Before you slip into unconsciousness I'd like to have another kiss
Reason number one I'll never be a writer is I never know how to begin. From now on I'll start everything with that because it takes the pressure off and no one will expect anything else. Personal growth, what's that. Or I could just start with a summery and you can decide right away if this is something you feel like wasting your time on. This will be about The Lizard King and my everlasting infatuation plus this boy I know. For a girl whose sexual icon is Jim Morrison I sure pick weird boyfriends. Husbands, whatever. They all have madness in common though, however unsuccessfully they try and hide it.
Once upon a time I was staying in Los Angeles and some random force in the universe decided to throw an, at the moment, over-hyped lead singer my way. Back and forth, time went by, and the only thing that shifted in the big picture was the fact that it was not beginner's luck or being at the right place at the right time, and it became official that the boy was someone to be reckoned with. Thanks to hordes of crying teenage girls but when was ever a rock star created without them.
I didn't know him, of course, he's a character as much as anything. Perfected in my mind, obvious flaws overlooked and ignored. No one except the people involved will never know the true story now. Until he came into my life, my version of him, and smudged the lines between reality and fantasy unrecognizably. I don't think he knows where the lines end because he's his own fantasy now. The higher he goes, the more difficult it is to come down. And you gotta come down, at the end of the night, at the end of a tour when you're left alone and have to figure out who you are again, over and over. He's wildly fascinating, the way he retreats and sits for what seems like forever, chewing on a finger nail and if you try to approach him, as a girl, he'll toss you aside like you were the biggest annoyance he's met. I know that from experience. If you approach him as a friend, quietly and willing to listen, you'll get the most confusing ramble of your life. He talks about how a comic book could hide the meaning of it all. Places he wants to go to disappear. And music, always music. How in vain it all seems, how corporate. Unfinished sentences all over the place. Censorship everywhere. You half expect him to go off on conspiration theories, starting with the president. Instead he goes to get another beer.
If you get the impression of sadness, pity and loss, you don't get it. It's not what I'm trying to project. I think the more pointless it seems, the harder you search for meaning. If you don't get it at all, you kill yourself. I'm sorry, and this is cruel, but I'm perfectly aware of the amount of girls who keep me as their poster girl for their imagined depression and it's repulsive. Slice your arms or legs to shreds, it doesn't make you special and it sure as hell doesn't make you deep. Susanna Kaysen said it best when she said you need a hell of a lot of free time, you need to be well clothed, well fed and with a secure roof over your head to be able to spend that much time feeling sorry for yourself. Off-topic but it's been bothering me.
Moody and insane are two quite different things. I never saw The Doors but watching him nearly makes up for it. He feeds off his audience and he's completely unapologetic about it. Still there's the moment that makes me hold my breath, the moment in which anything can happen. He stops for a second, unnoticeable if you weren't expecting it, and in that second he's perfectly capable of saying "fuck it" and leave the stage. The day he does, I'll start worrying for real. Instead he takes a breath and jumps into the chorus, stronger than ever. How come that a certain breed of men think they can get away with constant PMS?
Girls. You can't live like this without girls. They're like ants, really, all fighting for the queen position. Most of the time they end up being Cinderella and the spell breaks at midnight or whenever bus call is. I'm convinced that if I had met him at twenty-two my life would be amazingly different. If we look away from the tiny fact that he would have been something like nineteen and with no record deal in sight. And he had a girl back then. She was with him through the whole first mess. He didn't tell me why it ended. He seemed embarrassed and avoided it by kissing me. Most of the time he doesn't put a lot of effort into kissing, he more accepts you kissing him. Even when he initiate it. In our private moments I could joke whether I was his Pam or Patricia. Neither, I guess. We made our own story.
He wanted me to update about him but I'm pretty sure he didn't mean something like this. I don't know what I'm talking about though, he favors The Velvet Underground and one day he'll meet his Nico and I will want to kill her.
Once upon a time I was staying in Los Angeles and some random force in the universe decided to throw an, at the moment, over-hyped lead singer my way. Back and forth, time went by, and the only thing that shifted in the big picture was the fact that it was not beginner's luck or being at the right place at the right time, and it became official that the boy was someone to be reckoned with. Thanks to hordes of crying teenage girls but when was ever a rock star created without them.
I didn't know him, of course, he's a character as much as anything. Perfected in my mind, obvious flaws overlooked and ignored. No one except the people involved will never know the true story now. Until he came into my life, my version of him, and smudged the lines between reality and fantasy unrecognizably. I don't think he knows where the lines end because he's his own fantasy now. The higher he goes, the more difficult it is to come down. And you gotta come down, at the end of the night, at the end of a tour when you're left alone and have to figure out who you are again, over and over. He's wildly fascinating, the way he retreats and sits for what seems like forever, chewing on a finger nail and if you try to approach him, as a girl, he'll toss you aside like you were the biggest annoyance he's met. I know that from experience. If you approach him as a friend, quietly and willing to listen, you'll get the most confusing ramble of your life. He talks about how a comic book could hide the meaning of it all. Places he wants to go to disappear. And music, always music. How in vain it all seems, how corporate. Unfinished sentences all over the place. Censorship everywhere. You half expect him to go off on conspiration theories, starting with the president. Instead he goes to get another beer.
If you get the impression of sadness, pity and loss, you don't get it. It's not what I'm trying to project. I think the more pointless it seems, the harder you search for meaning. If you don't get it at all, you kill yourself. I'm sorry, and this is cruel, but I'm perfectly aware of the amount of girls who keep me as their poster girl for their imagined depression and it's repulsive. Slice your arms or legs to shreds, it doesn't make you special and it sure as hell doesn't make you deep. Susanna Kaysen said it best when she said you need a hell of a lot of free time, you need to be well clothed, well fed and with a secure roof over your head to be able to spend that much time feeling sorry for yourself. Off-topic but it's been bothering me.
Moody and insane are two quite different things. I never saw The Doors but watching him nearly makes up for it. He feeds off his audience and he's completely unapologetic about it. Still there's the moment that makes me hold my breath, the moment in which anything can happen. He stops for a second, unnoticeable if you weren't expecting it, and in that second he's perfectly capable of saying "fuck it" and leave the stage. The day he does, I'll start worrying for real. Instead he takes a breath and jumps into the chorus, stronger than ever. How come that a certain breed of men think they can get away with constant PMS?
Girls. You can't live like this without girls. They're like ants, really, all fighting for the queen position. Most of the time they end up being Cinderella and the spell breaks at midnight or whenever bus call is. I'm convinced that if I had met him at twenty-two my life would be amazingly different. If we look away from the tiny fact that he would have been something like nineteen and with no record deal in sight. And he had a girl back then. She was with him through the whole first mess. He didn't tell me why it ended. He seemed embarrassed and avoided it by kissing me. Most of the time he doesn't put a lot of effort into kissing, he more accepts you kissing him. Even when he initiate it. In our private moments I could joke whether I was his Pam or Patricia. Neither, I guess. We made our own story.
He wanted me to update about him but I'm pretty sure he didn't mean something like this. I don't know what I'm talking about though, he favors The Velvet Underground and one day he'll meet his Nico and I will want to kill her.