Drop That Beat Right on My Head

Just the other day I was marveling at the number of potential topics I had to write about. About which I had to write. Never mind.

So I sat down to write this post, my mind fairly bursting with creativity.

Precocious Daughter decided to practice her clarinet at the same moment. She can't practice in her bedroom, because something about the tone of the clarinet whips her poor guinea pig into a frenzy.

Guinea pig frenzy: Adorably terrifying.

So she's in the family room, as I am. I don't mind that at all; I love listening to her play. But tonight she's added a new wrinkle. She's downloaded a metronome app to her iPod. 

There's an app for everything, including
this one that guesses the size of a guy's
manhood. It's called the Chubby Checker.
(And yes, he sued the app maker.)

As she plays different passages of music that she's mastered to varying degrees, she changes the speed of the metronome - the less well she knows a piece, she slower she sets the beat. The better she knows it, the more she speeds it up.

She's destroying my brain.

I have a very well-dressed brain.

My thoughts have synced to PDaughter's metronome. Which means they're speeding up and slowing down and speeding up again, all to a clarinet soundtrack. I feel like I'm in the climax of a Keystone Cops short.

Look it up, children.

I can barely harness the chaos in my head when I'm setting the pace of my thoughts. If you think I can write coherent sentences when outside rhythms are calling the shots, well then, I'm sure you're about to be left very disappointed by tonight's post.

Because this is it.

Tomorrow: The first-ever Always Drunk guest post! You will NOT be disappointed, I promise.