a breather

i could use a break from bad writing week, so here's just some general stuff. i've realized that i don't discover music any more. i mean, i haven't listened to random bands on the web at all in the past month, maybe more. songs of the week is going nowhere if it's just going to be an exploration of my back catalog, because i don't want to listen to a whole ton of that stuff right now. i'm not putting any time into it, and i probably won't. i do promise to keep the whole farce up until i can't stand it any more.

i've been thinking about high school a fair amount recently. i was laughing at this guy a lot for suggesting he had a rough time in high school. i realized finally that the issue isn't how popular or socially adept you were. sounds like he probably scored better at both of those than me. the key is, i was happier. at least, i was happier than he wants us to believe he was
for the stretch he describes there. there were things of course that were awkward about high school, but i think that despite all of it, i was fine with who i was and not excessively bothered by other people's opinions of me. y'all can beg to differ at will.

i have barely been to any movies lately. movies are where my taste tends most towards the mainstream. or, where my choices tend most towards the mainstream. i think at times i wanted to go and there was nothing. fingers crossed there's something i want to see still.

the inside of the car

the pedals were all wrong. it was like one of those dreams where you get what you want - in this case a stolen car, the one you really wanted - and nothing's right about it. nick had no worries of this sort. he was in the back seat. kirk said nothing and kept driving. a sinisterly looming car drifted towards them from the other lane, the one going in the opposite direction. it's physics; the force of impact would be maximized as they were directly opposite each other. nick said nothing. kirk flinched, or wanted to; sweat was already beading up on his forehead, but now he didn't know what to do. how could you drive a stolen car across three states if you weren't capable of passing one oncoming car without breaking a sweat? that was the sort of question nick might ask. he was in the backseat, head half turned, apparently humming softly to himself.

clerk: i'd like to get a mix

what's happened to pancakes?

he leaned out the window, wondering where that sentence would fit. a car drove by. soot from his boots stained the floor underneath the table, but he didn't care. caring was for mothers, or hijackers; people with ideas. he wasn't much for ideas, since bruce moved out. bruce the idea guy. it actually sounded funny. the one with the suede pants. mark tied his shoes and got up, effortlessly stretching his legs one by one as his well-worn chair squeaked back behind him.

bruce was done with this laundry stuff. two driers, three washers, and $7.50 in quarters. he'd rather have his $10 back. oh, so there were 10 more in his back pocket, but that would have to do. he took sacks, took clothes, hefted them out the door. a nineteen ninety five import sedan quivered down the road across the street. didn't someone used to drive one of those?

bad writing week

in honor of all sorts of things, we undertake bad writing week. in which we will not say anything much at all.