After scouring the Internet more than any sane person should, I found some nice words about Magnet’s performance at the Living Room last week (all on MySpace, for some reason):

* South Park Dan
* Crystal
* Craig Smith

I love reading good things about Magnet. They justify my…um…fandom. Right. But reading these just made me sad because I could’ve actually seen the show. Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn’t care if it had been a show in Norway, but NYC? While I wasn’t mad at the Living Room before because it’s not their fault that I’m not old enough…more than a week later I decided that maybe I am allowed to be a little angry. A little pissed. Just a smidgen. Am I allowed that little bit? Can I leave my shell of inhibition for a split second and leave a message for The Living Room that goes, “WHAT THE FUCK?”

After the show got a message from someone that made me laugh and hurt at the same time. “Did you go to Magnet at the Living Room? I heard it was great.” Nope. But I heard the same thing.

I need to think of something else. Really. Need to. Not just the 500000 calorie cake I ate last night. Not the documentary about staving, skeletal Sudanese people I watched in class yesterday morning. Actually, there are a million other things I could think about–Flaming Lips concert, eating pizza this Saturday, impending doom–but every day I come back to the same thought:

“Why did he give me his guitar?”

I’m not kidding. I still can’t grasp the generosity or why he gave it to me. I mean…yes, I can think of reasons, but I still don’t fully get it. There’s probably nothing else to it–I was sad, I’m a nice person, end of story. However, I still don’t feel like I deserved it (not that I don’t play it; my germs are all over that baby now), and I continue to ask myself a million Even-related questions that start with “Why?”

He tried to give me cab fare. [buries head in hands]

Every time I see Even, I feel more embarrased because the list of stupid things I do during each encounter just keep piling up. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.