I need to grab my rod (so to speak) and get on down to the lake.
There should be some chance of bass or maybe small pike.

Only obstacle is my lazynessss...

I used to be afraid of cars. I could hear them coming a mile away. We lived in a very deserted place. The dirt road in front of the house came from behind a group of trees, like a snake or an S, so cars would only appear in sight at the exact same moment they raced past the house. I would wait until the very last second to throw myself behind a hedge, or into a ditch, or run inside. I was horror-stricken by them. Like I suppose Chinese children fear dragons. I never really had a bad experience with a car. Why they would appear monstrous to me I dont know.

I became conscious at a very early stage. Thought a lot about thinking. One time I was really sad, my mom asked me what was wrong and I answered: "time passes too fast". It was a devastating thought. Especially when you think about it.
I was a curious kid. Had oodles of hobbies, but only one at a time. Photography, collecting flowers, drawing, painting, biology, native american culture, writing, fishing, and many others. I was two hundred percent into whatever I was doing. I would exhaust a subject until I knew if it was for me or not. My father had a different opinion. He though I was flaky, lazy, unable to concentrate and a typical twin: Just like your mom.

Only making music really stuck with me though. I never could find a way to turn fishing into a living.
I wanted to play the trumpet. We had a piano. When you master the piano, you can go on to play anything you want. My mother was right. Sort of.
Our house was about 250 feet long. At one end was the gramophone. At the other end stood the piano. I would put on my favourite piano blues single and listen to a few bars. Then run, while looping it in my head, to the other end of the house and play it on the piano. Most of the runs would be in vain. The loop disappeared as soon as I put my fingers on the keys.

Later I started with a piano teacher. I hated it. I hated being told what and how to play.
To force myself to rehearse, I put an old clock on the piano and set the alarm for an hour later. I might subconsciously have played to the beat of the clock, seeing as 120 beats per minute seems so natural to me. 120 beats per minute equal 2 beats per second, the tempo of time.

School was great. A virtual haven for me. I got beat up almost every day. Any excuse to pummel me was apparently valid: I was either gay or Jewish or fat or ugly or communist or weird or a nigger. Preferably a mix of them all.
I showed up at the 4th grade summer camp with a torn, red foam vest and a big mohawk haircut. My mom cut my hair under protest, telling me that I was going to get my ass kicked in school, but I insisted: "...I AM an Indian!"
Summer camp was no more than twenty minutes old before I was dragged out back and beat senseless with an iron pole. I didnt learn my lesson.
Later it was the hat. Or the coat. Or the glasses. Or keeping eye contact for more than a split second.
I never fought back but once. Beat the shit out of some farmer kid. The whole school was cheering us on while we exchanged punch after punch. Finally he stayed down. First time they ever called me a winner, I felt like a loser. I decided never to hit anyone again.

Starting high school was an easy decision. There were no alternatives. I couldnt find anyone willing to pay me to go trout fishing or stare at the view from my hilltop.
Dropping out of high school was an equally easy decision. Too many bands at once and absolutely no interest in learning from old people.
I actually got the lowest grade possible in oral danish. Shocking! Maybe because I called my teacher a narrow-minded fascist and kept claiming that the banality of life was also the essential part. She did not agree, cramming her ugly plastic cup of disgusting cold tea with loads of misplaced milk.

I walk - therefore I am...