I can't pretend to always understand why certain things make me
                   irritable. I know it's generally considered admirable if you can let certain
                   comments go. However, there's a fine line between being easygoing and
                   being malleable, and I am not the latter.

                   There's something about finding damaged old sheet music that really
                   hurts. Not because of the monetary value, but because I carelessly
                   packed it away. Although it could probably still fetch a nice sum on eBay,
                   the pro and anti-war sentimental songs of the second world war somehow
                   mean something to me. Maybe it reminds me of when my piano was new
                   and in tune. When I practiced every day. Before I knew that I could write
                   words or songs to a greater magnitude; before I knew I'd fall in love with
                   an exceptional piano player. It's those hours of practicing that I refuse to
                   toss out or sell. I still have those hours, in my mind, even if my fingers
                   have been using the computer keyboard more than that of the piano.

                   There's something about being called a baby killer due to my stance on
                   abortion. Maybe it's because I'm finally wondering about my purpose as a
                   writer: why explain my opinion of people still only read what they want to
                   read? It's a very difficult comment to ponder. More comforting is the
                   knowledge that I intend to raise my children with basic respect for life,
                   and tolerance of the choices of others. They will choose their own paths
                   and beliefs. They will not be imprisoned in an archaic structure of
                   resignation to conformity. If that's not caring about babies, then I don't
                   know what is.

                   There's something about the seeping trash heap that Melissa left in my
                   car that saddens me. Once I was all she held on to, more than her God,
                   and now I'm simply a driver for her in-state demise. I guess the half-eaten
                   burger really parallels our friendship: not only did she discard of it
                   carelessly onto the floor of my car, she bought it for me. I can remember
                   all of her Catholic ways and principles, yet she refuses to remember that
                   I'm a vegetarian. She just can't stop thinking of me as the druggie that
                   I'm not. Now I'll never forget the brainwashed churchgoer that she is.
 

                   There's something about the mismatched colors in this house that suggest
                   it's time to find a home.
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