A few weeks in a strange place

There's nothing more disappointing than listening to one of your favourite CD's, but one that's been scratched with estrogen induced fury and fingernails. How can the best vocalists stutter like idiots? How can the best guitarists strum like 3 year olds? It just doesn't make sense. It's not the chaos of it, it's the order of the chaos of it. It's like when black and white mix and have grey mutant babies.

It's the expectation of it all, you expect your favourite music to play perfect, to satisfy, instead it disappoints to the point where you need to find something else to satisfy you. Booze? Drugs? Hermit-dom? Try writing. Once again, it's the high expectation, and we're not talking about a drug-induced high, we're talking setting your sights on something unreachable, well, not quite. Not unreachable, but just out of reach.

"KAAARRRRMAAA Police, arrested this man, he talks in math, he buzzes like a fridge, he's like a day-dream-radio."

"KAAARRRRMAAA Police, arrested this girl, her hitler hairdo, it's making me feel ill and we have crashed her party."

"This is what you get."

"This is what you get."

"This is what you get, when you meehh-ess with uuuuus."

"Foooorrrr a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself!"

... but now I'm back, damn.

I have R17k worth of holds on my credit card. Yay. Like a fool, I persist with my stay in my 140 pound per night hotel and its 15 pound breakfasts, all in the blind hope that my contract holders will pay it back, as they should.

The work is incredibly frustrating, I can't do my work, because it's too premature. It's like trying to build the scale model with no plans to work off.

It's 1AM, and I still need to get a few thoughts outta my head.