First, find my key. There's only so many places this bitch could be.
That wasn't supposed to rhyme, but I suppose I can't complain. I love music and movies so much that I think I'll make this entire post stream of consciousness. Won't that be a delight for you all to read?
I thought so.
If one's mind was spotless, truly spotless, how could one learn? Would not one continue making the same mistakes, cracking the same ice, jumping the fire? I thought as much, and apparently so does Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which I watched for the first time ten minutes ago. When I was about seven, I would lay in bed for hours wondering if I had really always been myself in my environment or if I had been kidnapped and my memory erased. Each second was an untrusted sentinel. I did not depend on my memory, but I never thought to write down my thoughts for proof.
This is all making sense in my head. Sorry you have to suffer through it. Or are you in my head, too? Hmmmm? You're all in my head, aren't you?
My fingers feel like they have been pricked at the tips with super-sharp toothpicks. I'm learning how to play the Ukulele again, and my calluses are still developing. Last night I dreamed that I forced people under glass partitions on couches and propelled them into an alternate universe. It was cathartic, until a golden snake the size of Route 22 rose from a pit of incense and bit me on the index finger of my left hand with its fangs burnished gold as well.
According to my mother, this is auspicious. According to me, it's kinda fucking weird. But I prefer to agree with her on this one, if only because my mind does not appreciate the prospect of being categorized as hyper unusual during REM stages.
I shook Barack Obama's hand last Monday, and thanked him for supporting arts education. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "you're welcome".
It can only go downhill from there.