Thoughts on Cool

Ira Glass has an annoying and penetrating voice.

Joni Mitchell looks like the lady in the Carrie movie. And her lyrics never match her melodies.

Elliot Smith's music makes me want to kill myself. Something about the intimate voice and thrumming guitar creeps me out. It brings up disturbing mental images of razors and veins and dark cupboards.

In a lot of ways, I'm turning into my mother. I listen to NPR on the way to school and snort and comment to myself. When we laugh, we both do this sighing-oh-dear thing at the end, in unison. I retreat into the bathroom when I'm upset, the click of the door shutting behind me calms me down.

I've found the person to blame for Bob Dylan and his tuneless music: Woody Guthrie. A legacy of melodic havoc and disharmony continues.

I can't write. All I want to write about are all the stupid things that have happened to me.

They're way too cool for me. And there's one girl among many many guys. She has wavy black hair, cigarette smoke, and long legs. 1 for 3. maybe.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you stole the oreos from the guy sitting across from you? In kindergarden I got a friend, this year I just got ostracized.

So you look the way you want to but you lost your soul.

My sister breaks vacuums. It's her mechanical ability. I break keyboards. But I still type on them.

The monsters that live in my room have been domesticated.

I keep losing my library card. Those nice librarians keep giving me replacement new cards that I lose all over again. Then I find three different cards and don't know which one is the right one. And I can't find any of them when it's time to go back.

In betweeen getting to know you and you getting to know me, I get impatient. I apologize in advance. You're in the middle of your life story and I'm leaving, my car is in reverse and speeding away. In my mind that is. I could never do anything that mean, so I listen and wish I could leave.



My dreaming has reached a state beyond expression.