Ohhhh la la lalalalalaalalalalalalalalalalalla.

Yes a song for me. And someone I just got off the phone with said to
me: Deanna I just wanna pin you against a wall. Jesus, how come it
takes fucking 28 years to meet someone who knows how to speak and keep
my little motor revved and ready to rocket straight out of the fucking
universe?  And this is really and truly just the tip of the
iceberg. But how could you go from the fetus to another you ask? Well,
I’ll tell you, because I have been doing a lot of self-analysis lately.
When I picked the fetus up at the bar, I was totally scabbed and
half-wrecked. But then I realized that it was okay to be me, because
who the else could I possibly be? And that me is completely likeable
and completely cool regardless of any shitty self-esteem trips I had
put myself on. And then as the scab started to loosen and peel, the
fetus and I ended up having this talk about his not being ready to be
in that type of relationship with me at that and this time. So my scab
had been loosened a bit, and I still felt okay about it all. I mean, if
it were gonna happen, then it would happen. But it didn’t. And so, it
was the shining jewel on the left coast who presents himself to me,
fucking all of my perceptions about those of the male persuasion
completely up. Shredding all of these lowly pathetic renditions I had
washed over my memory. He has the ability to communicate, and often
times makes me wanna scream scream scream. Loudly. And the letters?
Should we even discuss the letters? Oh no. Let’s not and say we did,
because he has given me, at what was almost my lowest hour, a pinching
of hope. No, pinching is wrong. How about a literal dump truck of good
stuff?  I mean, when you’re a kid you have all of these perfectly
painted pictures of what love will be like. All fluttering softly
sputtering in circles wildly out of control. And as you get older, you
realize that a lot of shrapnel goes flying when hearts start popping.
And people say things they don’t mean, and don’t mean things they say.
But most importantly, for the most part, those of ya that bear the
penis do not have the ability to just communicate, open your mouths to
let any truth start running. Oh, I know, it’s an issue of  not
being a “guy thing” to be able to just spit it out, but there is
something so fucking sexy about someone who could say, “Deanna, I’m
thinkin about you. And I can’t wait to see you, and wrap my arms around
you.” That is the complete generic version I feel I can share with the
general public. All the other pretty things I have of his I will keep
close to my heart, covered until it is time to unwrap.

So today I went out and purchased some lovely items. Mostly music. I
picked up these discs, in no apparent order. Citizen Cope: The Clarence
Greenwood recordings (tres tres belle). Rilo Kiley, more adventurous
(also completely sweet so far),  Elliot Smith, From a
Basement on the Hill (you know), Scissor Sisters (you can’t talk shit
about them), and Interpol’s Antics, which totally swindled me with
promises of all kinds of multi-media goodness inside the disc.  I
haven’t listened to that yet, but the other puppies I am working my way
through. Then I skipped happily over to Urban Outfitters and tried to
fashion myself as the grungy girl I know you all always wanted to look
at. You know. You see those fucking mannequins in Urban Outfitters. They
should call it ‘homeless person chic”, because all those ripped
sweaters, tweeds and wools would only be useful in extreme bouts of
frigid air. But I dig it. After all, my first fashion show was gonna be
ghetto terrorist. But then terrorist decided to pin this bad rap on
itself, thus creating an impossibility to use my catch phrase.

I walk around like I am invincible lately, fueled by this unseen love
way west. Someone whose lips have not rested on mine in going on 4
years. But, if I recall correctly, all that kissing wasn’t for nothing.
Just a promise of a later on.

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