The Music Gets To Be Too Much... in Random Thoughts

I’m not sure why, but lately certain music is really getting my emotions all fucked up. I watched Braveheart the other night, and some of the bagpipe music got me misty, some kinda sappy songs that have never really gotten me this far off have, and I was watching a ST-TNG episode where Picard plays his Ressikan flute with an LT who plays piano (the song was bits of Ferre Jaque (sp?) and something I don’t recognize) and that started getting to me. I’m like one of those candies in the strawberry wrapper - hard on the outside, soft on the inside. Well, at least this shit is only happening when I’m alone.
I’m also having some really strange dreams. A few about an east coast friend’s twiggy sister - yeah, I’ll admit that she’s crushable, but I can’t do another LDR. That just worked out ever so horribly crap with both KL (ex-fiance) and B (ex-gf I moved here for). She’s cute, and definitely crush material, but I know better. Plus there’s the whole if things blew up, I’d lose two friends in one blow. Bad idea.
Another dream had me waking up thinking the house was on fire and I was smelling smoke. I was smelling smoke when I woke up, but I had to remind myself that I test the smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, and if there were a fire in the house, they would start screeching, which in turn would set the security system’s fire alarm off, which means loudly beeping keypad in my room, louder siren, and the fire brigade kicking in the door. Yes, I was seriously having to remind myself of all that. And the smoke was from the bastard in the trailer park behind me burning shit (illegally within city limits, the fucking wankstain.) so another reason I want to move to the country.
Yeah, I know the language is course, but I’m bit wonky and cross and don’t really give a shit.
I really am two different people for the most part. There’s the confident, happy, semi-successful, professional me to customers and most of the time at work or around my neighbours, then there’s the quiet, depressed, me who is falling apart the moment I get in the house and lock the door. Yes, I am very well aware of the drastic differences. There is part of me that wants to give up and end it, walk to the park and slit my wrists, but I couldn’t do that to the cat and dog. After as much hell as the dog has gone through with being sick and all since January, I’m not about to bail on her. And given the cat quits eating if I’m gone 24 hours, I can’t do that to him either.
I can talk suicide all I want to, but I don’t think my brain would ever let me do it. There’s no logical point to it really. Lots of people are miserable, and I’m not nearly as bad off as they are, so I have no excuse. I just have to go on, run my course. Besides, my cause of death is probably going to be something really stupid anyway. Falling asleep in the bathtub, electrocuted changing a light bulb, or drop a TV or major appliance on myself because I’m too much of a stubborn ass to ask for help. I’ll be like 80 something. If I live to 100 people are going to hate me. Sitting on my front porch cleaning my shotgun with Maker’s Mark while mumbling “kill the wabbit” and yelling at kids to get off my lawn - when they’re on the sidewalk across the street. But I’ll still anonymously do nice things. Just keep giving people a reason to call me an asshole.
Reagan forgot where Reagan going with this. Reagan need ride home.