I Can’t Sing: Day 16
There is not a cubic millimeter on my body that wants to write tonight.
I’m fresh off 36 hours of traveling with a raging alcoholic that guzzles whiskey like Gatorade. 36 hours that might as well have been quadrupled because I spent the whole time strategically avoiding someone that was sitting right next to me at all times.
I’m listening to Ghetto Cowboy by Mo Thugs right now. It was one of my favorite rap songs growing up. When I was less than 7 I used to play with my action figures in the bathtub while listening to Tupac’s All Eyez On Me on my tape player.
My eyes are heavy. Too heavy. I saw the street signs driving home, it was raining and peaceful. I knew which roads to take but only for the reason that antelope know to migrate across the plains every year. I have a working theory that you can get used to anything, as in, anything can become normal if you do it repeatedly. With the repetition comes the difficulty in understanding the meaning. Then a little later comes the meaning of everything.
I often find myself searching for profound words and thoughts to prove my intelligence. I just wish for one day I could read my writing as someone else. Because what makes someone keep writing other than the opinions of others?
Is there such a thing that I care about enough to do just for myself? Do you have one? I’m not talking about the one you say you have I’m talking about the one that you really have because you physically have to do it or you will not be able to function. Where the motivation is pure.
We talked at dinner tonight about being born for things.
“Do you really believe that?” Chris asked.
“I’d like to think so.”
But really I’m not sure. Because even in the glory there’s the chance of not believing in anything.
I’ve switched to the playlist AA built for our wedding. She doesn’t want to leave it up to a DJ because it’s very likely that you’d hear, “It was all a dream…” within 10 seconds. Not that everyone wouldn’t cover their mouths with their hands and say, “Awww shiiiiiiiiit!” but the truth would set in soon that the song only has legs for about 30 seconds and then it’s just us again looking around for the girl carrying the champagne on the trays. With the champagne comes the freedom.
It was a sad day when I learned that I couldn’t sing myself. I used that same tape player to record myself singing Boyz II Men’s “End Of The Road.” I just assumed it was going to sound great. I even closed my eyes and made a fist while recording. It was pretty disappointing to play the tape back. I figured it was because I hadn’t gone through puberty yet.
Another sad day came after my voice dropped and I still couldn’t sing.
I’ve always envied people that can sing. That shit is given to you at birth so you can give people the chills your whole life.
