A friend told me the other night that I had balls in my writings. He was drunk. And it was IM. So I'm gonna think he was being honest. Instant messaging is confessional. Alcohol just makes the typing more cardiac.
I often refer to my blogs as random up-chucks of consciousness. If you've read more than two, you've probably got me figured out. Pegged. Though I control what I put down, what goes up is as much me as anything else. Snaps, Jason, Koka, and Matt can attest to that. There's a certain life-bond created when you hold someone's hair while they're puking. When you make them laugh through tears over a miserable little boy, generally referred to as Satan - you know the one who broke-up with you in your dorm parking lot because he was "bad for you", but not before giving you a case of Zima (I like my drinks bubbly, sue me!) and stating "You'll probably be needing this". When the dirt gets aired, it is those people who will get the big payday.
So, really, what do I have left to hide? I'm a plebeian with uptown tastes and a smackering of education. I'm an attention starlet who name drops philosophers so you don't think she's small-town. I want you to look while I cover my eyes. Seriously, this is basic psychology kids. Don't stress yourself.
In all my efforts to not be what I am, I suppressed. I beat down and bruised my inclinations and my instincts. I recited, hand over heart, that being the good little cube-dweller would bring me the peace that they sold on SUV commercials. I could make a mix-CD of Led Zepplin's "Black Dog" and the Stooge's "Search and Destroy" and be cool while living my American dream.
As you probably have figured out, that didn't work for me. Maybe I'm missing a gene. A little burp during mitosis. I'm impatient. I gotta think my DNA is as well. Like when I hear a bad sound in my car and I just turn the radio up louder, I developed on, ignoring the grinding and whining timing belt.
And, so, here I am. Throwing up on you, but, you know, in a good way. The way that doesn't charge-up a cleaning bill or leave a bad smell. Well, usually not.
I write here not because I think I'm better than you or that my opinions matter. They don't. I do it 'cause I'm selfish. I do it because I like doing it. Like I've said, I'm Veruca. I'm a kitten. I want it now and I want it to be pleasing to the touch. -Scratchy scratchy. Break the skin. Itchy Itchy. Let it in. - My same drunk friend told me that his gf found me "alien" and that she just doesn't get me. Awesome. I need that. I like the thought of being alien. Enigmatic and armed to the teeth with pop banter and fan-boy wit. It makes me feel cool. Crank the New York Dolls. Let's get our glam on.
Oh, and post-script here darlings, I sincerely thank you for reading. For commenting and msging me. I don't want to be your Messiah. Just your idol. I'm done with saving souls and turning water into wine. I'm just after your stroke and your thoughts. Trust me, I want you much more than you want me. I think you're beautiful.
Feel the lovin'. Feel the cool. - Black Dog - 5:35