Today, I had my weekly breakfast with Jordan at The Vault. There’s a waiter there, Larry, who is probably the most seemingly genuinely-enthusiastic food service waiter kid in the world. If we don’t get Larry as our waiter, we — well, I — pound my fists on the table and say “LARRY!”
I like Thursday morning breakfasts a lot. They’re moving up on my list of favorite things. Followed swiftly by coming to the conclusion that writing music is A) not hard, B) even fun, and C) really quite fantastic. Jordan, Jen, this girl Sophie and I are in a band that is as of yet unnamed, and I will sing (my way to paris), and Jordan will play guitar, and Jen will play bass, and Sophie will play drums; we have 4 songs so far and it’s only a matter of time before we actually rent out a space at Soundwave and have a real practice. Exciting! More songs, please.
“You’ll be happy to hear, Cory: he’s not going to drink anymore of your water.”
Pat is watching the Twilight Zone and I am writing in my dreamwidth and I’m edgy because he won’t commit to going with me to see The Informant tomorrow morning (although he kind of did eventually by saying “Well, we’ll see if you wake up in time and if you do, we’ll go”) and that’s just the way it almost always is. Nothing all too set in stone. Plans are rarely, if ever, made in advance - and if they are, they’re vague.
I’ll get used to it.
“Rocks and hills, that’s all there was. Rocks and hills. I thought I could get a fix using the stars… but it was overcast.”
I think that being creative with Jordan this morning and going over songs made my day go by a lot smoother. I was calm when I went to work, it was an easy night, went by quickly. I was, dare I say, happy. I’m not entirely sure I’m biologically built to be even remotely content working… jobs don’t do shit for me. I dread it almost every single shift, think of calling in sick every day. Financial guilt drags me into the Barnes and Noble cafe (and every other job I’ve ever had) and I smile for 8 hours even when I don’t want to smile. That’s a concept I am so adamantly against, but have no choice in - unless I wanted to be even more drastically unhappy working, say, telemarketing? But maybe, just maybe, if I were more fulfilled creatively, my day-to-day drudgery and obligations wouldn’t be so daunting, draining, deadly. Just maybe.
“I headed west towards… towards nothing.”