I tend to get into these fluctuating fits of needing to just write out my thoughts to reorganize my thought process and rejuvenate my brain. Much like word vomiting so that my mind can eat healthy once again.
I’m reading this book called Catch as Cat Can: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery. It’s the first in its series. It’s not very good, and I do regret starting to read it. I actually bought it on a whim, but mostly because I thought the cat cutout in foil on the cover was pretty cute. Woe is I. Maybe one day I’ll be a cat fiction writer too, and just tell stories through Dany cat girl baby bitch (that’s her longer nickname). Are you okay with that? Dany Nancy Hardy Encyclopedia Holmes = purring protagonist. What a win.
I finally saw Ingrid Michaelson in concert last week. She used to be somewhat of a music idol to me, alongside the other angsty girl singer songwriters who felt the same amount of sadness and anger and ferociousness as I did when I was seventeen through twenty. Introspection matched with catchy pop beats and smooth acoustic chords. I still love it. Ingrid Michaelson, Meiko, Kate Nash, Sara Bareilles, A Fine Frenzy. I know I’m missing a bunch more, but those were my sisters, yo. I covered their songs on piano and guitar for drunken college students who happened to stumble around the dorm-room halls at 2 a.m. on Saturday nights. I was a second-hand star for a few minutes.
“Amazing Race” is the only reality show I’ll ever go on. I used to be willing to go on “The Real World” if I somehow stumbled into that opportunity, but alas I’m too old to scream drunk nothings into a camera. I think it’s because I have travel bug impulses, as any other early-twenties youngin’ has. I would totally eat sheep intestine in New Zealand, bounce around a hut in Thailand, or wrestle a fat man in Turkey if I had the chance to. And for a million bucks? That’s just extra incentive.
I should go to bed. Not even editing this. hashtag #whatever #hashtag.