Ping Pong

I used to wonder if I was manic-depressant, or sometimes just manic-manic... sometimes depressant-depressant. Now I have to wonder if I simply lacked a stable, constant source of the right music.

Does music dictate the mood, or does your mood decide the music? I think you can force feed your emotions. Go ahead, wake up on the wrong side of the bed, but start your morning with the right blend of goofy-ass indie rock, or poppy-random techno, and your synapses have no option but to start sparking in a lighter shade of electric blue. Try it: pre-load something into your stereo (MP3, CD, I don't care)... then break the rules by blasting yourself senseless right when you get up.

My mother is reading this right now, assuredly picturing Bob in a panic at 4:45am while she skitters about the living room, electric-sliding to Paul Oakenfold's latest electronic remix of Elvis Presley's "Rubberneckin".... OK, so maybe you have to change your plans if you live with someone else. But hey maybe you can force-feed their emotions, too (DISCLAIMER: I can not take responsibility for adverse reactions).

The point? There is none. I suppose I wanted to finally write a post that didn't scour and examine the depth of my soul. I mean, come on, if I continue the trend of my writing topics I'd have to rename my blog to something more like: Melancholy-R-Us, Fear and Loathing in Boise, A Life More Somber, or more simply... Waaaahhhh!!!

So have a good day. If you're already on the wrong path, I suggest rocking out to The Decemberists' song Sporting Life, or Swayzek's song Ping Pong. Dig it.