1. For the past two days, I've listened to nothing but Avicii's "Penguin" on repeat. I don't know if I find the repetition soothing, if it makes for good background noise while I'm doing my work, if I just really, really, really like the song, or if it's a combination of all three. All I know is that I really have had no desire to listen to anything else, and when I do try to listen to other songs, I keep going back to "Penguin" and then proceed to listen to it 50 times in a row. You'd think I'd be so tired of this song I'd slash my wrists if I ever heard it again, but so far, that's not the case. It's like I'm weirdly hypnotized by it. I'm listening to it as I type up this post, in fact.
2. My mind always goes to worst case or craziest scenario. Example: Let's say I'm out walking my dog and I smell something foul. Here are the possible reasons for the odor in ascending levels of crazy:
-dead animal wrapped in garbage laying on top of a compost pile with feces and stagnant water
-decomposing human body
Guess where my mind goes 99.9% of the time? The last one. Hand to God. I smell something bad and I immediately think, "Holy shit, what if there's a dead body buried nearby and it's decomposing?" Then I get into a moral crisis: "Should I check to see what the cause of the smell is? What if I don't and it turns out to really be a decomposing human body and someone out there is getting away with murder because I don't want to bother to check? If I don't check and it actually does turn out to be a decomposing human body, is my soul forever damned to the fiery pits of Hell because I just kept RIGHT ON WALKING?! DOES THIS MAKE ME A BAD PERSON?!" It should be noted that when I reach this level of ridiculousness I realize how silly I'm being and give myself a reality check. To date, I HAVE NEVER CHECKED FOR DECOMPOSING HUMAN BODIES. I may be a little morbid and crazy, but I'm not THAT crazy. Not yet, anyway.
3. I have a love/hate relationship with my saxophone. I played the alto sax from 7th grade through the fall semester of my sophomore year in high school. I both loved and hated it. My parents loved it because they thought it would help alleviate my asthma (a theory which has yet, to my knowledge anyway, to be supported with actual scientific and/or medical research). I loved the idea of playing it, but I hated actually practicing, which is probably why I never did it outside of class and after school band practice. Despite all this, I still cannot bring myself to get rid of it. It sits in its case in my closet, collecting dust, rarely being brought out. Sometimes I'll get all motivated and swear to myself that this time I'll put effort into playing it and learn how to play jazz until I'm crazy good. I tell myself that I'll practice after work every day, buy new reeds that will be easier to play on, and really dedicate myself to learning how to master my instrument. It was during one of these fits of motivation that I took out my sax, put it together, looked at it, decided I'd really rather do something else like read, or watch TV, or look at the grass grow, and subsequently took it apart and put it away. Other times I'll play for a total of ten minutes before deciding I'm over it. Yet I have this sentimental attachment that prevents me from getting rid of it.
4. Sometimes, when I'm really tired, I'll write instead of going to bed. Tonight is one of those nights. But now I'm going to bed. And if you wake me up, I will probably be really bitchy because I hate being woken up. So DON'T DO IT. Bye bye.