South Park Self

feelin' nearly faded as my jeans

I woke up on Friday morning with "Me and Bobby McGee" on my brain, where it has remained throughout the weekend. I grew up with the Kris Kristofferson version, which I actually prefer to the Janis Joplin; Janis gets a bit strident for my taste, although I love her whisky-soaked huskiness. I have attempted to exorcise the earworm by hauling out my guitar, which I haven't touched in about a year, and (after a rather extended tuning episode, gosh I have neglected the poor thing, it was about a minor third out of tune) footling around with the song's slighty basic chords and pluck pattern, but it's still rattling around my skull. Currently I have the Kristofferson version on repeat. It may be helping. I wish, however, that my brain wasn't so damned random with these things. I mean, please. Bobby McGee? Honestly. I haven't heard the damned thing in years.

I am feelin' nearly faded as my jeans on account of my sleep patterns, which appear to have been woven, over the last few days, by that spider they gave the caffeine to. I'm twitchy and insomniac, and when I do get to sleep I have nightmares: last night was notable for multiple wakes in which I crouched on the end of my bed saying "please don't" in accents of pitiful terror to the man with the rocket launcher. In retrospect I think he may have been Agent Coulson, which is sad, as I'm fond of Agent Coulson. Phooey. Tonight I shall mix a double dose of the sleeping tabs with a shot of rum, and damn the torpedoes. Bored now.
  • Current Mood: exhausted undeadundeadundead
  • Current Music: Kris Kristofferson "Bobby McGee"