my soul is stored in my scent like swimming pools

 I am heating an unusually large cup of coffee. I put half-and-half in it, no sugar. I hope it will cure me. He woke up each day to feelings of __________, _________, and having to take a shit. That’s all he ever did, _______ and took shits. Plus he drank coffee, beer, whiskey, and smoked ____. It sucked. Typing was an activity that felt strange. Typing was like reading, but reading your thoughts. I feel like every sentence is some kind of gimmick. I don’t like what I write. I probably like 10% of what I write. I don’t expect anyone to like what I write. It’s mostly stupid, doom and gloom, bullshit. I find comfort in contradictions though. (wtf am i talking about?) I guess the purpose is to make me feel better. I guess that’s all I really care about and I guess that seems really selfish. But I’m actually a pretty nice person with a lot of potential. Sometimes I forget how happy I should be. He wrote pages of bullshit, stored on his laptop computer, until one day a virus corrupted his hard drive. Nothing was lost, but everything was lost. “It was the best of times, and the worst of times” It is a dream so real that when you wake up, it takes a little while to realize that it never happened. I am almost finished with this cup of coffee and feel a shit coming on. Some of my hobbies include drinking coffee and taking shits. It was very nice to meet you.  I will begin typing a new story:

            Finished cup of coffee.

            “Philosophy is just interesting, hard to understand questions. I would like to see myself as someone who enjoys asking interesting questions.” The other day while driving I thought this. I wanted to write something down then, but I was driving. I texted “I have to go on vacation, type abt the things ive done” Sometimes I am unsure whether or not I ask interesting questions or have done interesting things. I thought I was having interesting thoughts that were interesting enough to be written down.

            If you open all of the drawers on my dresser it will tip over. It doesn’t sound like Sartre, or now that I just smoked, Klosterman, but instead I wouldn’t mind if it sounded like Twain or Brautigan. I hope it sounds like music. This is a mixtape, jj’s Kills. I am listening to this mixtape right now. It sounds like E.E. Cummings. 

It is written in a manner which, when listening, reads better. Itreads instantly the eye meets the screen/page. 


While driving, I also thought about music criticism, partly because I listened to some NPR discussion, and realized I should never write about how much I liked the albums or how good I think they are. Instead, how the music has come into my life, and the permanence of its existence. The process of falling in love with music often begins on a bad note. But over time/listening, things even out enough to make accurate opinions/create strong bonds. Familiar music has more/less memories attached to it. That’s why most music critics... I don’t have a Polaroid camera. I'm not part of the vinyl revolution. Why argue over something like music? Sometimes music culture/criticism gets in the way of the crescendos, bass lines, and 6/4 time, along with guitar solos. Leave them alone. I’m not saying that talent isn’t attached to commercial success, but fuck anyone who ever thought that popularity, commercial success, or “virality” is relevant to the successes of art. I apologize; bad language is a side effect of my inability to creatively describe my emotions. I don't like this tone. This piece of writing may simply be a bumbling tumble of gumballs, spit in a gym locker. 

             I wonder what writer will be the first to publish a novel on a smart phone, or maybe this already happened. But like, the first writer/artist/musician to be known in the future of history as the original. He or She is alive right now. We may never learn his, her, or their names. Is that a correct sentence?


The snow is melting, Notorious B.I.G. is rapping over this jj shit.

One sip of coffee left.

            So the moral of the story is that coffee is delicious, and music is good.

Takes last sip of cold coffee.

            This is a tale of bravery, of choosing the music to have and hold forever. Searching the internet in a quest for the most relatable, rocking, rolling, jamming, melodic, chick singers, band/musicians with original sounds, to be blessed with the flooded-abundance of undiscovered music floating off in the far clouds of the internet. In my experience, some of my favorite music did not sound appealing at first, and that truly enjoying music is part of a process. I do not wish to be a slave to relevancy and seek out new bands just to say I listened to them first. But that does not mean that my opinions cannot stand up to, or be better than those of the most relevant music critic alive I wish to not only listen to the music of my closest friends, but also to seek out music for myself to call my own. I am selfish at times and do not want others listening to my music.   But most of the time I want to be no Johnny, but Songgy Appleseed, to spread enjoyable sounds and unique musical gifts. I will write as if I am the best music critic alive, implying that in order to be the best critic alive, one must believe he is the best musician alive. Last name ever, first name greatest. I am not the greatest rapper alive and neither is/was Lil Wayne.  I don’t know if I should publish this.


on a side note:I’m listening to this song called “I do not care for the winter sun” by Beach House. GvsB loves Beach House.

"The most elegant, visceral, sensual release of the year comes from one of our favorite bands in the history of this blog. Teen Dream was born of a fully evolved vision and the indefatigable connection between Alex Scally and Victoria Legrand, whose voice is quickly becoming an iconic one. And, it has the best songs." -gvsb.

There alright I guess.

didn't even make any lists...maybe next year.