Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Last night, I listened to depressing music followed by the latest episode of Skins followed by more depressing music. I prefer depression these days, it seems. There’s probably some psychological term for people like me. And whatever it is, I’m sure it’s absolute bullshit. Not that I thrive on depression. Not at all. It’s the sense that I’m undeserving of an ounce of happiness. This morning, my physical body caught up to my emotional one. Something I did yesterday has caused me to remain prostrate in bed for most of the day.

I listened to each song carefully last night, writing down the ones that caught my attention the most. I’m compiling a list—I share it here along with a story or a review or whatever—to burn on a CD (who does that anymore?—Trust me, if I could, I’d be recording mixes on cassette tapes).

The other night, I started writing a letter. Ashton knows about it. I meant to share it on here, but it’s far from completion. Even my correspondence goes through drafts, apparently. So many thoughts traveling through my head. Sometimes I just want to meet someone who can just—I don’t know—balance me. That’s not so much to ask for, is it?

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