'i ain't waiting for you no more, i ain't waiting for you. go find another fool'
if you're reading this, and you'll know, i'd like you to know that I do not understand. I do not. what you've done has deeply disappointed me and hurt me more than you know. if you'd known me at all you'd have known i'm not just a stepping stone. i am not your pity party, or your game, or your affection. i am not yours to beg of. i am not yours to explain yourself to. i am not yours to break, or to buy, or to grace with promises (lies) and such. i am not yours. i'f you'd known me at all you'd have known this would get me. it's got me bad. even when i warned you against telling me you loved me, you made me believe that you did. i do not understand why you have done this. you have been selfish, self-interested and, foolishly, have taken me for granted. all i could do to keep from breaking was to tell myself it was for the best. for your own good, because i wanted to see you succeed. but that's all that mattered to you. your own good.
you've taken me for granted. you've disregarded me. you've underestimated me. you've been mistaken. my silence is my only solace. i could not bear to speak to you, in fear of becoming angry. and i do not want to be seen as an angry person with angry agendas.
so, i am just going to walk away. if you are reading this, and you will know, i am telling you that next time i see you, i will WALK AWAY.
philosophies through the ages. think up something vague and deeply intellectual, write it all down in large hard back volumes and put an -ism at the end of it. and voila! you have your very own philosophy. you can think up a jackpot of jackshit if you like. no one will know the difference, because it is your interpretation, the child of your wisdom. you may question the meaning of life, reprimand religion or investigate the human condition.
So there is a WAG in every mag that you all know Thinks shes got everything but she ain't got nothing Well she was real plain, had no brain and had no dough But now she can roll in it and watch her boobs grow
All the boys will pay whooa ooow When shes out for prey if theyre straight or gay She wont end up alone All the boys stand still Whooa ooow If looks could kill they probably will
Theres a brand new girl thats going round turning the boys upside down, Gold Digger Shes an only child thats been away, now shes back no-ones safe, Gold Digger
Its all very well if you kiss n tell to get ahead Fit blokes dont count for much unless they got money They pay for the glitz and the refurb tits And turned up nose Maxes their credit card and then its heave ho
All the boys will pay Waoo-o-o When shes out for prey if theyre straight or gay She wont end up alone All the boys stand still Waoo-o-o If looks could kill they probably will
Theres a brand new girl thats going round turning the boys upside down, Gold Digger Shes an only child thats been away, now shes back no-ones safe, Gold Digger
Stick on nails & plastic hair Gucci bags and Prada shoes Girl goes clubbing every night Get a fright when light comes on
Theres a brand new girl thats going round turning the boys upside down, Gold Digger Shes an only child thats been away, now shes back no-ones safe, Gold Digger
there will be always be somebody to love. heads will roll. the bureaucrats will be buried six feet under with no oxygen or paperwork. boys will never be bastards. we will always dance in time to the music the radio will never kill songs there will be no lying. taylor momsen will put some clothes on. there will be no value added tax. everyone will recycle. the internet will never be slow. birds will fly free. my make-up will never run guitar strings will never break. i will be able to eat as much food as i please and never get fat. i will read chick lit all day and eat macaroons. i will bathe in milk. there will be no more guns. i will have scores of male suitors who simply adore me so. i will never age or become rotund, ugly and sun-creased. there will be abundant evian water. valentine's day will be outlawed. i will have my own car and driver's license. i will also have a chaffeur to drive me around, so forget the former. i will thank my public with an eloquent wave (how queenly) tourists will never wear socks with sandals. my enemies will be thrown in the slammer. and then marched to the drop. i will pick cherries in my own cherry orchard. i will have a pony. i will counter all japanese whaling operations and nuke-bomb them into the sea, the sick wankers. there will be no more illiteracy. girls will chose who they wish to marry. there will be an end to monarchy. a rock band will be named after me. all of the nation's guinea fowl will be my personal property. there will be no wet floors. everyone will remember my birthday. everyone will read classic literature and enjoy it. i will have money in the bank. there will be an end to divorce and terrorism and cheating lovers and coffee stains on freshly laundered shirts. everyone will speak in poetry. there will be chivalry. there shall be world peace.
then i'd make you my king. and then you'd be first against the wall.
after an impudent uct student (and, remarkably, a member of the anc) flipped the birdie at jacob zuma's cavalcade, he was arrested and detained for 24 hours under interrogation. for such an indecent finger gesture (supposedly shocking and unacceptable) the disgruntled citizen was taken away with a bag over his head and guns waved at him by the presidential thugs. all in the name of free speech, isn't it? i thought the constitution cited freedom of speech and opinion for all south africans?
the university stood behind him in his actions and protested by flipping the birds on campus.
the indecent finger dates back to the antiquity of roman literature. it has been used as a medium of saying 'fuck you and all you stand for' for centuries, in music, politics and cinema.
zuma denies his involvement in the student's arrest.
unsurprisingly, the big chief walks away unscathed, followed by his traffic-parting, blue light flashing cavalcade of black sedans.
Vice President Nelson Rockefeller gets the attention of younger voters, 1976.
the beastie boys put it out there.
Kurt caught the wrong birdie.
frank zappa searches for the true meaning of didja get any onya?
in a reaction to a recent murder of a UCT student some weeks ago, UCT rallied today against violent and senseless crime in South Africa, urging citizens to take a stand. the student community similarly urges politicians to wake up to this harsh reality and address the issue of crime with a zero tolerence policy.
as i left today there was a poster with the murdered boy's face against the back window of a jammie bus. who will be next? it questioned. or, perhaps, HE questioned.
you're awake at night, sweating under your covers. he's in every breath. he's between your sheets. his footsteps tread on your heart, the way they did when your first met. he's in a song. he is in your religion. he is in the smoke you inhale from your cigarette. he's there when the phone rings, and then you see that it's not him. he's there when you cry. he's not there when you cry. he's the salt in your tears. he's the stealth that creeps up on you when you're trying your best to forget. he's the person you think of when you write things down.
do not live to love. it is a vain cause. first you must learn to live, and then you'll be fit to love. don't marry the first boy who tells you the world is in your eyes.
according to greek myth there were in the beginning three sexes - two-bodied men, two-bodied women and half-sex creatures. zeus, the king of the gods, became angered one day and split these creatures with his thunderbolt, scattering them to all ends of the earth. from this time on the seperated sexes have been left to an eternal search for one another in the hope to finally reunite.
the girls wear daisy duke shorts and pumps boys have hairstyles. and homestyles. i saw a legendary guy wearing a ben ten t-shirt. i would have complimented him too, he was that awesome. sometimes you can spot a first year because they wear their student cards around their necks and seem like they've really tried to look campus-cool when they got dressed this morning. by the time you're in second or third year the novelty of dressing for varsity becomes stale. sometimes they carry their mocha lattes in one poised hand and text furiously with the other while carrying an air of harrassed snootiness. they conceal their eyes with aviators. they sprawl and sun-tan in groups on the jammie steps. when i sat with two engineering students today they made some sexist jokes and assumed it went right over my head, because after all, I am but an intellectually humble Humanities student.
"I didn't cry today." "Well that's a good thing. It is, right? It's a good thing." "Yes, I suppose it is. Nobody likes a crybaby. I've been nothing but that all week." Hannah stared at her fingernails, a preoccupation of hers when she happened to be thinking something she'd rather not say out loud. "Whatever it is that's making you cry, Eliza, is taking hold," she said. "You're alive. That's the fundamental point of existence. Now you got to live."
She's right. She's always right. I hate her for that. But I gotta stop crying.
I came to the University of Cape Town in the summer of my second year out of the bureaucratic system we call school. After twelve years of sound indoctrination and moral wet blanketing I was finally let loose upon the world, where I found a modest-paying job (which I hated, so I left after three months, leaving behind some raised eyebrows). I realized that the taking of the wildly popular ‘gap year’ was the absolute worst thing I could have put myself through and by the end of the December holidays I was ready to stick my head into some textbooks and do something really academic. I was ready to learn things, to argue things, to write long-winded essays that would be marked glibly with a sarcastic comment or two. I was ready for all that, and I was ready to take it head on. The series of modest-paying jobs I did throughout my gap year actually helped me to accumulate a good sum of cash, I was surprised to discover. Maybe I could be frugal after all. I found a place in the suburbs (of course, where else?) where I felt quite at home almost the second I stepped through the door. The paint on the ceiling was a little worn and there were some telltale cracks in the walls. I saw myself on a ladder in overalls, painting out all of these inconsequential flaws. The place was perfect and I said I’d move in immediately. I didn’t really have much to move in with. A bed and a bookcase and a sofa with two throw cushions, a gramophone I’d had for years and had bought on a church sale in Kalk Bay, and a fish bowl. There was no fish in the bowl, either. It was just an ordinary glass bowl which I put on top of my bookshelf. When I had packed up my bedroom and moved out of home I found myself tossing things into boxes at an alarming pace, and things I never thought I’d miss, too. I brought with my framed print of Elvis Presley, which thankfully I found a place on the wall for, and which also covered an unsightly crack in the plaster. I’m pretty crazy about Elvis. I also insisted on taking my old read-a-thon medals and hockey trophies from primary school. When I attempted to pack my old hockey stick my mother drew the line and took it away. I was a bit of a mess the first day I moved out of home. I even tried to smuggle the coffee-maker out with me but I was discovered. I wailed and declared that I could not perform any academics without a coffee-maker because I needed fresh coffee every morning in order to function intellectually and there was nothing I could do to change that. My parents, already doubting my sense of reason at this time, decided to buy me a house-warming gift and very soon presented me with my very own brand new coffee-maker for my kitchen. I can catch the Jammie at any time of day or night and it will take me anywhere on campus I wish. I was within walking distance of the best coffee joint this side of town where they make those heavenly frappacinos piled with good old whipped cream and caramel. The coffee is also extra strong, which I like. There’s also a lovely charity bookshop just a few blocks from my apartment where you can buy books cheap. I don’t mind buying from there because all proceeds go to a local home for the mentally-handicapped. I figured if the mentally-handicapped were unable to enjoy the wonder of reading books I’d do it for them, and donate to a cause at the same time. I go there at least once a week to get a new one, because I devour books with a great appetite. Sometimes I may go days without a proper meal, just drinking filter coffee and reading my charity books on my porch. The nourishment from the books is enough for me it seems, and I can continue to read for days on end without realizing I haven’t eaten or that it’s Tuesday already and I need to get some work done. During my first weeks since I moved to the suburbs I learned a great deal. I found out that the hairdresser on Royal Ave likes to collect cuts of hair from trimmings and make wigs out of them for cancer patients. He is also Yugoslavian. I learned that the starlings that nest in the eaves of my building like to have breakfast with me some mornings when I’m outside on the porch and will attempt to get into the kitchen to feast on scraps. I learned that young men with experimental facial hair and a loping stride are most likely arts students or belong to an alternative band or activist group. I learned that the traffic lights down on the intersection are almost always out of order and that when taxi drivers whistle at you they want to give you a ride. I discovered this after I was whistled at by one of them and I yelled out that they should mind their manners. I was answered by “Mowbraykaaaaaap!!” and some relevant hand gestures. I muttered to myself that I did not wish to go to Mowbraykaaaap and if only these taxis would drive properly on the roads instead of trying to level pedestrians.
i walk through the halls in shiny shoes with shiny books and my hair smelling good. he's got shiny books too, and she too. and she. and he. and all of them do. they're a hundred other islands all around me.
they take the bus down to to lower and slide down to the pizza joint and slip into lecture halls and slip out again.
i am an island i choose it. i'd kid myself to think i'm any different but if only i were.
i am an island because i am angry i am an island in my hurt though not an island, actually because many others know hurt, too.
i'd sooner be an island than anything apart bless my heart, my heart! never-leave-you, never-hurt-you the island won't weep.
to be alone is an island. calamity i wrote. i'm an island when i have to be i'm an island, i'm a boat.
I hate slow computers I hate varsity I hate people who constantly text you and don’t take the hint when you don’t reply. I hate people. I hate feeling sick. I hate stupid slow people who block doorways. I hate having to sit at home trying to get better. I hate Facebook. I hate break-ups I hate average writers who get published. I hate Twilight. I hate watching fantasy movies because I’m not an elf princess. I hate social-climbing, snarky little losers I hate club-owners. I hate people who talk to themselves while I am in the room I hate posers and snobs. I hate other bloggers. I hate it when my head is sore. I hate ignorance. I hate soap operas. I hate people who don’t help themselves. I hate American daytime television. I hate being hungry with no appetite and this horrid taste in my mouth. I hate arrogant pricks. I hate emos. I hate teenybopper chavs. I hate hosh people. I hate it when people roll their r’s. I hate tea with milk. I hate beggars who harass you at the traffic lights. I hate cheap nasty shit. I hate hayfever. I hate changing my mind. I hate disgusting oily fast food joints. I hate useless stoner drop-outs who end up getting pregnant or working at the video store. I hate queuing. I hate people who try to bash your head in with their Bibles. I hate it when I want to say something and know what it is I want to say, but can’t find the words. I hate awkward conversations. I hate doing stuff I don’t feel like doing. I hate waiting around. I hate to be kept waiting. I hate rip-offs. I hate religious fanatics. I hate sand getting stuck to me. I hate Camps Bay. I hate pretentious, rolling- in-dosh places like Caprice or St. Yves. I hate discussing the weather. I hate dirty places. I hate rude bus drivers. I hate being treated like an absolute idiot on the telephone when trying to ask a simple question. I hate bureaucracy. I hate the mean reds. I hate my cuticles. I hate foie gras. I hate spam. I hate Taylor Momsen. I hate when songs I like make it big on the radio. I hate not getting what I want. I hate the fish pond concept. I hate four-by-four moms. I hate it when there’s no inspiration. I hate infomercials. I hate it when males use the little heart emoticon in messages. I hate event invitations. I hate the fact that alcohol is so important to everyone. I hate being judged. I hate you.
just tried to ski for the first time. I fell hard on my face and hit my head on the snow. Concussed temporarily. It is that time between Christmas and New Year. I miss him but it is no good missing him, because France is a beautiful place and I am glad I am here.
I'm not sure I want to go with the others tonight. Who would I speak to? They probably think I'm nuts. They're probably right. I think I miss home. I wish I didn't. But I kinda do.
We are high up in the Alps with a family of about thirty French people, all speaking in French and eating in French and making jokes I don't understand. The mountains are beautiful with snow. Solid, stark snow, bright and marvellous in the sunlight. I am alone. I am alone but maybe it is good.
it is the most cherished city in the world. people are unsympathetic. couples embrace in the metro. beggars plead and so do their dogs and cats. chestnuts (hot) are sold at underground entrances. there is a couturier on every street. the history of the city is preserved in the chaos of the 21st century cars just drive. the experience of this city is a very personal one. the sacre coeur mass was beautiful on sunday, when the voices in song made me want to cry. there really are painters in paris. they paint paris. people sit outside in the cafes where many an art movement, resistance manifesto, intellectual discussion and social controversy were formed. i wore my red beret. my feet killed me from the 18e all the way to the 9e. We walked more than I have ever walked before.
In France there is a whole lot of cheese, wine and perfect mannerism. It is the home of my third language and the country I've always wanted to see. There are times when I confused myself, becoming linguistically jumbled and find myself sifting through three layers of language to find the right word. It's true that the French can speak English but choose not to. It is not true, however, that they don't shave their underarms and detest the English with a passion. They are merely reserved people. They accompany each meal with wine. They talk quickly and conserve their energy for evening. The sun, in its wintry sleep, sets early, around 5h30pm. We eat dinner late and there is never awkward conversation. They smoke alot, even though it's expensive. I think it helps with the cold. Speaking of which, it is very cold here. The temperature is starting to plummet into the minuses and you can feel that snow is on its way. It's in the air that it's coming. The house smells of incense and cigarette smoke and cats that live here. There's something about France and Europe that is so refined, quiet, lovely and romantic. I am sometimes reminded of something and am momentarily sad. But then I realise that he is gone and I am not here for him. I am here because I have wanted to be here for as long as I can remember. That was before him.
Today Maman and I went to Etretat, a small town on the coast. It is the smallest town you can imagine. When you imagine it, you think of poetry. There was hardly a soul on the streets and most of the shops were closed. We walked on the beach which is merely a pebbly stretch. The gulls cried pitifully like in 20th century poetry, resounding about the clifffs that make the place famous. There's a church on the cliffside. The town is just so. No traffic, people yelling. We found a good fire in an old tavern, where we had a hot chocolate.
Just outside Le Havre there is a chapel. It was so cold inside and Catholic. I could have prayed, but all I could do was breathe hallowed frost. A monsieur came inside and began to sing loudly and with pride. We could hear his tenor from outside in the gardens.
I've wined and dined on Mulligan Stew, and never wished for Turkey As I hitched and hiked and grifted too, from Maine to Albuquerque Alas, I missed the Beaux Arts Ball, and what is twice as sad I was never at a party where they honored Noel Ca-ad (Coward) But social circles spin too fast for me My "hobohemia" is the place to be
I get too hungry, for dinner at eight I like the theater, but never come late I never bother, with people I hate That's why the lady is a tramp
I don't like crap games, with barons and earls Won't go to Harlem, in ermine and pearls Won't dish the dirt, with the rest of the girls That's why the lady is a tramp
I like the free, fresh wind in her hair Life without care I'm broke, it's o'k Hate California, it's cold and it's damp That's why the lady is a tramp
I go to Coney, the beach is divine I go to ballgames, the bleachers are fine I follow Winchell, and read every line That's why the lady is a tramp
I like a prizefight, that isn't a fake I love the rowing, on Central Park lake I go to Opera and stay wide awake That's why the lady is a tramp
I like the green grass under my shoes What can I lose, I'm flat, that's that I'm alone when I lower my lamp That's why the lady is a tramp
future husband of mine. musician. plays for coins. sings for love. loves to sing. beautiful hair. penniless. no-good. hip stacks. sits on guitar. guitar sits on him. skeptic. a juke box hero. a recovering alcoholic a 2 pack a day junkie a collector of hash browns up down up up down a pusher of borders. non-commit. lyrical block. practically without a roof.
while in london i came across speaker's corner. i'd never seen anything like it before. i mean, i live in south africa where speaking against and speaking out is commonplace, as is public rioting and burning. i am quite used to freedom of speech in my own country, mostly when topics such as race or ethics (and race and ethics) or racism or black empowerment are discussed. london is a cosmopolitan city where free speech is a collective privelege. it is also more in touch with international affairs and unlike south africa, there isn't a sense of dwelling on the evils of the past. the news is current. so anyway, there was a black american standing up on a step ladder. i wasn't even sure i understood everything he was saying. mostly he was holding up a star-spangled banner and yelling. his props included a black doll, ebony magazine, an oscar statuette and a book called sartre. mostly he was yelling at the amused audience, singling out non-american white men. "Ya'll muthafuckers, put my flag back up for me, wouldya? God bless America, you muthafuckers."
Then a Muslim man stood up and countered him. Then I left, shaking my head.
i was given an assignment for the Varsity Newspaper's first edition of the year. I was told I could go around interviewing people on their thoughts on first-year behaviour and the university stigma of the species.
here's my effort, punctuated for a change.
The SCOOP on the First Year Stigma
as told by a first-year
The freshers are just dying to know what the upperclassmen are saying about them...
If you’re one of those like I am, the wide-eyed apparition on campus with eyes glued to a map, looking like she’s permanently lost you’re probably a first-year student at UCT. You’ve been accepted into this exciting new way of life. You’ve outshone thousands of others to ensure your place here and for the spirited first-year varsity is a fresh ground of hard work and hard play. We’re the pigeons in the pigeonhole, the involuntary victims of a stereotype that has continued generations over. Your parents were probably in the same position a couple of decades ago when they wandered onto campus just as bright and new as you are now. I’m sure all of us ‘freshers’ are aware by now that the rest of those initiated upperclassmen are watching us and shaking their heads, saying, “Look at that bunch of firsties walking by. They always seem to travel in packs.” First-years do this for protection. If you walk alone you could easily be singled out and pounced by somebody bigger and meaner than yourself. For the typical first-year life has begun with the start of O-Week. You’ve moved into res, made a couple of alliances, registered for your course and you’re gearing up for what is promised to be the most fun of your entire life. Make the most of it. And take a few free condoms too. It is undeniable that first-years carry an annoying stigma of sexual promiscuity, binge boozing, explicit pranks, campus stunts and general irresponsibility. That’s what some of the uppers told me, anyway. I decided to ask around, because, as a ‘fresher’ myself I couldn’t very well disgrace myself with such labels and disown my fellow freshers. One opinionated post-graduate law student from Rhodes felt that first-year antics are a waste of university and family resources. She suggested that freshers get a much-needed lecture on the responsibilities of being a university student. Us first-years or ‘noobs’, have been known to drop out at alarming rates once all that social boozing and rampant late-nights have caught up with us. A second-year Bsc Computer Science says you can spot a first-year a mile away. “The typical stigma would be that of irresponsible behaviour, casual sex and that kind of thing. Even lecturers comment on first-years occasionally. First-years have been nicknamed ‘academic wannabes’ or ‘greenhorns’.” I managed to hunt down a Post Graduate in Mechanical Engineering who was glad to share some first-year anecdotes. “Run a lap, down a beer, run a lap, another beer. Drink food colouring before and see what colours you can bring up on the field.” There were also other stunts such as trolley racing, trolley burning, trolley stealing and various other activities involving trolleys and alcohol. There were some incidences of public indecency, as could be expected, funnelling, hair-shaving and booze mixing. These are the kinds of things that they’ll be talking about until graduation. These beer-chugging, pizza-loving, sit-com watching highly driven and (even) arrogant first-years with their wise-crack slogan tees, daisy dukes and experimental facial hair are the most stereotyped souls on campus. True, many won’t make it through the first year. Or even the first semester. But we’re not out to make this the university of beer and sexual favours. We’re here to learn. Well, most of us anyway. Some of the upperclassmen may see us travelling in hordes and say that we seem to lose our morals like marbles all over campus. They may say all we’re good for is getting into debt and having mom and dad pay for our fun. Sound familiar? If you’re a first-year and you’re reading this, make it count and prove them wrong.
you'd think with all this academic tension and delicious freedom of speech and swinging and sex talks i'd be rearing up and ready to gooooo
i'm not really. i feel quite uninspired. i'm actually forcing myself to write. just so you know, i don't want to and this is so toilsome and frustrating and i am about to tear large chunks of my hair out and go on a riot. i'm doing this for my own good. i really really am. i think it's time i stopped WANTING to be sad all the time. there's no point. i like to say how i feel, of course. i just don't want to cause the world to end around me prematurely. i have an apocalyptic tendency. this means i have no trouble finding things to make me cry because it is sad and i am sad and life is a fuckface at times.
get a grip.
(thanks B.B., you're right. how blue CAN you get?)
did you know that jimi covered bob in 1968 and that elvis' blue suede shoes actually belonged to carl perkins the year before in 1955? david bowie covered iggy pop's china girl in 1983. dizzy miss lizzy by the beatles is in fact a larry williams from 1958. (who the - is larry williams anyway?) eric clapton wanted cocaine the very next year. humble pie drove the beatles' car a decade later,in '75. the first cut is the deepest was covered by sheryl crow for cat stevens. who shot the sherrif? bob marley in 73 or eric clapton in 74? aretha wasn't the first one who sang about respect.
i bought jeff buckley's grace for three pounds for his cover of leonard cohen's hallelujah.
i do not sleep very late. i have a lot on my mind and this wakes me early. i took a bath and cleaned my hair. i find that when i'm out of doors and in the world as we know it, i am soaking. i am soaking up everything around me so that later when i am at home alone in my bedroom i can collect. from this collection i can write, and, with some luck and guidance, something good. except i am not so sure anybody would find what i write very interesting. only because you are not me and i am not you and you could not possibly know everything that works in my head, no matter how simple and tuned it may be. most of what i write is about the world as I know it. well, how else should i see the world, besides from my own perspective? often it's about some boy who has hurt me recently, or something political, or something offensive. but mostly i talk about the heaviest weights on my existence. the fact that i find myself made sad more often than happy. the fact that facts are the truth and the truth is an ass. an inconvenient one.
if i bore you then leave. if i excite you, well, whatever. but if what i write provokes you, come back and i will give you more.
love is a many-splendored thing. love is stronger than justice. as blue zoo says, love moves in strange ways. all the same, it is good to be in love muddy waters wants to be loved. magic sam, love me with a feeling. how about sonny boy williamson - all my love in vain? need your love so bad! that's coming from fleetwood mac. i think we all know the context there. stevie ray vaughan was quite the romantic, with three numbers namely 'let me love you baby,' 'love struck baby' and 'love me darlin'' elvis (she's crazy about him too) can't help falling in love with you. michelle shocked, 'if love were a train..' well i tell you what, if love were a train i'd run right into you. billie holiday - you don't know what love is. she's right, i don't. what is this thing called love?, asked charlie parker. he said it with jazz, however. keith jarrett falls in love to easily. i fear so do i. the beatles famously proclaimed that all you need is love. fuck that shit.
bob dylan on the other hand named his album 'love and theft' because maybe he'd seen the two hand in hand. i would not be surprised. thieves in the night come dressed as love.
the list is endless. some are love struck, love bound. others are love cured, weary of love, sick. sick in love, sick of love. just generally sick. some are questioning love. others are drugged by it. some are selfish and just want a lover they don't have to love.
what is this ridiculous OBSESSION with love! cure me of this absurdity. it is surely making my life a great misery!