the floor is packed and the songs keep ending before i can find let alone cue up the next crowd pleasing dance hit du jour. this all involves vinyl and crates of random titles i am unfamiliar with and missing needles- none of that preprogrammed lap top/ the next track on the cd will play relief in sight.
always i wake up depressed and pissed off- not panic filled or stressed because, without fail, i am reminded of my so called friends who so meanly fucked me over and, in the process, tainted music and djing for me in a manner i have yet to be able to come to terms with. (nobody who knows of or has ever read this journal, by the way. nobody i have had anything to do with for over 10 years.) although it's my responsibility to rise above the hurtful mess of other people and my own dysfunctional responses- i just never have been able to. i preferred to ignore and delete even if the latter was clearly unsuccessful.
and i guess that does explain why i just can't let go of this particular dream. still, understanding why my napping mind opts for that particular treadmill to hop aboard compulsively does not turn mean old coke addled bitches who didn't give a fuck about music and dancing(which are passionate, loving sacred offerings to your Mother) into self aware more evolved, less petty, less mean people with a goddamn clue.
and not even cunty in the good way:
the waking day was made better by the sight of this: the bauhaus car, the Citroën 2CV, with the perfect post moderne backdrop, shiny happy wood paneled and minimalist 60's american architecture -
last time i saw one of these bad boys in the wild it was the 80's:
and one has to admit, the umlaut rules, always :