few weeks now. It�s been impossible to wrap my head around things that need to be sorted lately.
Shit I can�t even wrap my head around this post right now.
The other day I got this cute lil quote out to some girl who I don�t think will be calling me much anymore�
�Look, if you�re the type of person to be bothered by things, I�m probably gonna do something that bothers you. And I�m probably going to do it really well.�
I don�t really get along with those who get bothered by the things that others do. It�s not necessarily that I do them. It�s often just my lack of disagreement or disappointment with the actions of others.
On a final note I snapped on my girl a couple weeks ago and I really shouldn�t have. Nothing too crazy. She just spent a dollar at itunes on that retarded snoop and farell track that the world seemed to get obsessed with for no apparent reason. It�s not so much that I hate the song. I mean I don�t like the song. I think it�s a hack song with lazy production by someone whos far more talented with an MC who�s getting by on rep instead of talent. But I guess that�s what we buy these days. Anyways, that�s not what I snapped about.
The day before I�d looked through a bunch of images you don�t see on tv much. The 1000�s of bodies washed to shore. Impossible to fathom and impossible to ignore.
So I threw a couple hundred bucks at the cause and felt like shit. I threw on some miles and sat back considering the costs and repercussions of trip to help out or at least something else I could do to help.
As the internal discussion became more focused, my girl came to tell me she wasted a dollar on a low quality copy of a bad song. A whole fucking dollar on the equivalent quality of a cassette from the 80�s that�d been run over by a truck a few times. This is what the music industry has us doing now. Paying for low quality versions of bad music. And here I am considering death to help a few people dealing with the worst kind of death.
This is why communication is important. Of course after my short and quick �What the fuck are you paying your hard earned dollars to those whores for?!? At least buy the god damned cd for a quality version of that bullshit!!!�
I apologized, hugged her and told her what was on my mind. The problem with being the thinking type is that it�s impossible for someone else to know what kind of fucked up internal discussion they might be interrupting.
More than anything, I�ve learned to communicate my thoughts and feeling far better than I used to. At least I�m smart enough to notice them right away these days.
Fuck it, a lil Roni Size and my last Newport til my next carton arrives.