Comfort and Joy are a Complete Farce

For some reason, I feel like I cannot escape loneliness. Last night, I was “writing” a song for a pop punk band that will never see the light of day (this is the classic tree falling in the woods paradox – does writing melodies and verses and bridges and choruses that no one will ever hear qualify as “writing”? Isn’t this essentially “practice”? Do the songs exist if no one will here them? And furthermore, if no one will ever hear them, then what was the point of writing them?) and I wrote the line “I’m going to sleep until I am over this or until all of it makes any sense” on a pad of paper as I walked out to my garage to plug my Rickenbacker back into my volume pedal that is connected to my Mesa Boogie Triple Rectifier that powers the 4 Celestion Vintage 30’s housed in my Avatar cabinet and churn through an intro, verse, chorus and interlude that will never be accompanied by a bass guitar or drumset or the cutsey female vocals that I hear in my head singing the line “I am going to sleep until I am over this or until all of it makes any sense.”

I will probably never finish the song because of the futility in investing into something that means nothing.

Obviously, this loneliness transgresses sleeping alone and the extended time lapse between the last time I kissed a girl and the next time I get the chance to.

After I finish this, I will drive 25 minutes and be in the company of people whom would do anything for me. When I get home, I will listen to “In a World of Ghosts” by Lemuria and sit around feeling sorry for myself until the shot of Nyquil does its job.

When I started writing this I was listening to “The Impression That I Get” by the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. I have put this song on every Mix CD that I have ever made for a girl I have had a crush on, in hoping that we can share this guilty pleasure together.

To this day, I still have no one to share the song with. Which is sort of like a metaphor for every relationship I have ever been in. I’ve done nothing and I am all out of ideas as to how to fix all of this.

Sadly, this is content.

I am not going to write another word until I have something to say about something other than my pitiful self.