"Y'know . . . I get that feeling that sometime in the future, I'm gonna wake up and you're gonna be hovering over over me with a butcher knife telling me, "Go back to sleep, honey."

I said these words to my girlfriend this weekend as we we're heading out for an evening of fine cuisine at the world-renown Cracker Barrel.  This is an important fact since Rachelle and I spend a lot of time in the car together.  It's a fact of life in a two-city relationship, especially when those two cities are Dallas and Fort Worth (or Saginaw or Abilene or Bedford as the case may be).  Anyway, we were heading out to the furthest reaches of the Town of the Cow to enjoy some rustic fare in Rachelle's home turf.  It was during the extended ride that I noticed something.  All of Rachelle's music is, for a lack of a better term, angst-ridden.

Now, maybe, I'm just making much ado about nothing.  But as someone who's starting to plan a future, this concerns me.  Her music would cause most stable people to give themselves a lead brainpan injection.  I'd hate to think that I'm missing some kind of vital signal.  'Know what I mean?  I'd hate to be the kind of person that stood around and said, "John Wayne Gacy just loves kids, doesn't he?"   I've listening to miles of Live, Garbage, Dave Mathews and their ilk, and it is chocked full of more depression, retrospection and  self-loathing than a season full of Mavericks basketball.  And while I enjoy some depressing, retrospective self-loathing just as much as the next Tickethead, you can't do it all the time.

I think my best bet is to do nothing.  She was angst-ridden when I met her and it didn't bother me at all.   Besides, who am I to try and change her.  She's smart enough to think for herself and have her own personal likes and whatnot.