  A tongue-in-cheek observation: after two hours of straight piano, I have a right to muse. Happily, my fingers are still warmed up from playing and I can type somewhat better.
Too bad my shoulder cramped and my middle finger feels funny after trying to make all those 4 eighth note groups even. Strokes. I was more intolerant before, but Postal Service is playing. I can't help it, every time I listen I can't help but smile, especially for the first three tracks.
Postal Service is the feeling of falling of love. Of crying because you're so happy for no apparent reason. Of peace, of careful but nostalgic retrospective. So here's the plan. I have no plan. I just realized that, too. I don't know, just lay low, I guess. I keep convincing myself that independence is the solution to all my problems: I wouldn't have to sit around thinking what I should do during lunch because I could just drive to the clubhouse and have a sandwich and curly fries.
Well, that's the thing that bugs me most right now--because I'm busy the rest of the time. Lunch is such an annoying window of time: antisocial Lydia does not wish to venture to the rosy place nor does she wish to ensconce herself in the indefinite depths of the library. So now what? Driving to pick up Austin from school today, Mom and I found that a section of Hillcrest had been blocked off. There were police at the intersection and ambulances whining. Later, P told me that someone had died in the ER that day, and we both think it was that accident. Apparently, it was an elderly couple driving. The wife died, but the husband survived. P noted the crowd of relatives waiting in emergency today.
Imagine resting in pain in your hospital bed inside one of those glass pens in the ICU. You have tubes taped and stuck all over you, you are numbed by pain. And you know that your wife is dead. How do you heal? In retrospect, I regret laughing so hard in the stairwell. Someone told me to keep it down. Somehow I reassure myself it's ok because people come to life, too, inside that hospital.
But is it? Death is an inevitability, but it's ever more poignant when it's a car accident. I dislike M very much now. Disneyland somehow mailed journalism three free passes to the opening of the Tower of Terror at California Adventure: one for the adviser, two for students. Brandon was a shoe-in. M totally volunteers herself: "I'M GOING TOO! " And that wasn't the only time she said it either. When Mrs. B brought it up again, she was quick to remind her that SHE was going. Maybe C was going to go too. Nobody dared to be so verbal or to announced that THEY were the one worthy journalistically of half a day at Disneyland for a new ride, with free food. I'm sorry, but how inconsiderate is that? I'm sure nobody can say that she's the hardest worker on the paper staff, or that she has any other special merits that qualify her for that one ticket up for grabs.
She's usually busy with something else during deadline. Granted, it's probably some other official business, but if she can't be at B's working on the paper, what use is she to the Arrow? And how does she justify that SHE deserves that last ticket? What angers me is that 1. she dares assume that she is the one who is worthy.
It's not even a question of "Can I go too? " It's blatant "I'M GOING! " and 2. nobody else is fighting over it. Nobody has the audacity, the rudeness, to volunteer themselves for the prize unjustified. So maybe she's book smart, but that's terrible character. If anything, that last ticket should go to P, or even K. At least T has the people skills. I'm just disgusted she thinks she's earned it.
So I dismount the soapbox. Disclaimer: I hope you guys know this already, but if you take everything word for word seriously in here you're in for a lot of 1. overanalysis and 2. uneccessary bother. This is probably stream-of-consciousness writing, done in the heat of passion--or lack thereof. I won't account for the complete veracity of all of this. And I'm not going to stifle my thoughts or my personality just to make any audience member happy. In short, don't take this as Clif's Notes on Lydia without checking, or you're setting yourself up for choppy logic. Unfortunately, I've reached a trough. It's all mental. 
