(diaryland) January 18, 2005 - 3:20 p.m.

Sometimes you wish that you were good at one thing, but instead you're good at other things. You study the one thing for many years, read books about it, start thinking about it too clinically, go to university to learn more about it especially, yet still you are crap at it. So crap. You type into a big music box you bought for hours every day, but you are still crap. You neglect all the things you're actually good at because you don't even really care about them, especially since they came easy. You cry a little bit every time you hear somebody typing into the music box very well, but not because you are jealous. It is because the music box turned into a growing plant and it makes you happy.

In all your years upon the earth, when you type into the music box, it will stay almost perfectly square and never be anything other than wood or metal, well, except for once or twice per year if you're lucky, and always by yourself. Then it makes a little flower that will shrivel up by the next day.

I hate being shit at piano. It makes me ache inside.

I'm very good at drawing, though, which is nice.

I think tonight, I will draw a nice big picture, and it will be exactly how I want it.

However, I always wished that I could play something for somebody and they could know exactly what I was thinking. And it would be a magical moment. I've had that feeling at gigs before, when I was playing guitar very loudly and howling into a microphone with my eyes shut and people were going all wiggly, but I want to be able to do it on piano. I think it's more, well, something-or-other.

But, alas, my playing is too crap.

Turds.