Bah! It looks like it's gonna rain some more today. Jesus, this has been the wettest summer I can remember, in all my fourteen years of living in this town. Usually, it's dry to near-drought conditions. But it's rained at least once every week and a half this year. I suppose it's because, now that I want to go out and play again, the universe won't let me. Bah! I say again.

But on the bright side, unless Teddy starts that annoying shriek-barking again, I'll be sleeping in pretty late, and hopefully having wonderful adventures in my nice, dry dreamworld.

I can't remember any of the dreams I had yesterday, except I remember The Blond Guy and Jerry from the superhero dream were hanging around. I wanted Nosey and John to come back. *makes grabby hands* (Is it sad of me that I name the figments of my imagination and proceed to speak about them to an imaginary large audience as though they were real people? My. I wonder what that says about the state of my mental health. I should probably get that checked out.)

I might try to trim my hair a little bit, too. It's gettin' a bit shaggy for me.

And I've also discovered that unless I sell my soul to Satan, I'm not getting within a hundred miles of the Who. Either I sell my bloody immortal soul or I ninja my way into the bushes outside the PNC Bank Arts Center in Holmdel, New Jersey (wherever the hell Holmdel is). Because the way-the-fuck-out-there lawn tickets are $48, and the seats wherein you could hear them without an ear trumpet and see them without bird glasses are more than $100. So if I managed to get tickets and spend the night over there, then beat it back here to get my braces done, it'll cost about as much as a year's freaking college tuition.

*sulks*

I suppose, though, that being in the same TOWN, at the very least, wouldn't be so bad. Maybe I should hitchhike to Holmdel and just hang out around the place just to be within the same hundred-mile radius of the guys.

I really hate that none of the really fucking AWESOME acts come to North Carolina, South Carolina, or Virginia--the states that Dad will actually go to concerts in! Faugh. It's always Jackyl or Buckcherry or something like that. I wanna go see these gods of rock n' roll music while they're still around.

Sadly, I don't think Dad would be too keen on paying $600 for tickets, a shitload for a hotel, and another shitload for gas.

And no matter how generous Mom is feeling toward me, I don't think she'd spring for a $115 ticket just so I can sit in the middle of the auditorium.

This makes me a very sulky little hippie.

First, I miss Paul McCartney's tour last year, now I guess I'll have to give up my bloody soul to see the other people I love the most.

Also: I still need some tacks. I've got a nice little cardboard Space Your Face logo to tack up next to the lightswitch.