You don't have to play it. It's on here for me.
Land of Talk- Some Are Lakes
I am thankful for birthdays. For lots of reasons
Number 1: Everyone has one, yet on theirs, they feel like a million bucks
Number 2: Gives you a chance to show someone how much, or how little you care about them based on a phone call, wall post, or size/ price of a gift
Number 3: The opposite of number 2. You get to see who your real friends are
Number 4: Gives you something to do during the long, cold, miserable days of the Rexburg winter.
Lately I've been really good about writing all of my missionaries. Okay, Barret and some guy I've never met. As I was writing a letter today, I realized how self centered letters are. All you do is talk about yourself. Literally. And there is no one to stop and interrupt you, so you just keep rambling on about Y.O.U. Talk about a one sided conversation.
I think it is the most egoistical release, 2nd to diaries. Even facebook takes a backseat this time.
The crazy part is, everyone LOVES getting letters. Real, handwritten letters. We hang on every word! But have you really read the content? It's all about someone else! We can't stand to have a conversation with someone and just LISTEN, we have to butt in every minute or so with our two cents. So why are letters different? Why do we enjoy reading about someone else when we can't stand to hear about them? It's beyond me, but I keep checkin my mailbox every day. So if you need a self esteem boost, send me some snail mail.
(And boys too I guess)
I was just thinking about reasons why people blog. Again. Some use it as a diary. Some to keep their family updated. Me? I do it for you baby. So sorry if some [all] entries bore you, but Im only so clever.
And I guess I do it because I don't really have anything better to do
Where oh where has Sufjan Stevens gone? He has fallen off the musical map, but the other night, I found him. In my dreams.
Built to Spill said, "No one wants to hear what you dreamed about. Unless you dreamed about them. Don't let that stop you, just make it up as you go." So you ALL were in the dream. Whether we've met or not.
It took place back in Washington, specifically in a warehouse on the boardwalk. He was coming to play in University Place, and my friends from the Thai House in Rexburg knew him, so he was going to stay with them. We were hanging out before the show, and apparently we were the only ones that were hungry, cause we ended up getting food. Just me and him. I don't know why, but he thought I was so cool, and didn't want to go the show, just hang out with me.
Who's got cabin fever? I've got cabin fever!!!!
It has been 3 days that I have been without a vehicle. Yes, I have a bicycle and yes I have legs, but have you been outside? No wait, have you been outside in Rexburg? Also, did you take into account that I live at the top of the ONLY hill in Rexburg, and literally everything else is at the bottom of the hill. Now think again about judging me for not wanting to walk everywhere.
Yesterday, my friend broke me out and took me to Horkley's.
It was AMAZING! Let me see if I can better describe this for you...
You know when you are leaving your house, and your dog looks up at you with those big eyes, as if to say, "Hey, where ya goin? Can I come? Can I? Can I?" And you think to yourself, eh, it's only the bank. "Come on!" This outing to the bank has just become the best day. They stick their head out the window, just lovin life! Well that was me. No joke. I literally stuck my head out the window and shouted, "Hello world!"
Best day ever!!!!!
A special thanks to all those who have given me rides and for taking me to the bank!
Hot breath. Rough skin. Warm laughs and smiling. The lovliest words. Whispered and meant. You like all these things.
But, though you like all these things, you love a stone. You love a stone. Because it's smooth and it's cold. And you'd love most to be told that it's all your own.
You love white veins. You love hard grey. The heaviest weight. The clumsiest shape. The earthiest smell. The hollowest tone. You love a stone.
And I'm found too fast. Called too fond of flames. And then I'm phoning my friends. And then I'm shouldering the blame. While you're picking pebbles out of the drain miles ago. You're out singing songs and I'm down shouting names at the flickerless screen. Going insane. Am I losing my cool? Overstating my case? Well, baby what can I say?
You know I never claimed that I was a stone.
And you love a stone. You love white veins. You love hard grey. The heaviest weight. The clumsiest shape. The earthiest smell. The hollowest tone. You love a stone.
You love a stone. Because it's dark and it's old. And if it could start being alive, you'd stop living alone. And I think I believe that, if stones could dream, they'd dream of being laid side-by-side, piece-by-piece, and turned into a castle for some towering queen they're unable to know.
And when that queen's daughter came of age, I think she'd be lovely and stubborn and brave, and suitors would journey from kingdoms away just to make themselves known.
And I think that I know the bitter dismay of a lover who brought fresh brouquets every day. When she turned him away to remember some knave who once gave just one rose. One day. Years ago.