[Devyn]
Okay. Better go.
[Background chatter, urban ambience]
[Stranger]
Excuse me.
[Devyn]
Sorry.
Okay.
April 7th, 2017. I need to get my shit together.
On the bus to therapy. I've been really reluctant to see a therapist but the other day out of nowhere, Natasha recommended one. Simon seconded it, and when I got home and mentioned it to Mandy, she agreed that it might be good for me. Mildly offended, as I feel like I’ve been putting in a ton of work on my own, what could some "professional" tell me that I don't already know?
Sometimes I don't feel respected for my ability to successfully analyze the subtle nuances of my mind’s contours and trailways. And that's a 6 on the 10 scale poetic spectrum, I'd say.
Either way, Mandy told me it'd be a good idea to keep a journal while she's in Colorado, so this feels productive, though admittedly I haven't been doing too good remembering to eat and sleep regularly.
I've really hit a wall regarding the new album, not dissimilar to the Zemblans' dillema under a few more years of Seacrest. Something’s terribly wrong with the mixing, and this compression shit.
"Conventional downward compressors detect when a signal’s amplitude is higher than the threshold and then respond by reducing the amplitude of the signal", says one website that may not even exist. But what does that mean? I'm not sure that anybody actually knows what compressors do. Fast attack, fast release. But regardless, until I know how to use this stupid machine to be the way it needs to be, I will not stop. I’m in tune with myself, I'm in tune with my surroundings, I'm looking out for signs and symbols that will lead me where I need to go. I always figure it out in the end.
God damn it, if this bus isn't a drag, and would you please just shut the fuck up? The curse of gentrification loses a needle to pop this bubble in a lily white liberal haystack.
But I did move here, and I do love this place... from the outside. My mom used to be a resident advisor at the university when Dad was first stationed in Fort Bragg, and that’s how I can exist to write the best record that's ever been written! That's important to remember.
Even still, rumors of our republic's dissent into fascism run rampant. All hail the good President Seacrest- mein fuhrer, I can walk!
The bus driver's obese and I'm sitting next to a man with elephantitis, sitting hand and hand with a big-breasted blonde, with a Cheshire grin plastered above the pointed tip of her chinny chin chin. She should be proud of herself.
Ah phooey, I think my stop's coming up.
Alright. This should go alright.
I'm upfront with my emotions, I can get personal, expose myself, let him get to the root of all my problems and save my life so as to render me a productive element of society. Cause as it stands, I'm a piece of shit obviously. Badly in need of extensive therapy. Expensive therapy, expansive therapy, enhansive entrancing therapy.
He'll look me in the eyes and he'll say, "Devyn, so-
Okay. Better go.
[Background chatter, urban ambience]
[Stranger]
Excuse me.
[Devyn]
Sorry.
Okay.
April 7th, 2017. I need to get my shit together.
On the bus to therapy. I've been really reluctant to see a therapist but the other day out of nowhere, Natasha recommended one. Simon seconded it, and when I got home and mentioned it to Mandy, she agreed that it might be good for me. Mildly offended, as I feel like I’ve been putting in a ton of work on my own, what could some "professional" tell me that I don't already know?
Sometimes I don't feel respected for my ability to successfully analyze the subtle nuances of my mind’s contours and trailways. And that's a 6 on the 10 scale poetic spectrum, I'd say.
Either way, Mandy told me it'd be a good idea to keep a journal while she's in Colorado, so this feels productive, though admittedly I haven't been doing too good remembering to eat and sleep regularly.
I've really hit a wall regarding the new album, not dissimilar to the Zemblans' dillema under a few more years of Seacrest. Something’s terribly wrong with the mixing, and this compression shit.
"Conventional downward compressors detect when a signal’s amplitude is higher than the threshold and then respond by reducing the amplitude of the signal", says one website that may not even exist. But what does that mean? I'm not sure that anybody actually knows what compressors do. Fast attack, fast release. But regardless, until I know how to use this stupid machine to be the way it needs to be, I will not stop. I’m in tune with myself, I'm in tune with my surroundings, I'm looking out for signs and symbols that will lead me where I need to go. I always figure it out in the end.
God damn it, if this bus isn't a drag, and would you please just shut the fuck up? The curse of gentrification loses a needle to pop this bubble in a lily white liberal haystack.
But I did move here, and I do love this place... from the outside. My mom used to be a resident advisor at the university when Dad was first stationed in Fort Bragg, and that’s how I can exist to write the best record that's ever been written! That's important to remember.
Even still, rumors of our republic's dissent into fascism run rampant. All hail the good President Seacrest- mein fuhrer, I can walk!
The bus driver's obese and I'm sitting next to a man with elephantitis, sitting hand and hand with a big-breasted blonde, with a Cheshire grin plastered above the pointed tip of her chinny chin chin. She should be proud of herself.
Ah phooey, I think my stop's coming up.
Alright. This should go alright.
I'm upfront with my emotions, I can get personal, expose myself, let him get to the root of all my problems and save my life so as to render me a productive element of society. Cause as it stands, I'm a piece of shit obviously. Badly in need of extensive therapy. Expensive therapy, expansive therapy, enhansive entrancing therapy.
He'll look me in the eyes and he'll say, "Devyn, so-
( C'est la key )
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