Just because I see a woman in a revealing outfit and think she is attractive, I suddenly lose control and I simply must fuck her against her will?

I don’t know how all of the men working in the media or the police force or on the Internet or whatever harping about how the “women shouldn’t dress like whores” aren’t insulted by the insinuation that if a man sees a “whore”, all his cognitive functions fly out the window.

We are men. We are supposedly intelligent human beings. We are not uncontrollable barbarians. We think. We make decisions. And we should know that when a women says “No, I don’t want to be raped”, then she doesn’t want to be fucking raped.

OH NO.

But then I realized that when they unfollowed me, they likely had to think about what my blog is and what it’s about and then make the decision to not have me on their dash anymore. Even if just for a millisecond, they had to think about who I present myself to be and what I choose to let the world see about me. And maybe I’ve changed from the time they decided to follow me. Maybe they’ve changed. It doesn’t matter.

At some point they looked at my blog and decided they liked what I posted about. And then again some time earlier today they thought about me and my blog and decided it was time for a change. And that’s okay.

It’s nice to know that someone appreciated you at some point, and that someone thought about you recently. So thank you, unfollower, whoever you are. I hope your dash is better now.

My favourite person in the world is five hours away and I miss her.

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I’m not a very good musician. 

It takes me a long time to learn something. I can’t play anything by ear, beyond simple one-line melodies. I can’t compose. And don’t even get me started on theory.

It can be so difficult. Sometimes it makes me feel like shit. I think about how absolutely amazing people are - they’re “real” musicians, I think. Then there’s me, tinkering shabbily at a piano or just blowing wind through my clarinet. What am I doing?

So often, I want to just stop. Quit. Do something I’m actually good at. It’s too hard, too demoralizing, too stressful, too depressing. It’s not like I’m going to make a living with music, or even do anything beyond recreational playing. Why bother? Why put myself through this?

But then I listen. I’m moved by that soft, emotional piano piece. I’m stunned by that improvised jazz saxophone lick, or awed by how powerful that singer’s voice is. How can someone possibly get through those 16th-note clarinet runs so effortlessly? How is it even possible for someone’s fingers to fly across the piano that flawlessly? 

How can a mere collection of pitches evoke so many feelings?

In the end, I can’t leave. I can’t just walk away - not because I’m brilliantly gifted, or because I profit financially or materialistically from it, but because of the simple fact that I love it. 

I love listening to the many people who are many levels above me. I love learning new pieces. I love the feeling of playing my instruments. I love the rush of performing, the relief and elation that follows a great show or performance. I love the fact that I can create something as beautiful and amazing as music. 

And because of that, I will always come back.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some practicing to do.

When I wake up tomorrow morning, I will no longer be a high school student.

Chemistry on Wednesday, and biology on Thursday. Then I have physics, math, and music the next week.

I haven’t even really started studying.

And I feel nothing.

Is this senioritus? I never thought I’d get caught in that. I was always that damn overachiever who was sad he got a 90 instead of perfect. I should be freaking out right now.

But I’m not.

Even though my brain is telling me that I need to study and that I’m going to be so disappointed in myself later, I still feel absolutely nothing. No sense of urgency. No panic. Just nothing.

Is this what twelve years of school does to you?