What if you let your mother do your make-up?
What if she made you look almost exactly like a Russian Nesting doll?
What if when you took the make-up off you saw that she had plucked your eyebrows into thin rainbows?
How did you not feel her plucking?!
You are so pissed because you hardly had eyebrows to begin with and have spent years cultivating the poor things.
Ah, the night brought strange dreams and dusted snow.
I wonder why I thought that when I was a kid I had such promise. Sometimes I look back and think, what happened? Lately, I see that I was exactly the same then as I am now. A lazy daydreamer. So now, no more wondering what happened and why I didn't set the world on fire.
I am envious of people that can take the music that pops up inside them and construct it on the outside. I have a cranky synth bit stuck in a cranial crevasse. I still pine for a moog and vibraphones. I need echo-y chimes to bounce off my skin.
I am envious of people who work in radio. I am a child that pouts. I know that's not right so I'm in constant parent mode shushing, wagging finger, soft chides to soothe the tantrum. I love my daydreams and I hate them. They aren't helping, but I'm addicted. Little drug, little drug. I like to get my brain high. If I don't stop I will foster dementia.
