Now I'm in love with another drunken Brit.
I do indulge in alcohol [once in a while] but I will never try singing, for fear of broken bottles [accidentally] flying and [accidentally] dissecting my carotids and jugulars [severely] or hitting a little bit left of the chest, or the [very well protected] groin. My singing voice wont [because nothing will] put a drunk bunch to that behavior, but I am just a bit cautious.
Enough of my life.
See, last year I was all over the wino, that beautiful creature that is Amy Winehouse; she lovingly haunted my dreams and dominated my morning commute to school. She still has my overflowing adoration, and I could never give her too much. There is no end to my generosity. she keeps on taking it, like a bottomless pit, like a gaping hole of no return, like a kitchen sink drain, because I assure her of it.
In return, plenty of epiphanies she caused me. Plentiful an epiphany.
But I haven't been seeing much of her. Online, her labels differ from each other only slightly: an abomination, a goblin, a walking disaster, one never to get close to, especially by small children and severely retarded adults. And I cannot clearly see why. Her hair seems a little out of place but the bees don't seem to mind it. Personally, I find it attractive. I want to sniff at it.
Public fora denounce her ways and continue to sling at her evil methods with stark sarcasm [some so obvious, the art of being sarcastic with a straight face is ruined.]. But she keeps on being herself. Because nothing can hurt her, she is resilient and tough; as tough as the brand of hairspray she's using [which I have now come to doubt as only being hairspray.] to keep her hive.
And I admit to being amused by the humor myself. I enjoy it and strain all my laughing muscles laughing with the rest of the world. Yours truly even partook in an online bet, for a chance at an iPod touch, to guess the date when she'll finally meet her maker, so to speak. It was all for fun, and may I remind all of you that there is now the ipad, and it has overtaken the itouch, and she's still alive and smokin' [I mean weed].as they all say, come hell and high water, matagal mamatay ang masamang damo [and I still mean weed].
Come the iMat or the iFloor panelling, the iRoof Shingles, she'd still be mi bella, mi amor, mon étoile qui brille. I’d still want to share with her the iBed. iLove her.
But I haven’t told her yet she's been sharing the love with someone for about some days now. Not cheating but just indulging myself in someone else' good company, I say to myself. Nothing is wrong with that [right?]. and they will get along very well since they both have the amorous respect for the beer bottle ,though my former one-and-only muse also indulges herself in nicotine and the occasional line of coke sometimes. And they could both understand each other, with the same set of cockney slang.
Adele is it.
Adele tells me of my troubles. She’s there to share my solitude. She's my wonderful little [but really plump] shining star, lulling me to sleep in the cold springtime dark, with my cold blanket and my unfluffed pillow. I feel her stroking my unkempt hair, my clammy cheeks,
and grasping my hands. And I feel comfortable and loved again. And if ever
I cried [because I never do. EVER.] She’d find a way to cheer me up with a
melody sure to pluck at the right set of heartstrings.
Hay. How she makes me smile, even when I’ve already closed my eyes.
Her singing makes me feel the joy. Oh, joy --I write so happily again.
Last night she sang to me,
"You say it’s all in my head
and the things I think just don’t make sense
so where you been then? Don’t go all coy
Don’t turn it round on me like it’s my fault
See I can see that look in your eyes
The one that shoots me each and every time
You grace me with your cold shoulder
Whenever you look at me I wish I was her
You shower me with words made of knives
Whenever you look at me I wish I was her."
She speaks to me so lovingly; I cannot believe how well she reads me. She owns my heart and caresses it like it's her own. And her comforting stems from the most genuine of all intentions.
"And I hear your words that I made up
you say my name like there could be an us
I best tidy up my head
I’m the only one in love
I’m the only one in love
Why do you steal my hand
Whenever I’m standing my own ground
You build me up then leave me dead."
She narrates to me as if we are one.
But, my dear, we are three. You are the second muse.
Like in Woody Allen's Vicky Cristina Barcelona, love is not for only two people to share. Sometimes a missing piece is sought to balance the scales, because sometimes the scale doesn’t have just two platforms.