Honest, I don't own the song. Is it obvious yet that I love music?
Close one there,
Choking in clean underwear
Bleeding tongue
8-Ball pounding in my lungs
Ship to shore
I can't see the coastline anymore
I shouldn't be here.
I thought I made that loud and clear
But the Master of Disaster
Gets tangled in his tele-caster
He can't play it any faster
When he plays the blues.
Would he have the heart to ask her?
And every note just shook the plaster
Now he's just a mean old bastard
When he plays the blues.
Chinatown,
We're chasing that old dragon down.
Night on the walls
We play the blues with the curtains drawn
Sidewalks of white,
The alley's son beat out the light
Pounding brain,
My last transmission down the drain
And the Master of Disaster
Gets tangled in his tele-caster
He can't play it any faster
When he plays the blues.
Would he have the heart to ask her?
And every note just shook the plaster
Now he's just a mean old bastard
When he plays the blues.
There's a dead-eyed hope
I never pay before I go,
So I sing the blues.
Hand me down my walking shoes
You're in my heart,
Though we may be miles apart
There's my point.
I'll see you in another joint
When the Master of Disaster
Gets tangled in his tele-caster
He can't play it any faster
When he plays the blues.
Would he have the heart to ask her?
And every note just shook the plaster
Now he's just a mean old bastard
When he plays the blues.
Now he's just a mean old bastard
When he plays the blues.
- John Hiatt, "Master Of Disaster", Track 1, Master of Disaster, John Hiatt and the Goners
Seen it a few times, decided I'd use the idea. Don't judge me, lest I find you and cut your eyelids off.
In 2005, I read a story online, and I was just amazed at how organized this person's writing was. I thought, "hey, this is good... maybe I should give it a shot." And so, I threw together a story of my own, called "The Group of Legends".... and it was so bad that common sense dictated that I shouldn't even bother saving the thing. I read the story again in 2006, and again I felt the need to try and write my own first story or book or whatever you want to call it. I'll just call it "stook". Of course, I was at least 12 or 13 during my first story, so for me, 3 paragraphs in one day was a huge accomplishment. My first chapter was about "2KB" on my computer. Altogether, my first story reached a grand total of.... a little over 5,000 words. Oh, and there was no such thing as "The Guillotine" or "The Double Cutter" during story 1. It was confusing, esoteric, and a complete disaster in my own eyes... in other words, it's my own type of story. I wrote 2 or 3 more stories in 2006, all still in the suckish stages. I didn't start to clean up my language (no pun intended) until around stook 5. After stook 5, I didn't write number 6. Number 7 was all me, and so was 8. 9 was (i think) all me, and 10 was with assistance. As I progressed with story writing, I became much better. Practice made decent for me.
That may or may not be interesting, but now you've got it in your brain cells so you're stuck with it.
Voila!
End of Prologue
The real story starts next chapter. I just wanted to get a few things off my chest first. That's one thing about me. I ramble about stupid stuff.