There's this song by Liz Phair, and I have been sitting here for the last few hours trying to recall the exact words.
I could just hop on Google, the cyberworld's quickest thirst quencher when it comes to instant knowledge drymouth, but I thought I would rather feel this one out on my own tonight. I think I am in possession of the only lyrics from this particular song that are relevant to me at this moment, anyhow. And it's really time for me to hit the sack.
Without further adieu, here they are:
"I want to be cool, tall, vulnerable, and luscious/ I would have it all if I only had this much/ No need for Lucifer to fall if he'd learn to keep his mouth shut/ I would be involved, be involved be involved... I would be involved with you. I know the girls/ that live inside your world/ Just sitting next to a mortal/ makes their skin crawl."
Yes, I suppose that about sums it up. I hate feeling unsure. I stumble along those old familiar paths of speech I have treaded so many times before, but my tounge somehow gets bogged down in the muddiness of my embarassment, and I end up not being able to finish even one complete (simple declarative) sentence.
But I try. Oh, do I ever try. So out of my mouth comes bubbling a seemingly never ending array of half-truths and half sentences. Inept in both my grammar and prudence, I can't seem to just shut up, sit there, and look cool.
I am not cool. Or tall, or vulnerable. And not nearly luscious, unless you were to canvas a selct few individuals.
I am just me. Which, on a good day, is as muti-faceted as Australian quartz shimmering at high noon on a cloudless day.
But, unfortunately, from about nine thirty to five o'clock each weekday, I seem to be all pigeon-holed, tied up tightly; no ends left loose to wonder about/ be tripped up by. In other words, I am a book who's cover isn't a priority to be opened.
It just seems that I never know when it's time to climb back on the dusty shelf.
2:50 a.m. - 2001-08-09
Recent entries:
cliffhanger - 2005-11-12
Mary - 2005-02-08
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