In one week I'll be thirty. Three-zero. Older than my Dad was when I was born. Older than Napoleon was when he ... did something that was probably extremely impressive at the time – I'm not a historian. I'm a composer. Sorry, a "promising young composer." I should have kids of my own by now, a career, but instead I've been "promising" for so long I'm afraid I'm starting to break the fucking promise.
6 AM. The sky glows. Somewhere a bird chirps. I want to shoot it.
Break of day, the dawn is here / Johnny's up and pacing / Compromise or persevere? / His mind is racing / Johnny has no guide / Johnny wants to hide / Can he make his mark, if he gives up his spark? / Johnny can't decide
I want to write music. I want to sit down right now at the piano, and write a song that people will listen to and remember. And do the same thing every morning for the rest of my life.
This is a car that allows you to adjust the temperature of your ass.
Chubstitute (a name for a fat substitute)
I'm not mad that you got mad when I got mad when you said I should go drop dead.