Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Band practice. The last one was a blood bath. Not for humans, well, of the roughly six billion on the planet some of them were involved, but rather for the mosquitoes who had seen fit to invade our practice room. There was much slapping and smearing all over the walls, mostly by a visitor named Emily. I was singing a song, the only one where I sing the lead, and decided it was a good idea to kill one in the middle of a verse. I of course acted on the impulse and killed it, slapping my hand against the wall quite hard. This did what it was supposed to do in that it took the life of the annoying insect, but it also accomplished something more, something unintended. It caused the dead carcass to stick to my hand. I don't know about you, but I don't really like dead things on my hands, less so when I'm singing. I didn't really know what to do. I did keep singing, and only the others can tell you how well, but I started to look around awkwardly, as if I didn't know what to do, which made sense considering I didn't. I tried shaking it off. Didn't work. I tried waving it off. Didn't work. I tried staring at it, giving it the "stink eye", but that didn't work either. All of this is happening during one verse and chorus of the song. Finally, the real singer in the band decides that enough is enough and goes digging in his pockets, finds a packet of Kleenex. He takes one out, gives it to me, gives me a look which seemed to suggest that I got what I deserved and that I shouldn't have been walking around hitting things to begin with (he was right of course, but I just hate those little insects so much). Of course, I wiped the bug off of my hand and continued on with the song. Then sang it again because the first time was a bit of a distracted version with everyone but our wonderful pianist/conga/penny-whistle player knowing what was going on.

I start school tomorow morning at 10:00. Should be good. I need something.

Summary in seven words: Story time over, come again next week.

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