20.Oct.2003
i started looking
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and the bubble burst
$400.
I have a jade/ivory jewelry box in which I keep important documents and sentimental items. The money I earn goes toward my Eastward Exodus fund.
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It's $40/hour to record something at Music Box here in Oklahoma City. The problem lies in the fact they do no technical work for you. You should already come equipped with your presets. As I am not yet technically inclined, despite the fact I'm starting very slowly from FM7/Cubase scratch, this benefits me not.
I do not want money blown on hours upon hours of recording; I want the heart of New York.
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I require RAM. Until then, the mass deletion of excessive folders will have to suffice. The Cocteau Twins folder was, verily, the first to go.
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The unnecessary supply of unremitting brashness was taken into consideration between clenched teeth at four-thirty this morning. I've been elevated lately; belletristic black-bonnets such as myself do not traverse the ground, nor are we fans of brutal gravity. I am marked naturally with strains of defensiveness and impetuousness. I doubt this is a phase out of which I will grow.
I dislike the manner in which delusory strength flares from all four corners of the human realm, but as such, the majority were only meant to be smoke and mirrors.
I feel deceived; it makes me chuckle.
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"... and an electricity in your hair."
My brother deemed me a "Gray-Haired Beauty" on his birthday, when I delivered to him a present I created myself. I have forty new, gray hairs. My follicles have epitaphs. ;)
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Dissecting different bass-chord techniques, I found myself wound up in silent colloquy with a cynical boy, until I broke the formal layers of quiescence by inquiring, "So, whose mental stamina are you fucking up, now?"
"Touch�," was the response.
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Terri has no propriety; it's been wearing on me as of late. She has a puerile, critical demeanor about her which irritates me. The fact she will laugh at you if you drop a piece of lettuce from your fork or change the settings of your ceiling fan without first asking permission exemplifies such.
Last night, at Charleston's, I being the diligent third-wheel to Terri and my brother, a song came over the restaurant speakers. Terri exclaimed, "I love this song!"
I asked, "What song?"
David asked, "Does it matter?"
I said, "You're right; it's bound to suck, anyway."
Terri glared at me, mouth ajar.
I said, "Ah, she can dish, but she can't take." and I winked at her as I took my last bite of salad.
The band turned out to be Good Charlotte.
I am usually this kind of person.
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time & machine