I am waiting for my lasagna to cook as I type. The wonderful smells are driving me insane.
Today should have been a good day; nothing really went wrong, and I got lots of work done at the office. But for some reason I feel a little bummed. It could be that I am just tired, or it could be because I somehow hurt my hip and have to limp around, or that I bought a new CD which ended up sounding a bit like cats in heat (I could hear that for free), but who knows. I think a bath and some lasagna would do me good.
In other news, I wrote a song about the wind. Really. I'm not sure when this trend started, but I've been writing less about events or people and more about stuff. Am I being coherent? I wrote a song last year about the cold after freezing my butt off in downtown Montreal. It turned into a sad love song, of course, but they all do that anyway, whether I'm sad or not. But this trend of writing about nothing specific has had strange effects on me. And on my behaviour.
For one, I've stopped liking when people ask me what a song is about. Like the wind song, for example. I am willing to bet that someone will come up to me and say, "Hey, that song where you went on and on about the wind... what's that about?" and I will say something like, "Well, the wind actually. The other stuff was just to make it longer. So it would become a song. Um."
I just don't have answers like I used to. Before, it was so simple. Oh, that song? That time so-and-so got me lost. That time this person said mean things. That time I was drunk at a lesbian camping festival. It was so much easier! Now I just look uncomfortable and say, "I don't really know. I just liked the words. They suited my mood. Now please get off my foot."