"Butteriness" Should Not Be Used In Songs

I am listening to Marissa Nadler's Songs III: Bird On the Water again, because it's late, and it's the only thing I want to hear right now.

Last night I went down to Monica's house in Federal Hill to play some guitar. We ended up writing a song--at least the chords to one--and when she asked me what she should sing about over it, I responded, "popcorn," because it was the first thing that entered my mind. And so she made up an entire song's worth of lyrics about popcorn. The most amazing part was that it was an undeniably sad song, as far as the chords were concerned. So it was a sad song about remembering eating popcorn with someone. "You're killing me here," I said, as I cringed into a corner in front of the amplifier and covered my face with my guitar.

The issue with hanging out with older people is the more I do it, the more I believe I should be more like them, especially as I leave that two-decade mark farther and farther behind. And so I'm swept up by the panic that I still don't know what's going on with my life; where, when, and how I will settle down, if ever; why I can't ever seem to find contentment in the present.

Forging ahead is harder than it seems. I realize that my present self hasn't so much supplanted my past selves as buried them in a shallow grave, and if I'm not careful, the surface will rupture. I feel like I should have figured this out sooner.

Two nights ago I had a very strange dream--it was probably because I'd gone to sleep drunk, unintentionally, after returning from Brewer's Art, and then woken up at 6:30AM with my clothes and the lights on, before showering and attempting to go back to sleep (no mean feat). I hadn't done that in a long time; I usually don't like getting that drunk, as it just ends up feeling unpleasant, and I just want to go home, but by that point it's such an effort. Anyway. I dreamed I was stuck in a rather surreal part of Baltimore at the house of someone my roommate knew, but who I don't think exists in real life, or even showed up at all in the dream. Right inside the entrance to the house was another door, and every time I opened this door the house inside it would be different.

Strangely enough, disturbed as I was by this door (strange spaces have strange effects on me), I was more worried about making it home to meet up with Sarah for lunch. What's stranger is that this was actually an appointment I'd made in real life; she called while I was at the Wye Oak show at Talking Head on Friday to say she couldn't make the show, then said we should hang out sometime this weekend, which surprised me. We had steamed eggs and home fries--it's vaguely annoying how we have the same taste for most everything and always try to say the same thing at the same time--and talked about science, creativity versus the appreciation of creativity and how one does not guarantee the other, driving stick (neither of us knew anything about it), the works. It was a good meeting between friends. I don't know what role she plays in my life right now; not so long ago I felt like she was the last person I'd feel strongly enough for to moan about in my remaining time in Baltimore, and now I can barely stay interested enough to finish this paragraph. Maybe it's just late. To be honest, she makes me feel quite stupid sometimes for not knowing anything nor having anything to do, and it's hard to stay enamored with someone who has that effect.

I'm bored with Intersession. Nothing happens until nothing ceases to happen, and even then, it does not necessarily translate into something happening. I'm getting a little panicky and a little anxious to get out of here. That's not productive; I'm stuck here for a while, and I should find some better way to use my time.