Ever since Adam told me that I have the range of a soprano...
I have been living on cloud nine. Derek told me repeatedly that I have a good voice and since he is the one with umpteen bajillion years of vocal training (and a hell of a voice), I slowly began to believe him. Everything was up for grabs though until a true professional tells me that my passagio is settling down and I have the range of a soprano. This doesn't meant that I can SING like one- and I don't want to anyway. I am damned proud to be an alto. However, it's nice to know that I have something special about me. *squeak*
Bruce is in San Diego. He's warm. He's working his nonexistant ass off. He found a few minutes to email me. That was a nice surprise. I've been calling him at his hotel at 2 AM my time. He's fun to talk to when he's three-quarters asleep yet doesn't want me to go.
I bought a new purse. I had one that I got last Christmas that was being held together with hot glue. The hot glue peeled off and I couldn't find the camoflage duct tape, so I went to Wal-Mart, recharged my phone card and bought a new one. It's khaki denim as sort of an homage to the baby cack yellow of my slut purse. Everything fits, with room to spare. It's almost a purse of holding. It rocks.
Ah... the slut purse. It was named such when I was in Lawrence a couple of weeks ago at one of Bruce's volleyball games. I was sitting primly in the stands when Bruce's best friend Kate walks in. She is drugged on Nyquil and she looks stressed so I started to make her laugh. In the end, my holey and raggedy purse was a crack whore and I was going to be it's pimp in a really big chartruse zebra striped pimp hat with a magenta ostrich feather and a braided leather chin strap with a leather tassel. My purse was cuddled up next to someone else's hooded sweatshirt instead of Kate's. Slut.
Apartment hunting has been narrowed down to one. If I can just find a day for my dad to see it...
Because I love the Carpenters and because I'm learning to sing and because I used to sing this song when I was four, I'm going to post this and you're all going to like it.
Sing, sing a song
Sing out loud
Sing out strong
Sing of good things not bad
Sing of happy not sad
(*) Sing, sing a song
Make it simple to last
Your whole life long
Don’t worry that it’s not
Good enough for anyone
Else to hear
Just sing, sing a song
La la la la la
La la la la la la...
Sing, sing a song
Let the world sing along
Sing of love there could be
Sing for you and for me
Repeat (*)
I'm dealing with lingering guilt and pangs of nostalgic sadness. I'm trying to decide what I should do about it. I feel as if anything I do or say now will only rub salt into the wound. *sigh* I think I'm going to have to ponder on the idea some more.
Bruce is in San Diego. He's warm. He's working his nonexistant ass off. He found a few minutes to email me. That was a nice surprise. I've been calling him at his hotel at 2 AM my time. He's fun to talk to when he's three-quarters asleep yet doesn't want me to go.
I bought a new purse. I had one that I got last Christmas that was being held together with hot glue. The hot glue peeled off and I couldn't find the camoflage duct tape, so I went to Wal-Mart, recharged my phone card and bought a new one. It's khaki denim as sort of an homage to the baby cack yellow of my slut purse. Everything fits, with room to spare. It's almost a purse of holding. It rocks.
Ah... the slut purse. It was named such when I was in Lawrence a couple of weeks ago at one of Bruce's volleyball games. I was sitting primly in the stands when Bruce's best friend Kate walks in. She is drugged on Nyquil and she looks stressed so I started to make her laugh. In the end, my holey and raggedy purse was a crack whore and I was going to be it's pimp in a really big chartruse zebra striped pimp hat with a magenta ostrich feather and a braided leather chin strap with a leather tassel. My purse was cuddled up next to someone else's hooded sweatshirt instead of Kate's. Slut.
Apartment hunting has been narrowed down to one. If I can just find a day for my dad to see it...
Because I love the Carpenters and because I'm learning to sing and because I used to sing this song when I was four, I'm going to post this and you're all going to like it.
Sing, sing a song
Sing out loud
Sing out strong
Sing of good things not bad
Sing of happy not sad
(*) Sing, sing a song
Make it simple to last
Your whole life long
Don’t worry that it’s not
Good enough for anyone
Else to hear
Just sing, sing a song
La la la la la
La la la la la la...
Sing, sing a song
Let the world sing along
Sing of love there could be
Sing for you and for me
Repeat (*)
I'm dealing with lingering guilt and pangs of nostalgic sadness. I'm trying to decide what I should do about it. I feel as if anything I do or say now will only rub salt into the wound. *sigh* I think I'm going to have to ponder on the idea some more.