PART TWO
(Blogger seems to choke quite remarkably on long posts, so here's the rest...)
Yes, my friend Andy has gotten me through tough times. His stage fright only made me love him more. And I remember distinctly spiralling into an impotent rage of one variety or another when I was nineteen years old, putting �Dear God� on my Discman and running into my parents� back yard to jump wildly on their trampoline for those four-odd minutes. I felt infinitely better afterwards: I should submit the exercise to a psychology textbook.
He also handed me one of my loveliest inspirations, however insubstantial it may have been, in the form of the song �Wrapped in Grey�. Liltingly, he explains that �your heart is the big box of paints�� Well, for some criminal period of time, I thought he was saying �Your heart is the beat-box of pain.� When I finally picked up the liner notes and saw that I was wrong, I was momentarily filled with disappointment. In a flash, however, I realized that because he hadn�t said it, the line was my own, and swiftly wrote a rather terrible blank-verse poem surrounding it. This is why pencils have erasers, but still.
For your edification and mine, here is an interesting article. Despite Colby Cosh's charge that The Onion has gone stale, it's still good for the occasional laff.
(Blogger seems to choke quite remarkably on long posts, so here's the rest...)
Yes, my friend Andy has gotten me through tough times. His stage fright only made me love him more. And I remember distinctly spiralling into an impotent rage of one variety or another when I was nineteen years old, putting �Dear God� on my Discman and running into my parents� back yard to jump wildly on their trampoline for those four-odd minutes. I felt infinitely better afterwards: I should submit the exercise to a psychology textbook.
He also handed me one of my loveliest inspirations, however insubstantial it may have been, in the form of the song �Wrapped in Grey�. Liltingly, he explains that �your heart is the big box of paints�� Well, for some criminal period of time, I thought he was saying �Your heart is the beat-box of pain.� When I finally picked up the liner notes and saw that I was wrong, I was momentarily filled with disappointment. In a flash, however, I realized that because he hadn�t said it, the line was my own, and swiftly wrote a rather terrible blank-verse poem surrounding it. This is why pencils have erasers, but still.
For your edification and mine, here is an interesting article. Despite Colby Cosh's charge that The Onion has gone stale, it's still good for the occasional laff.
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