When we start talking we —

always interrupt each other because there’s so much to say and I forget if I’ve told her things already (M!).  And loudly, too.

Almost was convinced to buy a watch at the mall today, but decided against it.  Good job, girl.  That’s why you’re the manager.

For the first time (or is it second, or third?) in my life, I have nothing to write, again.  I’m really not sure about this dose… pretty sure my writing juices are getting killed :O

Eh, oh well.

Except that it really does matter to me, and then you hear about all those people who ask if their creativity will be affected and when they hear that it could be, shake hands and walk out the door.  But is it worth it?  I don’t know, maybe.  The other day I picked up a few classical CDs and wanted to buy them at the used bookstore, but finally put them down again.  These days though, when I see the painted covers of Beethoven’s face, I can’t help but wonder what kind of ridiculous musical fury he was in while writing some of those pieces.  If I were content with isolation and dark poetry, yeah, maybe I’d live that kind of life, but in the end, I think I prefer not having the types of feelings that would fuel that kind of writing.  After all, high school is over.  And I treasure companionship too much to trade it in for high-strung and demanding brilliance.  I think of a certain conductor, the way his temper would flare up at us from time to time when we couldn’t get things perfect.  It was quick, like a forest fire, but almost over before it had started.  I would inhale the disappointment, my body would tense up, and then, if it was a bad day, the class was over.  It was as if his ears could physically bear with us no longer.  His ability to hear beautiful music also meant that his tolerance for less was small.  And we were high schoolers, you know?  I used to think if I could be anything, I would be a conductor.  I would be like a puppeteer on a stage, drawing out the different voices of the orchestra, bouncing to the rhythm, swaying dramatically to the.. yeah.  And then I realized that I can’t count measures to save my life.  Nor do I actually care enough to boss around musicians in the first place.

I’m tired.  Grabbed ramen with M.  Nothing like a nice bowl of ramen on a cold, wintery day in July.

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