Holed up in my teenage cave,Robert Plant caterwauling about someone squeezing his lemon,clean sun spanked sheets and candles lit and wondering if this is how it will always be for me. That’s a whopping great lie.I don’t have to wonder,not really.I know this is how it is.

Not capable of accepting good.Some connections burn out and cauterize themselves as to never  reconnect again. I am of no practical consideration.Not even for myself.

I will be sure to let you know how I feel about this if the novocaine ever lets its grip on whats left of my heart go.

What do you mean  am I serious? Did I stutter?

Once upon a beer burdened time he told me that he thought that he had invented me. A most flattering concept as I felt like nothing more than curve cursed ectoplasm tethered to terra firma by my magnificent shoes.I actually thought  that he just may have been right.I found myself watching myself from the corner of the room as we tore up the bed. And I wonder how people do it, how they connect and get it to endure ,because for the life of me I just can’t seem to get it right .Not for real and not for keeps. Irrevocably damaged.

I don’t throw that down as a challenge. A gauntlet. Just a fact.

My story does not invite good dreams.My fable as flawed as the one telling it.

There is no practicality in me. I am a comic book character.A Frank Franzetta heroine with one foot planted on a polar bear,sword held aloft.Not that I am complaining about it mind…. Perpetual adolescent.Not applicable to any real life situations.I should hold myself at great distance and remain a fantasy,if that is what it is that I am….

A bass wielding,guitar slinging,tattooed romantic ever writing vagabond. There is a rock solid bet for ya…pft.

I should not be around the pure of heart.Its an oil and water kind of set up. I should not taint their white light,flawless futures and hope with my car crash machinations. It’s not right and I know that its not.It’s not polite and I pride myself upon the good manners that Saint Tina instilled in me.I just cannot bring myself truck with bad form.

Every time my inner Barbie ups and  decides to get bolshy and reignite itself I should beat it senseless with a sock full of loose change and chain it to the hot water pipe  in the basement by its ankle.Starve it in the dark.School it.Show it who’s boss.

(‘Shut up bitch!”)

I’m not going to say “Whats wrong with me?” Because I know. I don’t know the steps.(“Annnnddd,one,two,cha-cha-cha….”) I don’t know how to connect.Love.Its a learned behavior and I was truant that day.(“Miss!! The dog ate my ability to play well with others Miss!) My moral compass is cactus.Can we get real here? People like me cannot be saved ,we are irredeemable. Damage only seeks damage. Which makes most people ,well, outside of rock and roll and most maximum security penitentiary’s, too good for me and forever far beyond me.Its a lose-lose situation because damage has my number and wants me dead. Shallow grave quicklime style.

I am a touch,a pinch sad at times like these but let it be noted that I don’t feel like a victim,I feel like an autopsy.

I think that this is my lot no matter what anyone tells me,tries to convince me that I am wrong and I am sure as shit not going to lie to myself and sweet talk myself otherwise.There will be small vacations from my reality but it is to this that I am contracted to return and no baby,you just can’t come…..

So many songs I have not written,books that I have not read and miles that I have not run.

I can’t shake myself free of what I came from.My forsaken birth all the way to my magnificent  Hollywood mess….And now this.This fucked up exile.

And here I am.Ta-da!

I can never stay. You will not wake up next to me. I am moonlight mile kinda girl. I am alive at 3am and in your imagination.If you are willing to accept the charges I may put the call through if and only if it suits my selfish whims and that is what I am and all that they are, but if you want my opinion? Don’t waste the dime.The connection is faulty,your ear full of electric snow and static.I don’t translate over distance.

Baby? There’s nobody out there….

I couldn’t do it again. Fall that way.I love language.To “fall” in love. Injury is inevitable…. I know that it is not meant to be the same every time,I am not that stupid but as hard as I gaze into my crystal ball I know its just not there. Nor can I go back. I know as time goes on that there is nothing to go  back to. ( “One day” he said softly putting down his Kirrin beer as the sushi train kept ‘ rollin’ on to nowhere “I am gonna stop chasing you…” I sighed and wondered if the fish in the huge aquarium in the center of the restaurant ever felt nervous…) I would not have survived if I did. So this is this and what I have to bend my head around forever.

Am I still in love? With how it was in the beginning? Sure. The starts are always so magnificent in their stoic frailty dontcha find? Does he think of me? I strenuously doubt it. Me? I think about how flawless it was until it wasn’t.

I don’t have anything that would be of value to anyone else.Gold plated you dig?  Oh girl,you are so cold.Don’t waste anyone’s time. I know that you have better manners than that. Who needs a writer anyway? No edit and it all ends up on the page. Grist for the mill right? Its only ever flattering until its not.

Can I live without it? I have thus far and I am still standing.

Chicken sent me through Laura Christine’s bio to give me an idea of what he wants from me. My amazing Laura. And we all know what Gene’s reads like. Trust me to be in a band with the best drummer in the world.Mine is a joke comparatively. He says “Just write what you have been up to.” Oh brother! Avoiding sharp things and the contents of the cupboard under the sink that woo me with tales of oblivion. Circumnavigating my broken heart. Writing songs about my malaise. Not the most scintillating reading.

But I have my band and last time I looked my metaphorical balls.

Maybe that is all I need. Oh. And a gun.

My task is to starve the need clean out of myself. I court sleep and alternately loud noise. I dream of the stage because that is where everybody wants you and no one can have you. This is my life,this is how it goes…I knew that nothing that I ever did would be good enough so I beat myself bloody on the fact just to drive the point home knowing that it would be ignored.

What can I say? I’m a glass half empty kinda broad.

The more I talk and try? The less I know that I should.The human condition is totally flawed which is why specifics are so important.

I make lists. I try and keep myself to myself.

Its safer for all involved.Who is involved you ask?