Blogger Killed My Internet Browser

I was merely attempting to edit a draft post, Blogger. No need to get all uppity in the heezy. I know what you're going through, I do. And I try my hardest to be understanding, Blogger, but sometimes you just want to pick a fight. Look into my eyes. This needs to stop right here. Do you hear me loud and distinct? For a long time, it was just you. Just you on your own to make every decision and take every path, but it's not about you anymore. It's about me. My needs!

If it weren't for you unexpectedly shutting down, I could have told the lovely people browsing through here whenever they will (hardly ever) about mine and Matt's excursion last night. Wouldn't you like to hear that story, too, Blogger? Wouldn't you like that?

So Matt and I, after my show last night at Marmalade, decided to go hang around the local outdoor galleria. The night was young. Outside, the air was that sticky hot that clings to the back of your neck and your knees and you can't do anyfuckingthing about it besides embrace that everyone is disgustingly sweaty right now. And we were at the local outdoor galleria, where everyone was disgustingly sweaty.

We walked from one end of the galleria to the other, then turned around, and halfway to the other end, we both sort of slowed down and asked of ourselves, "what are we doing again?" We asked this of ourselves, and then asked each other. The decision was made that both of us were really super in the mood to go eat cheap crap. So we got in Matt's car, drove to the Training Table (a Utah Original), but only after fishing through Matt's graduation cards for giftdollars.

At this point, I feel it necessary to specify that Elan and I made about seventy-five dollars last night purely on tips and five dollar demo CDs, of which we only sold five. You may now take a moment to do the math.

So, technically, I could have paid for both Matt and I. But I didn't want to. I just didn't feel like it. I felt like laying out this money and loose change in a semicircle on my floor and worshipping it. This was the first money we had made for playing original songs. -still loves saying that-

We were in Matt's car, on the way to the Training Table (a Utah Original), and we're listening to all these 80's hits and power ballads and possibly the only actual metal station in all of Utah, and I'm like "FUCK YEAH." Because it was just that hardcore. There I was in a sailor's hat and a striped, woven tank-tunic, my hair a-blowin' in the wind, and it was one of the coolest things I think I've ever done. I felt much cooler than I actually am.

The real cherry atop the night was this pretty little picture I'm going to paint for you: Matt and I, Matt in his Powell-Peralta shirt, in a silver Honda Civic. We climb into his car at eleven o' clock, p.m. and turn on the radio. Out blasts the very first bars of Bohemian Rhapsody. You know, the Queen song. We both exchange a look like "this could not get any fucking cooler." He cranks it up. We drive down the belt route, cool air rushing through the windows, and we're just singing it at the top of our goddamn lungs. His bestickered Civic was our Mirthmobile. He was Wayne, and I was Garth. And we fucking rocked it.