Today's Muse: Black Windows

So, today I wrote an essay supposedly explaining why I had "angry, rubbish music" playing in my discman. It mutated into a horribly deviant spew on the appeal of buying entire identities off shelves, a psycho-analysis of my brother, the macabre movement, public transport, and why I want a cowboy hat. Only one page was wanted, but I thought, hell, you want an explanation, I'll give you an explanation.

When I go off-point, I make it a point to really go off-point. And yet keep to my point. Or summat. I am staring at my floor. I have the fecking nicest floor in the world.

I thought I might upload it, but it was ridiculously long. When I get it back I'll probably put it up. I remember writing something about how the confrontational stance adopted by the band in question - the swearing, the controversial performances - appealed not because they were railing at a specific object, but because of the stance itself. That they were larger than life, a deviant from realilty; a group that didn't go "Fuck you Goths/Rednecks/Nazis/Poseurs/Bush/School/The World." but simply went "Fuck!" A personification of the feeling, if you will. I am allowed to swear because I'm studying "I'm the King of the Castle". Hah.

Personally the "rubbish" music appeals to me because of the sheer energy behind it. Music by Simple Plan, Green Day or Linkin Park - I acknowledge the talent behind them, but the energy strikes me as whiny. Boo-hoo-hoo-Life's-a-piece-of-shit. Gets one down, y'know?

I'm not looking to music for answers; for moral guidance. I know people who do, who claim they feel exactly like whatever the music conveys, and I think "You moron." But to be fair, people do identify themselves with songs. But as to looking to lyrics penned by someone else to magically solve your problems?

Hm. I'm hungry. I would like some mushrooms, with cheese, right now.

What I listen to does not define who I am. Nor does what I wear, nor read, nor eat (Damnit!). For other people, that may be the case. I am not my horoscope, or zodiac sign, or whatever else. Aw shit. My shoulder just seized. What was my point?

Damnit. I want a cowboy hat and a poofy skirt. And a little spoilt girl with black curls, while we're at it. Oh, and someone gift-wrapped and Fed-ex'ed to my door. I'd keep 'im under the sink, and feed 'im salmon roe.

My new bathroom is the size of my old bedroom. And the bathtub is miniscule. Too many bloody mirrors.

Poofy skirt. And pretty purple boots. And my cat. Cat is at Lewis. I regress to Angry mode. Back hurts. Should stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Stopped.