The problem is we let it into our homes. “The call’s coming from inside the house.” Seriously, could that be why comments on almost every internet article are so heinous? So offensive? Why twitter can go from hilarious to soul-crushing in one simple string of 140 characters? Because if I overheard almost outlandishly racist comments in the public ladies bathroom, I’d forget about it for like six hours and then right before bed suddenly remember and tell Josh about it and then forget again.
I may well become the recluse I always intended to be. Well. I mean, I may – with the help of sweet Jesus – actually disallow myself to log onto the internet in the comfort of my own home. Eventually. Because, seriously, it’s my home. And there’s a bunch of crazy strangers popping up all the time. Strangers I had no intention of engaging or hearing or anything. And then I’m upset and it lingers because home is where you go to find refuge but it *happened* here! Does that make sense? (Of course it does.)
And then also: I am nursing a three day old Antonio Pinto addiction. Have you ever watched a movie based on hearing the score? Then you and I can’t be friends. (I assumed you said no, which is crazy because who *hasn’t* done that!?) And also, I’m sort of lying because I’ve been addicted to Antonio Pinto’s “Requiem” piece in Collateral since I saw the film in the theatre. But I was looking him up the other day and came across a number of songs from Lord of War and then this happened:
Le Pass. Out. I was rereading – in prep for possible revision – one of my manuscripts and Lord have mercy. I seriously bought a defibrillator for all the times my heart stopped. O_O (I hate talking about writing and music sometimes because then I’m like, what if this isn’t the end all be all to the person reading this and a piece of me dies.)