'I don't think I could be with a woman who wouldn't take my name when we were married.''That's a bit...old-fashioned.''What do you think?''I think they should do what they want. If you force your name on them, then, in my opinion, it seems like you're branding them.''Like a cow?''Like a cow. It's as if... you need them to be your property. Which is ridiculous. They have their own mind and theur own free-will. They should do what they want.''I guess. If you want to be a wooly-headed liberal about it.'
I looked down the bell of my saxophone in order to try and find meaning. There was none, only slightly rusty metal.Trying to find meaning in words, and reading too much into them. Or, am I reading the right amount, and just don't want to admit what they can mean?I feel...inadequate.I would like to be...more than adequate.I'll try. That's all I can do.I never realised I was on a swing. Up and down.Meaning was nowhere. Nowhere that I looked. I should look harder.I need to speak to my rock. He'll help.
My head is really itchy.With bad thoughts, I would assume. Prickling my skin. Irritating. Annoying.Scratch them away. Better, but not better. Slight relief only. Too many bad thoughts, too many bad ideas.Scratch harder. Harder still. Remove the itch. Fight it. Force it to flee.It's still there. They are still there. Taunting me. Mocking my inadequacy. I'll show them.Harder and harder and harder.Blood on my fingers. This means I'm winning. All I have to do is scratch harder and harder and harder.The thoughts are still there. Flaunting themselves at me.Harder and harder.
Hello.Aaarrrgh! Where did you get that spaceship???Ikea. It's cheaper, but you have to make it yourself.It looks like a giant saucer and smells like cheese.It is a giant saucer. It smells like cheese because the milk that I keep in it has...matured.Someone threw a piece of cheese at me this morning... then I thought to myself, "That's not very mature"....You disgust me.Your lack of humour disgusts me.Coming from someone who makes a cheese joke....because they're mature and you're not?You're the immature one.Fine.I'm glad you agree with me.
There was a man who could hear music in his head.New music, as yet unplaced upon any score. All the time, during waking and sleeping hours, the most beautiful of mew music would float and dance its way through his head.It was mostly classical, full of violins, flutes and big brass sections. Sometimes, a swarthy jazz melody would saunter through, treating the classical music to a slight smirk.However, the man could never pin the music down. He could not force it onto a sheet. It never sounded the same, only a cheap imitation of the actual artwork.