Sometimes, my brain, I tell you.
No, wait, none of that actually makes sense when it’s written as a sentence. Let me try that again.
So on the way out of the house this morning, I passed my CD rack and thought to myself, you know what I feel like listening to right now? Fucking Bombtrack. It’s been ages.
So I pulled the first Rage Against the Machine disc out of my collection and took it out to the car and rocked the fuck out on my entire drive to work.
It was awesome.
I mean, even the pub with its motorized esky races and its double-exclamation points on pretty much anything they’re trying to advertise didn’t bother me today. I was listening to some old school RatM and I was at peace with the fucking world.
Then I got to work and I parked the car and I started whistling as I walked upstairs to the QWC office where I’d spend the hour and a half before work writing thigns, as I’ve done every day-job morning this year. ‘Cause apparently I’ve become someone who whistles this year, I whistled the entire way up. Not well, you understand, ’cause I’m not really built for whistling, but there was a tune inside my head and it wanted to get out.
And what came out was the chorus for Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights.
I don’t even want to know how my brain made that connection.
