How I started playing music

If you've been reading my blog for a while, or have just recently been stalking my every post, you will know that I am a musician. A rather dedicated one, at that. I play piano, guitar, drums, and I sing. At least 5 hours of my weekdays are consumed entirely by me playing/writing music. Weekends is basically just entirely music. I have a standup piano in my room, right next to my bed, so I hardly even have to wake up in order to start playing. That's what happens when you're lazy as fuck.

But how did I get to this state?

I've always loved music. My first memories with a piano are from when I was a toddler, probably no older than 3. I would go over to my grandparent's house in Stamford, Connecticut, just a minute or two away from our apartment. I basically grew up in and absolutely adored that house, which was a giant modern open floor plan shaped like an octagon, with high ceilings and skylights and windows making up most of it. They had a big white piano up against the wall and I would ask my Poppop to play a song while I danced around the giant room. Then I'd violently kick him off the piano bench and started banging on the keys with my chubby 3 year old hands, then start screaming about how the piano is rigged so only he can make it sound pretty. 3 year old logic. 

I FOUND PICTURES OF THE HOUSE ON THE INTERNET.

There's the piano, against the wall on the right.

So until I was about six, the only musical thing I did was bang on that piano awkwardly, making little tunes. Then, when I was six, my grandparents held a concert in their house for a russian string quartet that they were friends with. Shit tons of people were there, including my Poppop's friend Genevieve, a super accomplished world renowned pianist. I was six when the concert happened, and some of my cousins were also there. 

Apparently, my Poppop had asked Genevieve beforehand to give me piano lessons, and she said no, as she only mentors teenagers who already have a pretty advanced understanding/skill level with piano. 

Basically, in a nutshell, this is what happened:

Genevieve says she won't teach me

Concert happens

Genevieve goes to concert

I go to concert with cousins

Concert is in the middle of happening

Cousins are being loud and obnoxious 

I am sitting there quietly and nicely listening to the quartet

Genevieve sees me sitting and listening all nice and realizes that I don't totally suck and that I like music so she decides to teach me the piano-ness

To this day, I know how beautiful the music that string quartet can make is, but at the time of the concert I think I was half asleep, which is why I appeared so quiet and well-mannered. Oh well. I had them all completely tricked into thinking I was a sweet and perfect little child, and it did me pretty damn well. I like to think that I really was a sweet little girl and that I deserved those piano lessons, but I know in my heart I was a 60 pound psychopathic ball of manipulative fury. 

I had my first lesson with Genevieve right in the middle of the summer of when I was going into 3rd grade. I remember the first song she ever attempted to teach me. It was all single notes, just the right hand, only one bar. She explained to me in great detail how notes work and everything. The first words I said after she explained all this shit for about 10 minutes was...........can you guess?

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"I don't get it."

Over the years that I studied with Genevieve, I still never ended up getting it. Genevieve, I am convinced, is the best piano teacher ever, but reading music is something I have never been able to do and I'm damn sure it will always stay that way.

But yeah, I can't read music. Genevieve attempted to jam the skill into my brain for six fucking years. SIX YEARS. AT THE TIME, THAT WAS HALF MY LIFE. I have no idea what it is with me, but I can't read music to save my life. What I can do is ear play and memorize like a freaking boss. And that, my friends, is a skill that nobody ever taught me. It just came up one day. I actually tried to surpress it for quite a while, because I thought it was some alien in my brain controlling my fingers. But basically, instead of reading music (which, for me, is like trying to successfully have a conversation with my toenail), I listen to what I want to learn, and then I play it back. Memorization, for me, takes about 5 minutes for a song that's several pages long. I don't know what's up with my brain, because I can't memorize anything else like that. I can't remember what pants I'm wearing right now.

I eventually stopped working with Genevieve in classical music when I was twelve. I realized that with my weird ear playing/memorizing thing, I wanted to work on other instruments and styles of music by myself.

That's basically how the whole music thing happened for me. Right after I stopped working with her, I took up drums and guitar. Again, I ear play, so I taught myself all those things. Now its completely taken over my life, and I regret nothing. I'm slightly psychotic, and music helps me calm the fuck down. So yeah. I like music. A lot.

I'm the kid your mother warned you about

Remember how when you were a kid, everyone told you to be careful as you grow up? You know; don't hang out with kids who smoke, don't hang out with kids who pierce their face, don't hang out with kids who sell you drugs, don't hang out with kids who tattoo themselves, etc etc.

Yeah. Hi. I'm that kid.

Let me tell you something. I will not sell you drugs. Drugs are bad. Nicotine is a drug. Alcohol is a drug. Weed is not a drug, it is a plant. Don't bitch to me about drugs if you're going to tell me about the horrors of a fucking plant. I still won't sell you weed. What's weed? I've never touched weed............Moving on......

I just gave myself a tattoo. I don't know how great it is, but hell, I tried. Imagine the most teenager-ly tattoo method you could imagine- that's what I just did. I used a sewing needle and sharpie ink. NEVER EVER DO THE THINGS THAT I DO. 

As you may or may not be able to see from this photo (if you can't, you're an idiot), I made a little heart on the side of my forearm next to some very old self harm scars that I have. It's a shitty picture and it looks a whole lot worse than it actually is.

Basically, if you suck at life like me and want to do this yourself (which I under no circumstances recommend to anybody), I basically just stabbed myself a lot with the needle in the shape of a heart, then rubbed in a shit ton of ink, then stabbed over it again, rubbed in some ink, and repeated that about 16 times. It won't look entirely solid when the ink on the surface of my skin fades, it'll be like exactly what I just described.

Kids, if you want to remain wholesome, don't hang out with me. I am, however, very nice, and I do my best to love everybody. I don't know, I think I'm pretty fun to be friends with. Just not if you're afraid of going to hell.

Nutrition

I don't have a very good diet. Like, at all.

First of all, I'm not fat. I may eat absolute crap about every 3 minutes, but I'm 5'2 and I've never been over 120 pounds. So, before you call me a fat cow; I am not fat. I am a cow though. Cows are badass.

As I was saying, I suck at food. I'm a vegetarian, simply because I have no interest in eating the seasoned flesh of dead animals. So that eliminates a lot of nutritious food that I would otherwise be eating, because my family eats steak and pork and bacon out the ass.

But no. My diet consists of carbs, some fruit, and candy. Most people at least attempt to make their diet relatively healthy. Even the stupidest of humans understand that a proper diet is sorta important.

Except me. I eat crap, crap, and more crap. I really like gummies.

I HAD GUMMY BEARS FOR DINNER, MOTHERFUCKER.

I'm not overweight right now. Not even close. However, one day when I get old, my metabolism is gonna be like Lol fuck you and then I'll have several heart attacks a day. I can tell.

Eat healthy, kids.

A very derpy birthday

So today is Friday the 13th.

It's also my birthday.

My mom woke me up in a very special fashion this morning. I don't have an alarm clock, so she always just comes into my room at 6 a.m. and says "Hey Courtney get the fuck up," and it's all good. However, this morning, my mom decided to be rather celebratory.

So she came into my room, ran over to my bed, and jumped on top of me, screaming "IT'S YOUR BIRRTTHHDAAAYYYY GET UP BITCH YOU'RE A YEAR OLDER!!" and I must say, it was a pretty effective way of waking me up. But, then she started going a bit too far.

Our conversation went like this:

Mom: *jumps on top of me and hugs me* IT'S YOUR BIRRTTHHHDDAAYY!!!

Me: *still lying down with my eyes closed* merrrr.....I know....yay......

Mom: GET THE FUCK UP, IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY!!

Me: *starts waking up kinda* ergghh.....yay.....

Mom: *sits up on my bed* This is the day I BIRTHED you!

Me: I- just- mom.....eww....

Mom: *starts making birthing motions with her hands and legs* I BIRTHED you! Out of my VAGINA!

Me: MOM IT IS TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING FOR THIS

Mom: *continues making birthing motions* I BIRTHED YOU. WITH MY UTERUS AND MY VAGINA. AND LOTS OF AFTERBIRTH. SWEET MOTHER OF FUCK, IT WAS NASTY.

Me: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST MOM

My mom is super awesome, I'm really glad I have her.

So far, my presents have consisted of a bag of pretzel M&Ms, several hugs, and a poster made by my friend Alix with a marijuana leaf and the words Blazin' It.

awwww yeaahh don't I look excited as can be?

You give this a goddamn title

What I want (and probably won't get) for my birthday

My birthday is December 13th. These are the things I want, and most likely, will not get.

1. A labret piercing

2. A cake made entirely from weed brownie mix

3. Shaun Morgan

4. Nekkid snuggles with boyfriend

5. A tattoo of a puzzle piece behind my ear

6. Some more Shaun Morgan

7. To sleep, undisturbed, for as long as I want

8. Let's just look at Shaun Morgan for a while, shall we?

A life? Ha, I don't have one of those.

I seriously have almost no life.

As a teenager, I am in the midst of my prime. However, I choose to waste this time doing a bunch of unworthy shit.

My days consist of large amounts of making/listening to music, school, homework, texting people, facebook, youtube, and being stressed nearly to the point of stabbing myself in the eye. I hardly ever hang out with people, because my priorities are homework and music. After I finish my homework, which takes several hours, I play piano and guitar for another several hours. That's completely by choice, I don't even take music lessons and I haven't since I was 11. After all that, it's usually midnight, so I'm tired. I get into bed, text people explaining to them that I was too busy music-ing and homework-ing to hang out, text Boyfriend, go on facebook (which I hate, I don't know why I do that), and watch random crap on youtube. Then I go to sleep around 1 or 2 in the morning. I wake up at 6 and continue this cycle.

This affects my appearance. Sometimes I wake up ready for the day and I feel relatively okay, and I get dressed and do my hair and makeup without too much of a problem. However, most days, I wake up feeling like I just got hit by a truck. Lifting a damn hairbrush is a monumental task for me. I usually end up going to school like this:

So, I'm never in the mood to actually go outside or hang out with people. My life is one of the most boring things ever. Then, with all the schoolwork, my mood is always just like NO. NOO. FUCK YOU. FUCK THIS. FUCK EVERYTHING. I'M TAKING A NAP.

The most exciting things I do are write music, dye my hair, and smoke certain things occasionally. (disclaimer: don't do drugs kids, drugs are bad, if you do drugs then you're bad, etc etc). I'm not even joking, setting up plans with my friends is one of the most anxiety filled, daunting activities that I've ever been faced with. I love all my friends, I swear. But I'm also the most enormous introvert on the face of the planet. After seeing everyone in school, the idea of getting out of bed, getting ready, and appearing enthusiastic about moving my body, does not interest me in the least.

Essentially, I could certainly have a life if I wanted to. I just don't.

My parents, a taxi driver, and a 20$ bill

So I think a very common question to ask all throughout the world is "Where were you born?", and I don't blame people for looking at me funny after I tell them my answer when they ask me that question.

I was born in a Manhattan taxi cab. Let me explain.

My parents had me when they were both 30. They'd been married for quite a few years before I popped up in my mom's baby maker. As far as I know, I wasn't planned, but then again...my parents aren't good at planning.

I was born at around noon, December 13th. I was a little bit before my due date, which was December 19th. Again, my parents are not good planners. I was their first kid, and they had somehow convinced themselves that it was absolutely unheard of for a baby to come six whole days before the doctors predicted.

According to my mother, the day I was born, she was originally supposed to have a checkup in the morning so they could look at me through her stomach and make sure I didn't have any horrible diseases or a foot growing out of my nostril or anything of that nature. My mom called about an hour in advance to tell them she had to cancel the checkup. Why, you ask?

She needed to lay in bed for a while because she was having some really bad cramps.

My dad didn't interfere with any of this. He's a pretty decent example of your average manly dude who is intimidated by tiny humans popping out of bigger humans; babies aren't his thing. So my mom was in bed for another hour or two before I was all like I SWEAR WOMAN, IF YOU DON'T LET ME OUT RIGHT NOW I WILL TAKE MATTERS INTO MY OWN TINY, CHUBBY HANDS AND EAT MY WAY OUT OF THIS DAMN UTERUS AND CRAWL UP YOUR ESOPHAGUS.

I believe that's when my parents decided to get their asses to the hospital. My mother claims that their original plan was to walk from our apartment to the hospital. That obviously didn't work out, because my seven pound ass wasn't taking shit from nobody, and I wanted out of that stanky baby-pocket inside my mom.

So by this time, it was maybe nine or ten, and people were out and about in the fabulous city of Manhattan. Imagine this:
You're a tourist in the heart of New York City. You've got your expensive camera and your entire family with you. Where should you go? Maybe Central Park? Or what about Broadway? Maybe you could get some famous new york pizza! But then, suddenly, your day-dreaming session about the Big Apple comes to a halt when you and your family comes across this hectic scene:

In case you've never been to Manhattan, you must understand that there is always traffic. If you live in Manhattan, you know there's no need for a car, because it'll take you twice as long to get across town by car as opposed to walking really slowly. However, my mom couldn't walk the few blocks to the hospital, so my parents were forced to take a taxi there.  This is when things start to get bad.

If you've ever been in a taxi, you know there are three types of cab drivers:

The Robot: Usually the most preferred cab driver. This guy doesn't talk to you, therefor not forcing you to talk to him. This is the dude that knows you've obviously got places to be. He gets you where you need to go, you pay him, you guys exchange a "Thank you, have a nice day," and you're both off to your own lives.

The Happiest Motherf*cker Ever: This dude is pretty damn happy for somebody who drives in a smelly car for a living. He greets you with a giant smile, asks you what your name is, asks what your job is, how you're doing, how'd you get your hair to stay like that, etc. There are two subtypes of this cab driver; the guy who makes you happy, and the guy you want to punch in the face. No explanation needed.

The Giant Raging Douchebag: This dude is smug and gives you bad vibes all over the damn place. He makes every effort to rip you off, and he's just a plain lump of shit. Of course, this is the cab driver my parents got.

When my parents finally got a cab, my mom was literally shaking and screaming, and her water had already broken. My dad was flipping his shit, and immediately demanded that they be taken to the nearest hospital. The cab driver, according to my mother, began slowly driving towards the New York Presbyterian Hospital. No urgency at all. Now that I look back, I question my parents' mental state, as I believe the situation they were in would quite clearly require an ambulance. But, we don't have a time machine, so I can't go back and tell them that piling into a taxi when giving birth=bad things.

So by now, my mom was in full HOLYFUCKI'MHAVINGACHILD mode, and my dad was freaking out because he did not want to watch. The douchebag taxi driver (who we will from now on refer to as "McDouche") made no effort to comfort the two of them, nor did he call an ambulance. Things were getting horrendous, but McDouche somehow managed to give absolutely ZERO fucks, even though this was happening in the back of his cab (feel free to add your own sound affects to this picture, such as screaming, wailing, cursing, and girlish squeals which surprisingly came from my dad and not my mom):

So finally, after about fifteen or twenty minutes, we arrive about a block away from the hospital. McDouche stopped the cab. Yes, he stopped the fucking cab as I was literally taking a peek at my moms underwear. And you know what he says? You wanna fucking know what McDouche says to a girly squeamish man and a hysterical woman about 52 seconds away from popping out a kid and a bunch of placenta onto his cab seats?

"I'll just have you pay me here."

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YOU STEAMING PILE OF FERMENTED SHIT, MCDOUCHE. 

So, like any heroic father, my dad pulls out a 20 dollar bill from his wallet like a goddamn ninja and hands it to McDouche for the 3 dollar fare, readying himself to take the 17 bucks in change. But oh lord, McDouche wasn't going to let things be too easy.

"I don't have any change to give you," McDouche douches at my father.

Right about now is, I believe, the moment my dad should've won the Father Of The Year award. In case you couldn't tell, that was sarcasm I just used right there. Le dad completely forgets that his wife is in the midst of birthing his kid about six inches away from him. He forgets he's in a nasty, grubby Manhattan taxi cab. All that matters to this man is that he gets his 17 bucks in change.

So my mom is screaming at my dad, desperately trying to remind him that there is a child coming out of her. My dad and McDouche are having an epic battle over wether or not my dad will get his 17 bucks. 

That's when I kinda just popped out. I've always had this really nasty image in my head of little naked baby me, covered in birth-shit, flopping around on the cab seat like a dying fish. So McDouche finally realizes the gravity of the situation after I'm born, and he gives my dad his 17 bucks (yes, he had the money, he just didn't want to give it up) and rushes to the hospital like a crazy motherfucker. They had to take my mom into the hospital on a stretcher, as she had just pushed out a child from between her legs and she had a fever so she was throwing up so hard they thought she would puke up a few organs. My dad just followed them, completely petrified and scarred for life. And me? The doctors took me to the infant ICU in a little sterile towel, because I ended up having the same fever as my mom. They had to test me for a bunch of STDs and shit, as I was born on a dirty cab seat. I was in one of those little baby incubators for a day or two. Other than that, everything went well. 

So yeah, that's how I was born. Might I add, my parents are absolutely awesome. Mostly my mom, she's my bestie. It could've been a whole lot worse. At least I didn't end up completely insane like this crazy mofo here.

OR DID I.

*me eating Alix's hand