Love And Cigarettes

"God help a woman who finds a man who talks to a woman like he understands"

As I am writing the very first blog entry of my life, the little hat is standing next to me, dancing. She is listening to a new song we just wrote. We liken writing a song to making a baby and we have a natural ritual of listening to the recording over and over and over and over again at the highest volume while smoking extreme amounts of camels and marlboro N0. 27's. Some one else might think we are listening because we are completely self obsessed with ourselves. This is probably true on some deeper psychological level, but the real story behind our obsession is a shock and disbelief that "we've done it again!"
I started writing songs later in life. I never had the "I'm Gonna Be A Star" title running through my head. On second thought, I have to be honest, I did want to be a star but never thought I could once I hit the ripe age of bitter 6. It was downhill from there. I'm not trying to depress or encourage any sort of pity, but it was a bit of a rough ride and I never imagined I would be able to make something of my own. Start something and finish. It had been a decade straight of "talk" and very little founded "doing". So, when my dear friend and I seem to start and fully finish a song with all the little details covered, I am once again, suprised, elated and feel as though "I've done it again!"

"My Lover White Bread" is a line in this latest baby that the little one and I wrote. It was written about a past love but the lyrics seem to lend the ear to alternative meaning. Originally it was a reference to the White Bread obsession of my life. Food, love, men, money and other things. White is my favorite color. Somehow it turned in to a story of his character. A cryptic description of my obsession with destruction and the allure of insanity.

And so, "god help a woman who finds a man who talks to a woman like he understands".
Those were the first words I wrote to him when we first met.
It was a personal premonition and I knew, on some level, to be very weary of any man that seems to make me feel full and loved. The taste of fluffy, doughy, delicious white bread.
If only I had listened to the little guy, Intuition.
The very best oracle, psychic, truth teller in town.
And now I am still hungry
And now I am curious
What will I gnaw on next?