Went to bed last night with thoughts of long-distance-relationship-induced-paranoia dancing around in my head.
I dreamt I learned how to play the electric base, but the only thing I learned to play was the opening rift to "Psycho Killer" by the Talking Heads. Clearly this is some subconscious cry for help, because nothing says "I'm a sane, calm, cool adult" like starting the morning with this song implanted in your imagination. For the rest of the day all tasks warranted me singing this to myself under my breath. Vacuuming has never been so intense.
As far as I'm concerned this is the bad-assiest songs ever.
I want the Talking Heads song "Home: Naive Melody" plays just before my funeral starts.
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