I've been told that I have a nice singing voice. I attribute this to the fact that when I sing aloud, I only sing in Portuguese-- a language inherently more musical than English. People compliment me without realizing that it only encourages the continuation of such behaviors. Not that I'd stop if they went Simon Cowell on me.
So...
It's late and I'm drunk and tramping the streets of East Dallas en route to my apartment. Gaston is lit up and my head is light. @ the ripe young age of 27, my drunken texts are less sexual, less desperate, and more informational-- in the most petty of ways: "I see this, I see that, LOL!" My gait is loose and rhythmic. I sing to myself. They are pieces of actual songs with smatterings of extemporaneity thrown in. I am "putting La Subasta newspaper stands to sleep" along the street, gently tipping them onto the grass, shushing them like a loving parent would their exhausted child. Singing the entire way. My intoxication imbues me with a love of the world at large so sweet, so innocent. A love sobriety only affords me when it comes to my lost causes.
No comments:
Post a Comment