Fellow dorks, I present: LOLTHULHU.
I want to hurl my piano through the window. I'm trying to learn this idiot hymn, and now that I have all the difficult parts down, I'm making mistakes that I didn't even make when I first sat down to learn it. This happens to me all the time. I'd say I'd overpracticed, but I haven't.
Before last week, I'd always been able to practice during church with the sound off because I was at the back of the room. I know that sounds awful, but doing something with my hands really helps me focus (remember that article I posted from a while back?). This way everyone wins: I play better, work out my nerves, and I pay attention better.
Well. We got a new sound system, and we had to move the piano up to the front. I almost died last week when I walked in and saw the piano up there. Well, just cold, sweaty hands and armpits. No death. But I wanted death. Wanted it very much. It didn't come. Stupid death.
(Also, why do our hands sweat when we're scared? That makes no sense. When one is scared of something, whether it be playing the piano or maniacs with axes, wouldn't drier hands be more helpful? I love it when my fingers slip all over the keys. Really boosts the old confidence.)
I just ran through that hymn again. Twice. Perfectly. Seems I was just overpracticing. It's hard to know when I've done that or when I just suck.
The weather has been fabulous the last two days. In the 70s, sunny. I dragged James on a walk today. He loves it when I do that. We were out for over two hours. My shoulders burned like crazy. They always burn like crazy. Every spring. And then I'm all surprised when it happens. Again. Every spring. I don't know why it's just my shoulders. But, this means they'll peel. I like it when they peel. Boo to skin cancer, though.
This town is just packed to the gills with tacky lawn ornaments. Fake deer, mostly. One town over there is a really creepy set of lawn ornaments in someone's front lawn. They're wooden silhouettes of a man and a kid waving to passersby. They have painted-on clothes and caps. And no faces. Just blank, beigey-pink, spaces. Brrr.
The Child can now push herself into a standing position by herself if she has something to balance against. I think she might be an early walker. This worries me.
Most nights I go in to peek at her before I go to bed. The night before last, I went in, and she was lying on her back, in a corner, the side of her head parallel to the headboard and the rest of her body parallel to the sides. I don't really know how that's possible. She has non-Euclidean geometry. Maybe she's Cthulhu.
This would explain the incomprehensible babbling she does all.day.and.night.long. It's not gibberish; it's an extra-planar language from beyond the brink of madness. I'm probably going to wake up at four o'clock with The Child giving me the Soul Stare (if you know any babies or cats, you know what I'm talking about), and her eyes will be glowing yellow, and creatures from a 42-dimensional universe will be swarming about the bedroom, chittering.
If I suddenly disappear, you can pretty much assume that's what happened.