Heartbreaker.

I just woke up with a splintering migraine that painkillers and red-bull are only beginning to negate and fix an hour later.

I idle beneath soft covers and many pillows,my engine softly turning over and I wonder why I love the Heart-breakers so damn much,why I just can’t seem to deflect myself from the ones who will do and deliver such catastrophic damage,what is the allure,goddamn it!? (” Duh! Johnny Thunders plays the guitar like a pornstar fucks AND he has the best hair like,ever…”)

So of course that leads to “Chinese rocks” being served from my speakers at a volume that is not aiding my headache but who cares?  The heart-breakers in question are the fine boned fools that turn my feline head and then stomp my tender heart.But fuck this song rules.

(Nice one Dee-Dee,je te amour mon cheri…)

I wonder if I had of grown up,say,within the right parameters and so on,if nice boys (don’t play rock and roll) would ring my bell.Doubtful but one does wonder….But it has always been the doomed and degenerate that have appealed. From the fey gay boy that I gave a card to,featuring a rather lurid ice-cream sunday, proclaiming my love  in the 3rd grade to the neo-classic guitar hero at alternative school who skateboarded wearing a green velvet dressing gown while smoking roll-your-own cigarettes,waist length black hair snaking in his wake.  The list is long and crushinly painful. Most unrequited and if not? Utterly horrible flaming endings shot through with arrows of crippling embarrassment. It is easier to stay single. Ah,my type? It varies.It is usually some shockingly literate well spoken fool,a lexicon devil in tight jeans, who can coax the devil’s music from a Gibson at horn inducing volume,wants to kiss for hours,who quotes “Cool hand Luke” and tells me that I smell amazing and Ta-da!

I am cactus.

Then,quel naturellement, there are the ones that decide that I am the answer to their perverse prayers.Some twit living in his mom’s basement who writes me love letters in his own blood that rhyme “Michele” with Dorothy Parker’s “Fresh hell” while strung out on meth and sleeping with his dad’s girlfriend? Yep.Fanatical,bless their cotton socks,fans who get my signature or lyrics tattooed on them and wait three hours to show it to me after the next show in their town.Uh-huh. Perverts who want to buy my dirty underwear.Ok.

I am like the Statue of Liberty for the doomed “Give me your ego driven,Your addicted,Your deluded,your felonious”.

Gimme three priors,a rotten childhood,a glimmer of hope and a neck tattoo and I am a girl-juice puddle.Little Miss Fix-it.

Kill me now.It is for my own good.

And the ones that I pine for? The super talented ocean size infatuations that I long to sail my “S.S Hot-damn!” over ,poised saucily on the prow with a devil-may-care grin,great hair, a fucking massive sword and no knickers ? Usually taken and/or completely indifferent to my quasi-adolescent charms and chronic peter-pan-itis .

I am going to join a fucking convent.

The house strangely quiet as Lilli no longer plastered to the sofa watching endless TV. I dreamt that I was married to a hybrid of George Harrison and Jerry Only(!) .That will learn me for reading Patti Boyd’s nowhere NEAR raunchy enough autobiography before passing out. What did I expect? She up and left a genius for the most sterile boring guitar player of all time. Eric Clapton shits me to tears. And now you are gonna say “Layla” right? Fuck Layla! Duane Allman wrote the beginning of “Layla”.Those eight notes straight out of the gate showing you the way to heaven? That was ol’ Skydog. Don’t get me started……

The door was ho-hum on the weekend.I saw someone who offended me get smeared like dogshit under a shoe scant meters away from my excellent self.As his eyes rolled like a cow stuck in a bog and found my face on his blood blotted periphery ,I winked and waved.

My insomnia caught me on the fly and threw me under its 18 or so wheels for the last two days.This tends to happen to me at least once a month and now I don’t fight it because there is just no point.It is bigger and more powerful than I will ever be.I sleep on and off around the clock and it is done with me.I feel a bit shell shocked so I think that I will stay put.I could be cleaning up my room and washing my sheets that are bearing a striking resemblance to the shroud of Turin but I am not.Nor am I working on my tan.There was no food in the house when I first surfaced last night either so I am looking fetchingly svelte.

I should lose my own number for forgetting that it is Capt Barnes and Sgt Elias.In between beating black bears to death with her bare hands and making Divine glass beads Miss Suzanne of the Tundras gently corrected me.To the watchdogs that save me from slipping even deeper into the quagmire of stupidity from whence I came? I salute you.

Rather excited to be playing a show with Blackie and Keish at Repressed records in Newtown on Jan 28th. Between 7-9 I do believe.I shall be resplendent in a full face of slap and something slinky as I have to make haste to my delinquent door for another endless Saturday night after the fact. I despair my musical discipline,I really do.The house is person free right now so I should be practicing but I am muse free.The minxes.Perversely they descend at 2am when civilians are catatonic.I can’t win.

One thing that I will say in favor of the drunkenness of others is that with the right amount of prying I can gather mucho grande information.

I have an acquaintance,for all purposes of protecting the non-sober and vulnerable,that I shall call H. H is an alpha stone cold fox that causes women to lubricate just by walking by looking stoic,preoccupied and devastatingly handsome.Being that I am a fully demilitarized fuck free zone (“Incoming!! INCOM…Wait…..wha?…..no, scratch that…..”) I have absolutely no shame in asking ridiculously personal questions about other people’s peccadilloes.

Observe.

“H, everybody wants you.” I say while grasping the i-pad that I never use to my heaving c-cup chest while all our friends clutter the entrance to the tattoo shop next to my club wondering what I will say next. “No!” exclaims H ,the light catching his gold tooth.“Yes! “ I reply laser eyes pinning him to the wall.Sir Iggy’s line about hypnotizing chickens comes to mind,I plow on relentless. “But you always look so fucking aloof and constipated that it takes a commando like myself to draw attention to the fact,now what is your type? Inquiring minds want to know” .The look on his too-cool-for-school face is fucking priceless. He cant quite believe that someone is calling him on this shit.

My girlfriends should send me big bunches of white roses (hint) for getting the lowdown.

Alas,it is just like I thought it would be.The posse of tattooed vixens visibly deflate as his desires take shape.

Schoolgirls,prom-dresses.So young you can still smell the breast milk on them.

Typical.

Not that I care.We decide that we need a radio show “Howard Stern with tits!” I crow and he splutters.

He then goes on to tell me,in the spirit of some kind of miss-guided quid pro quo, that they they have a friend who is utterly infatuated with me.My ears prick up and my neither regions as ever stay Sahara dry.Ho-hum. Said lad in question is in a long term relationship but shakes like jelly in my high healed wake.How quaint. In a moment of what can be clarified as either stupidity and/or weakness he confided to his friends that he would like to get fucked raw by me as I choked him out.

Kind of like a pornographic WWF I guess.One can only imagine the outfit I would be wearing…..

So there you have it.The boys of my stripe and calibre want to fuck the alumni of St Trinians and /or are surrounded by razor-wire in long term arrangements and /or are completely mental.Magic, just fucking magic that. All I want to be not only adored for my smokin’ hot body but my brilliant mind to boot and lads look at me and think of wresting on a shower curtain covered in baby oil.

Naturally.

I am not going to say that I wasn’t a just a little flattered,I am human after all.But much like bad gas and summer vacations,it passed quickly.I told them I didn’t want to know who it was.It made a nice change from the drug addled infants on my door trying to chat me up,ever mixing up their ambition and their ability,bless their cotton socks,pupils dilated to manga size. Being an alpha girl is a lonesome road.But you hold out for the big guns.Picture me in my foxhole with a pointed stick and half an Archie comic.

Sigh.

Thank Elvis I have never defined myself by who happens to be at my side.I always want to be the black velvet beneath their diamond and hope that they feel the same,there is nothing finer than knowing that someone has your back, is there not? I live for that shit.I always lust after the Bonnie and Clyde scenario.Back to back,guns drawn.Sigh.I really am stunted in the ways of relating to other animals if my friends and peers are anything to go by.Nothing lasts.Even Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore have gone the way of the dodo after twenty seven sound soaked years.Twenty seven years! Can I just say that I fucking hate Sonic Youth? Thank you.But can you imagine trying to divide that record collection? Just thinking about it makes me want to lie down in a dark room with a wet cloth over my eyes.

You are your own forever.Deal with it.

I have an ex who needs a girlfriend at all times.His pattern never changes.He tells the new hole how bad the last hole was,tells her that she is different and she takes up the challenge.( And yes,I,your stunning scribe, fell for this bullshit hook,line and sinker as well…gulp.) He does what he always does,ruins everything and then hunts for a new hole.I am naturally suspicious of someone who cannot operate under their own steam and delight in their solitude.

Serves me right for hanging out with drama queen drug addicts really.

That was then and this is now.

Going to the store would mean getting dressed and dealing with people.I think that I will stay hungry( Ah ,Twisted Sister!) .Nothing is worth dealing with the animals.Nothing.It is inevitable and will happen sooner or later.I have a yen for a heap of sushi so I believe that shall be my mission when the sun descends.

It is beyond me why my clothes do not fold themselves.And to think that I held out such hope for the new millennium.Meals in a pill,rocket packs and so on.No joy.I thought it would be like the Jetsons by now.Ah life! How you do disappoint.

I have to hustle up enough coin to buy a brick at my beloved Annandale Hotel.Buy a brick and save the venue.Wish I had a blank check to throw at my most adored Rule brothers.My name etched on the outside of one of the greatest venues of all time.It thrills me to the core when I remember the adventures that have taken place between those four walls.Some of which,admittedly, should take the 5th.Some of which saved my life.

So buying a brick for 250 shekels is the least I can do.

Back to my imagination,the page,the gym and the road.

Fleetwood Mac was playing when I walked into the tattoo shop tonight.I smiled.