Wonderful Daydream

So, after two weeks of excessive amounts of free time, this week I had to go back to work. So I did. On Monday morning, after a quick shower and a cup of coffee, I went to the office. What I found there was emptiness. Literally. There was no one there. My footsteps echoed through the hallway. Apparently my guess had been correct, that the last week of the year would not be that busy.

However, after while some other people came in. And immediately after that, it became painfully clear how not important my job is. How no one missed me on a professional level, and how basically nobody gives a shit whether I do my job or not. I’m the cloth of dust that everybody acknowledges, but nobody cares to clean up. Within ours my good spirits were gone, and I found myself in a ‘I can’t care less’ stupor. When is it time to move on? When is there that moment that the sky seems to fall down on you, and suddenly you can see, very clearly, the next steps on the path that was darkened for so long?

Well, I’ve decided not to let it bring me down. It’s not fun to realize that one is not necessary, if there is one great motivator -and it works on many levels- it’s the feeling of having a purpose. Being needed for something. If I can’t find that in this work, or work at all, there is probably a lesson stored for me there. Like how you should find purpose within yourself, or realize that purpose is really nothing more then the feeling that you matter. And, that it should not matter to you whether other people think you matter, but that you think you matter. Comprende? In any case, it’s bound to be an interesting year again!

Hmm. Holiday’s are particularly good for those books that have been waiting for you, on the shelve, whispering ‘read me, read me’. During my holidays, they all get a chance to do what they do best, share their insides with me.

One book I was particularly looking forward to was the autobiography from Slash. I got the book as a reward for translating an online bookstore, Bokiboki.co.uk. The motto: it seems excessive, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, particularly came to mind when reading about all the drug use. And boy, Slash did a lot of that. Several times, I had to look up terms I was unfamiliar with, such as freebasing, and speedballing. Apart from the drugs, the constant drinking of booze, in his high times often more then 2 gallons a day, also seems excessive to the point of ridicule. It’s a wonder he still lives. He was clinically dead for 8 minutes, had two heart attacks, and in total kicked the habit cold turkey more then 13 times.

But, being a huge Slash fan, it was very interesting to read how he became the guitar player I so look up to.
If anything, it has gotten me to play my electric guitar again, which I didn’t do for a long time. The setup I have is shit, so I’d resolved to playing acoustically.

I’ve learned a lot of factoids, for instance, the original version of ‘November rain’ was over 18 minutes long. And in ‘Rocket Queen’, during the break, they mixed in the sound of Axl having sex with ‘loud’ girfriend at that time, because they felt the break needed something extra.

For fans of the autobiography genre, or the music genre Slash embodies, it will be a good read. Otherwise, you’re like to put the book away after the first 40 pages.

Well…Some red haired people might be offended, being called a redhead. I’m using it on purpose this time. A) to show the general topic of this blog and B) while it attracts me, it also puzzles me, and slightly frustrates me, and to give a voice to that frustration, I’m naming them as they are. People, women in my case, with red hair.

Walk with me for a minute. In high school, I dated this lovely girl with hair in red hair. Red, with an orange tone in it. She had green eyes to. The whole thing sort of blew up in my face as I was to impressed to actually take action, and it was a pityful morning when she announced (and I quote) ‘You’re like a brother to me’, and that she was dating someone. As history would have it, another red haired girl entered my life, tore me down flesh from bone, spitting in the carcass. One would say that that might gave me some clues. As to whether or not to do that again. Involving myself with other read haired succubi. That from now on I should stick to blonde, or brown, or black, but that under no circumstance I’m to touch the red button EVER AGAIN.

But no. After 10 minutes of slight eye contact, on the birthday party of a friend of mine, I found myself this week, thinking, no singing, my adoration for this woman. I don’t even remember her face. Just her hair color.
Fucketee fuck. I’m screwed. Scratch that. I wish I was screwed.