On Garbage

Some freak hacked into my Spotify account last night. As to why, I'm sure I don't know. I don't see how hacking into someone's premium account on a service like that is easier or more convenient than just pirating all the free music you like, but whatever. All's well, as I managed to regain control of my account and lock it down again so that they can't just get back in there. It's amazing how violated I still feel at the moment though.

I mean... I've been on the Internet a long time, so I've certainly had accounts hacked before, but there's just something about someone having hacked into my music account. He actually went to the trouble of deleting all of my custom playlists, as well as all of my follows as far as Spotify-made playlists. He replaced them with follows and playlists of his own. Whoever this person was, their taste in music is very different from mine. It's everything I don't really like or listen to myself -- gangsta rap, house music, Latin-based salsa stuff. Somehow that seems worse than if my account were hacked by someone with the same tastes.

Like most people, the music I listen to is meaningful to me. I have memories attached to it -- of places I've lived, experiences I've had, and different versions of myself that I've been. The music I listened to at ages 10... 17... 25... 30 is all so strongly tied to who I was at those points in my life. I literally feel like this dickhead nosed through all of those memories and little pieces of my identity, judged them, and threw them away like the trash he obviously thought they were. He literally hacked into my account and then treated my things like irritating garbage that was in his way.

On Ferris Wheels, Corn Dogs, and Selfies

You'd never know that we're nine days into September at present. Labor Day has been and gone, but it's been super hot lately regardless. Indian summer -- how I hate it. Just when you think you're rid of the heat for another year, a nice hot front moves in and you're sweating your way through all your days again. 

Thankfully it wasn't this hot last week! I took a little over a week off from work the way I usually do around Labor Day. I spent a lot of time reading Game of Thrones and just fucking off in general, but Seth and I also spent three of those days at the Monterey County Fair. We were covering it as members of the press again, but we had so much fun, we really didn't even remember that we were technically working. We walked there and back, but the weather was somewhat merciful -- definitely warm, but not so hot you're sure you're about the fry to death. No one got heatstroke this year, anyway.

Happy Birthday, Robin Williams

Last night, I dreamed that I met Robin Williams in the afterlife. He was hosting a party at his house in heaven. It had really huge glass windows, retro 60's furniture, and a fully stocked bar area. People were drinking martinis and lounging around on bean bag chairs. The walls were covered in dark green velvet and each guest was wearing blue, purple, or green. Some people were also wearing Mardi Gras beads. I had on a purple dress with green feather trim. I also had a fan made of peacock feathers.

Robin Williams was wearing this peacock blue suit and a striped tie. He was going around to everyone that was there, saying hello and welcoming them to his home. When he got to me, he told me I had the most radiant hair he'd ever seen and said: "It gets better, you know. Don't worry. You won't have to bring it either." He knew I was going to ask him how he was feeling -- particularly whether he'd been required to carry his depression to heaven.