Damn it feels good to be productive. Earlier today, I cleaned my room. I did most of my laundry. I put all my CD's in alphabetical order again (which means Lars and the Bastards offically has a place in my room) and I shelved most of my books. That's it. I think I've gotta break down and get a bookshelf. Putting books on your windowsill and on top of your dresser only works for so long.

I am not, however, the proud owner of a pair of DKM tickets. But I'm not the proud owner of my paycheck yet either, so there's still hope. I'll probably just go get them tomorrow. My biggest fear is that they'll already be sold out. When you procrastinate, you pay the price, I guess. Last time I checked on the DKM website, they weren't sold out though. So that's good.

My mom and I got into another argument yesterday. She was going on and on about how she's the only one who ever does anything around here and she's working her ass off... blah, blah, blah. So, I'm sitting in the living room, being subjected to her screeching voice for five minutes or so, and I'm seething. So, finally, I just yelled, "Mom! Stop bitching at me!" And she did. And then she acted like nothing happened. There's nothing more evil than someone pretending everything's okay with you two, even when it's obvious that it's not. I can't stand that. I want to feel justified being angry at her and I can't when she's acting like everything's normal. So that, in turn, makes me more unjustifiably angry at her and I ended up just going upstairs and reading. Then I slept until ten, but not before placing an appparently enigmatic phone call to Vicki. I guess when she called back, she said that it sounded like I was pissed off at her in the message on her answering machine. But I was just mad at Mom.

Paul came over a little while ago, drinking a 40 in a paper bag. He looked like a fucking homeless man. He has these boots taped together with duct tape and he was wearing old, faded black jeans and his friend's mom's sunglasses. His friend Pat, who's pretty cute and is going to the DKM show, I think. But he took it. He took my previous pride and joy and ten to one says he breaks it. My drumkit is no longer residing at this residence. It has a better home now, one where it'll get used. *sniff, sniff* I hope he takes good care of my beloved drumkit. I am no longer a drummer. Out the window goes my Brett Reed dreams...

That's kind of sad, really. I mean, three years ago, I really thought Sarah, Megan, and I were going to be in a band, and we'd be all cool and then we'd get famous, but not too famous, and be able to make a living playing in a band. Then dysfunction caught up with us, and I got a bitchy attitude, and Sarah got a bitchy attitude and we clashed and that was that.

Sometimes I wish that had never happened. I wish I was still spending my summers walking up and down her street and hanging out at Yake and chillin' with George on the curb and going bowling at Belmar II. Times were different then. I miss thinking I could change the world. I miss having naive ideas and dreams. I miss the wonder and amazement I felt when I heard Avenues and Alleyways for the first time, or when I first listened to Russ from Good Riddance sing about the government going to hell. I miss the ecstacy I felt going to my first show. Why can't I find that anymore?

Does everyone miss their childhood? Does everyone miss that one summer, the summer that came to stand for what all summers should be? I know I do.

But I've got other things. And I still feel some kind of magic when I listen to Rancid or Good Riddance, it's just a different kind. It's a little bit jaded, but a little bit wiser. It's not as all-consuming as it was in the beginning, but under the right circumstances, if I watch for it, I feel that passion that I first felt in the summer of '98. And that's what keeps me going.

"If you wanna get the feeling and you wanna get it right, the music's gotta be loud... for when the music hits, I feel no pain at all."