"I Can't Relate To Your Constant Static"
The static is driving me crazy.
The static on the radio, as the song flickers in and out, the radio that keeps me sane, that provides a strange companionship, the radio that sits next to me day after day and plays the same freaking songs over and over and over. Don't ask me why I'm even listening to it, but it doesn't feel as empty as playing CDs from my own collection.
The static play of life, as I realize that nothing ever changes fast enough to satisfy me. Maybe I'm demanding, but I'm getting tired of playing the same roles over and over with people, a stilted dance with the moves carefully scripted. I'm going to break out of the circle and get some punch for a while or something. Except make that punch some water (not too cold, no ice -- I'm picky). Perfect, thank you. Where were we? Oh yeah, I was standing on the sidelines watching everyone dance. From my vantage point, I can see that you're all crazy.
The static cling that builds up in the dryer and just reminds me that I have a pile of clothes to fold and put away and so little time to do it. This doesn't bother me, it's the translation to life itself that bugs me. All my assignments and obligations and jobs are the clothes, and I'm the tired-out twenty-year-old sprawled on the floor next to the basket pleading with the garments to just fold themselves. They never do.
The end.
The static on the radio, as the song flickers in and out, the radio that keeps me sane, that provides a strange companionship, the radio that sits next to me day after day and plays the same freaking songs over and over and over. Don't ask me why I'm even listening to it, but it doesn't feel as empty as playing CDs from my own collection.
The static play of life, as I realize that nothing ever changes fast enough to satisfy me. Maybe I'm demanding, but I'm getting tired of playing the same roles over and over with people, a stilted dance with the moves carefully scripted. I'm going to break out of the circle and get some punch for a while or something. Except make that punch some water (not too cold, no ice -- I'm picky). Perfect, thank you. Where were we? Oh yeah, I was standing on the sidelines watching everyone dance. From my vantage point, I can see that you're all crazy.
The static cling that builds up in the dryer and just reminds me that I have a pile of clothes to fold and put away and so little time to do it. This doesn't bother me, it's the translation to life itself that bugs me. All my assignments and obligations and jobs are the clothes, and I'm the tired-out twenty-year-old sprawled on the floor next to the basket pleading with the garments to just fold themselves. They never do.
The end.
posted by juxtaposer at 1:40 PM
4 Comments:
if you were to go to Milla Jovovich's official European website you wood see a jutebox featcher that plays a lot of songs you never heard before
But I can't listen to things on the computer I have. That's the problem.
All my computer's have the mighty one inch speaker's or I can plug in to the really mighty Bose with 3.5mm connectorg
Static. Reminds me of Wilson. He hates static. But you have no clue who Wilson is, at least not yet.
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