This Post Is Sloppier Than That Homemade Staff Paper I Drew As A Kid

Just realized I accidentally drew backwards music notes on that Incubus cartoon I proudly put up on my website.

I’m going to go ahead and flush my years and years of song writing, piano lessons, music theory, band practice, sound engineering, and AV tech down the toilet okay bye.

Ps, speaking of toilet flushing:

Dear musician ex-boyfriend, why did you throw away our relationship? Do you know how unlikely it is that you’ll find another girl up to my caliber? When you talked bass and pedals and time and tone and mixes and recording and bleeps and bloops, I understood like at least 87% of what you were saying. I was the sound booth to your stage performance, bro. Do you know how rare it is to find beautiful funny intelligent compassionate athletic vegan girls who know how to use soldering guns and digital mixers and love Mason Self way before you try to introduce them to him? Not rare—impossible. I’m One Of A Kind, Bitch™.

Dear potentially concerned blog readers who aren’t my ex-boyfriend because I’m like at least 87% sure he doesn’t stalk my blog, please don’t fret about me openly weeping over my ex on Live Public Internet™. It’s not open weeping—it’s an Essayist thing. We collect some experiences, gain a bit of perspective on them, and reformat them in a way that appears humorous or deep. *self-righteously flips unwashed hair*

Anyway, I think this is mostly stemming from some unrequited leftover love for the music industry. I used to draw staff paper and write songs and go to piano lessons and study music theory and play in a band and work as a sound engineer and AV tech, but in the past several years I’ve wandered a lot and lived out of a backpack and stopped eating meat and stopped washing my hair—and the eventual, growing aversion to technology that inevitably happens to those who turn hippie kind of stunted the musicianship inside of me. The way my life was heading, I was two soy cheese pizza slices and a bottle of patchouli away from running off into the woods, eating bark, and every month or so snail mailing some environmental essays to The Guardian.

Until I briefly dated a professional bass player which in turn opened up the old music wound—and now I’m discontent with my previous idea of Living Off The Grid Away From Society And Without My Discover Weekly Playlist On Spotify™.

Disclaimer: In case my 87% surety is wrong and you do stalk my blog, hi musician ex-boyfriend. I don’t think you’re a bitch. I was just trying to sound cool like Michael Scott. I’m not that cool. Michael Scott is cool. You’re cool. And hot.

Okay.

Bye.

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PS. My sister died laughing at my illustrations for this post. “Why do your legs look exactly like the desk and chair legs?” “Where are your feet?” “Why did you draw yourself wearing a long sleeved striped dress? You look like a zebra.” “Desks don’t look like that.” “No, I don’t think you should draw a top hat on the music teacher person.”

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