You can take the darkness from the pit of the night
and turn it to a beacon burning endlessly bright.
I gotta follow it, ’cause everything I know
well it’s nothing ’till I give it to you.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Give what? Darkness… into… beacon? I guess Air Supply is just too deep for me. Move over Pink Floyd, now there’s something profoundier.
I don’t care though, because Air Supply kicks ass! If I had a time machine, that’s who I’d go back in time to see in concert. And Bread. Can’t forget about Bread. They’re coming up in the index very soon. I’m getting all tingly just thinking about it.
Come on, you all knew I was disturbed. Maybe you didn’t know until now how much, but you knew. And you probably could have guessed. But I don’t feel bad. Not in the slightest. Because I’m sure there are similar treasures in all of your collections. You know, the ones you hide when all your friends come over, but then secretly play in the middle of the night; hands clutched tightly as you silently mouth the words, all your hopes and dreams coming true for that brief, flickering moment in time. Admit it, you know it’s true.
Isn’t music funny that way? There are songs, nay, entire groups that we hate to love. Some of the sickest, sappiest, crap, and we can’t help ourselves… we have to listen. I blame my parents. That’s right. A good portion of theun/desirable music that I can’t seem to resist was introduced to me as a child. Hours spent sitting in front of a cassette player, rewinding Sweet Transvestite, Annie’s Song, andMaking Love Out of Nothing At All to play over and over. That’s right. Thanks, mom. Thanks, dad. Now everyone thinks I’m gay.
But on to a serious note. I’m sure I’ve mentioned being a hypocrite before. It’s so easy sometimes, and I’m having one of those “sometimes” right nowtime.
If you remember, I just spent a great deal of energy bashing my writing teacher. Well, today we got our first essays back from him. I wasn’t surprised that I got an A, but was a little surprised that he only made 2 suggestions for the whole thing, both of them small. And his comment at the end was something akin to: “Superb. You should consider doing something with your writing skills.”
Aw, come on, man! How am I supposed to handle that? I’m a compliment whore! Regardless of what I think of his teaching standards, he still must have some basis on which to make judgments like that. Maybe not, but I still like the sound of it. Who doesn’t? Okay, there are freaks out there who don’ t know how to take a compliment, but the number of them that I know is very small in comparison.
So I’m stuck with being a hypocrite. At least for a day. Next time I see him, I’ll be back to my old judgmental self. And it’ll probably be worse, especially if I don’t get a good grade on the next paper. I’ll be like, “Oh, so you were just lying to me before?” Or, “What, this paper isn’t good enough for you?” You just can’t win against yourself once someone compliments you. There’s a standard that must now be met. A rigid and unyielding level of quality that won’t let you slack off. And it’s all in your head.
I’ll be looking at him thinking “who the hell are you and why do you think you’re so good at what just because you’re teaching here I mean you’re asking a basic writing class for opinions about your novel for Pete’s sake so how can you possibly be a good judge of what’s good writing and if you’re not then maybe my stuff really isn’t that good and where the hell do you get off saying I can’t write you lousy sack of bean curd I oughtta show you a thing or two you hot hunk you wanna go listen to some Air Supply sometime and oh crap.”
Thanks, mom. Thanks, dad. Why couldn’t you have been Skynyrd fans?