This blog is meant to be read to the tune of ‘Heartbreak Hotel” by Grieves.
Follow (me) to hear the music that is this summer’s aphrodisiac. Follow (me) to hear the music of today’s overheated summer morning. Live in my white tank top and bathing suit, sip on some of my pink lemonade, and feel the slow moving fan struggle to cool you. You are unable to feel you say? You are an emotionless jerk? Ah ok. Listen to whatever music makes you feel like shit. Let us commiserate.
It is once again too hot for my comfort, and I am one pissed off blogger. I have chipped nail polish, and sweaty curls taking shape around the nape of my neck.
Why am I now a mini ball of perspiring fury? Well, (wipes brow) this is because I have just returned from my first job hunt. It is similar to an Easter egg hunt. You find the most eggs, get a job, eat too much chocolate, and end up dreading the start of your shift. I used my air conditioner during the entire hunt. I did this with the knowledge that it uses more gas, thus using more oil, and finally, further worsening the “oil crisis.” The windows just did not serve a purpose of cooling, and I did not want to walk into my potential job smelling of oil conservation. I turned in two applications at posh hair salons. I can see the value in sitting in an air conditioned building, looking at beautiful women, and daydreaming about how with an extra wax, dye, and cut, I too can be a Maxim winner. Please keep your fingers and toes crossed. I want multiple paychecks to give me a love life more than my current webcam romance.
But enough of that, I want to talk about musicians, and more specifically male musicians. I want, I yearn, I desire, I lust for musicians. Much to my mother’s dismay, I am addicted to their breed. My parents have foretold of the puddle of shit a musician boyfriend will leave me in. I am their sleeping beauty. I am a dumb brunette who can’t seem to stop pricking her finger. My current boyfriend is a musician. There is not a trace of surprise on the faces of the King and Queen. When I hear the hypnotizing voice of my rapper ex-fling, or my boyfriend’s guitar playing, I am under the spell of the evil fairy once more. I imagine her sat on a recliner in fairy hell laughing over my inability to steer clear of the prick. She has assured me at least one musician ex-husband.
Musicians are my Viagra, my heat activated massage oil. At the end of our foreplay he weaves his name into the threads of my heart. I awake in a dirty highway motel with an “I’ll call you” scribbled on a scrap of napkin next to the lamp.
I can dismiss the businessmen with his Bluetooth mobile. I will turn down the doctor with his silver Mercedes; whose license plate reads “doclove,” and the attoney with his three digit salary. I need to prick my finger on the spinning wheel and sleep for one hundred years until shaken awake by the packed bags and divorce papers. I will have the one bedroom apartment with the turntables, guitar, and books as valuables. Yes please. I will be the ex-wife who graciously leaves the MTV awards and yacht trips for the 20 years younger trophy wife. Despite her perky breasts and wrinkle free skin, I will find my sweet revenge in his second album as the product of our failed relationship. I will chuckle into my gin and tonic at the thought of her engagement ring bought with the sales.
It is once again too hot for my comfort, and I am one pissed off blogger. I have chipped nail polish, and sweaty curls taking shape around the nape of my neck.
Why am I now a mini ball of perspiring fury? Well, (wipes brow) this is because I have just returned from my first job hunt. It is similar to an Easter egg hunt. You find the most eggs, get a job, eat too much chocolate, and end up dreading the start of your shift. I used my air conditioner during the entire hunt. I did this with the knowledge that it uses more gas, thus using more oil, and finally, further worsening the “oil crisis.” The windows just did not serve a purpose of cooling, and I did not want to walk into my potential job smelling of oil conservation. I turned in two applications at posh hair salons. I can see the value in sitting in an air conditioned building, looking at beautiful women, and daydreaming about how with an extra wax, dye, and cut, I too can be a Maxim winner. Please keep your fingers and toes crossed. I want multiple paychecks to give me a love life more than my current webcam romance.
But enough of that, I want to talk about musicians, and more specifically male musicians. I want, I yearn, I desire, I lust for musicians. Much to my mother’s dismay, I am addicted to their breed. My parents have foretold of the puddle of shit a musician boyfriend will leave me in. I am their sleeping beauty. I am a dumb brunette who can’t seem to stop pricking her finger. My current boyfriend is a musician. There is not a trace of surprise on the faces of the King and Queen. When I hear the hypnotizing voice of my rapper ex-fling, or my boyfriend’s guitar playing, I am under the spell of the evil fairy once more. I imagine her sat on a recliner in fairy hell laughing over my inability to steer clear of the prick. She has assured me at least one musician ex-husband.
Musicians are my Viagra, my heat activated massage oil. At the end of our foreplay he weaves his name into the threads of my heart. I awake in a dirty highway motel with an “I’ll call you” scribbled on a scrap of napkin next to the lamp.
I can dismiss the businessmen with his Bluetooth mobile. I will turn down the doctor with his silver Mercedes; whose license plate reads “doclove,” and the attoney with his three digit salary. I need to prick my finger on the spinning wheel and sleep for one hundred years until shaken awake by the packed bags and divorce papers. I will have the one bedroom apartment with the turntables, guitar, and books as valuables. Yes please. I will be the ex-wife who graciously leaves the MTV awards and yacht trips for the 20 years younger trophy wife. Despite her perky breasts and wrinkle free skin, I will find my sweet revenge in his second album as the product of our failed relationship. I will chuckle into my gin and tonic at the thought of her engagement ring bought with the sales.
I think I frighten my mother with such talk, but (she sighs for effect) I speak only the truth.
Stormy afternoons make my world go round.
P.S. I had a dream last night I was sat barefoot in a white summer dress on a porch in the heat of the South. My skin was damp with sweat. I was drinking a jack and coke.
“You treat me rough to show that you care”
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