Warning: If you've read my stuff before then you may already know this. If you haven't then listen closely. It's as simple as this: Taking anything I write seriously can damage your brain! Thank you, and have a nice day.
The Day The Music Died
This is not the story you think it is. It's not that day. This is a different story entirely. This
story is about my father.
My father loved music. He had listened to American Pie 2,532 times in his entire life time.
I don't find anything wrong with loving music. My father, though, had an obsession with it. He
listened to it for about 23 hours a day. It hadn't started out like that, but near the end of his life
that's the way it was.
After hours of listening to a different variety of music he would come up to me in my room
and claim that he let the dogs out, and that it was his signature on the lucky, lucky, autographed
snorkel. My eyes would grow wide with fear as he said this. There wasn't just fear in my eyes
though. There was concern, also. Concern for my father's health. How much longer could he
go on like this?
After some time of my father spending most of his time listening to music, there proved to
be one solution. The music had to die.
It all seemed so simple. One day my dad would come home with his walk man on like
always, he'd take it off, say, "I think I'm turning Japanese," then I'd smash it! I'd smash his
beloved walk man. My dad would panic and run around the house looking for something else
to put music on so he could here it and be in peace...
The next day it all happened just like that, but then he flipped out. As I handed him a book
and said, "Sweet things are made of this," he knocked the book from my hand. He yelled at
me, "Music is my obsession. My own personal walk man. So, watch out, here I come!" He
leaped at me, and I moved. He hit the ground, and I waited a few short moments that seemed
like hours. I waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing happened. It ended up that right there, he
had a heart attack. He died on the floor that evening. All because of me. All because I failed to
see his need for music. That day, music really did die!
The Day The Music Died
This is not the story you think it is. It's not that day. This is a different story entirely. This
story is about my father.
My father loved music. He had listened to American Pie 2,532 times in his entire life time.
I don't find anything wrong with loving music. My father, though, had an obsession with it. He
listened to it for about 23 hours a day. It hadn't started out like that, but near the end of his life
that's the way it was.
After hours of listening to a different variety of music he would come up to me in my room
and claim that he let the dogs out, and that it was his signature on the lucky, lucky, autographed
snorkel. My eyes would grow wide with fear as he said this. There wasn't just fear in my eyes
though. There was concern, also. Concern for my father's health. How much longer could he
go on like this?
After some time of my father spending most of his time listening to music, there proved to
be one solution. The music had to die.
It all seemed so simple. One day my dad would come home with his walk man on like
always, he'd take it off, say, "I think I'm turning Japanese," then I'd smash it! I'd smash his
beloved walk man. My dad would panic and run around the house looking for something else
to put music on so he could here it and be in peace...
The next day it all happened just like that, but then he flipped out. As I handed him a book
and said, "Sweet things are made of this," he knocked the book from my hand. He yelled at
me, "Music is my obsession. My own personal walk man. So, watch out, here I come!" He
leaped at me, and I moved. He hit the ground, and I waited a few short moments that seemed
like hours. I waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing happened. It ended up that right there, he
had a heart attack. He died on the floor that evening. All because of me. All because I failed to
see his need for music. That day, music really did die!