Twister.

I could see it throwing itself  from heaven to earth and back again in the thick distance,bouncing from trailer to field. Natures own drama queen. It sucked all the sound from my screaming skull as it spun closer. I stumbled into the abandoned house and looked for a place to put myself that the tornado could not touch. Running into a huge open plan living room I tripped over a totally hot couple banging the absolute stuffing out of each other…..

I woke up with my knife wedged under my cheek leaving a deep mark that I proceeded to rub, all the covers on the floor and my Hello Kitty doll in the garroted in the crook of my arm. Lifting my silk sleep mask I was met with the sight of the hydraulic master piece that is a real live fuck machine that I am minding for a friend until she works out where to hide it. With out its, ahem ,attachments and casing it looks like a naked baby alien…..its so damn cute!

I shall name it Henry!

Can you tell that I am losing it? Babysitting a fuck machine and sleeping with a knife ,wait, I have always slept with a knife…never mind, move on please….

I am blaming the advent of high speed Internet here at Chez Shite.

That and the charming combination of a PMS fueled chocolate binge during which I inhaled anything that had come within kissing distance of a coca bean , no sleep the night before because my OCD is going bat-shit and my renewed scholarly-you-do-understand interest in hardcore pornography due to said Internet action.

What a dream!

Carmilla Bing and company fornicated their big titted three input slap happy way all over my fucked up frontal lobe for hours while I tried to avoid a twister by hiding in a dishwasher. (” Paging Dr Freud?….”) I woke up throbbing and unsatisfied.

Sigh.

Not that it matters. Not that it helps.

I am so very tired of being strung along. Of  rocking horse shit rare delectable boys going hot and cold on my fur coat wrapped , caramel skinned, boot bedecked, whiskey voiced, tangle haired awesomeness. Of being nothing but a hot theory. I really have to shut myself down because although I am sure that it is doing wonders for my skin and all ? I am really sick of having egg on my face.

Don’t engage my interest if you are going to waste my time! Manners please!

Games?  What-the-fuck-ever……As Arron Neville would croon ” If you want something to play with? Go and find yourself a toy”.

A-men.

This game is shit. I should remove myself from the pitch before I go all Vinnie Jones on someones ass. My love-life (*pft!*) is yellow carded  yet again.

The worst thing is that I fall / fell for it. No one wants an alpha wench. They talk it up like they do but they don’t. Someone told me that maybe I had a hard time with this shit because ” Maybe they had read your page…” Like I am going to dumb down?!  You have got to be shitting me right? This is it. You take the whole package or you don’t.

I know that women are notorious for it but I have never tried to change anyone that I have been swapping spit with. The way I figure it is that you are there with them because you dig them . Right? People are not like real estate for Christs sake. I don’t want a “A charming fixer upper ,all offers considered!”. I am too busy trying to get myself right!  We should focus on ourselves and realize that much  like a physician ,we have a certain duty of care when we chose to be with someone. Respectfully bring the best of yourself to the other party. It’s common sense is it not?  You say that you love them? Well then be nice to them for the love of Gram Parsons and all that is holy!

This all makes total sense to me but apparently I am alone on this one.

I wish that I  was a …I don’t know? …a botanist?…yeah, that would be kind of cool. Hang around chatting to plants all day. Slicing and cross pollination. Crisp whit lab coat… Wait! I did that when I was growing dope in LA. But wearing a bikini and a smirk.  Ok, maybe a maid at a monastery? A vow of silence, trading charged glances with Leonard Cohen, rising early….Tonight and more frequently I am wishing that I was anything other than this. Anything but a writer is what I am getting at. Writers tend to and keep stupid flames burning that should have gutted themselves out a long-assed time ago.

Writers revolve around the violence of love. Rotten romance. In one way or another I always end up back at some kind of  sick inducing quagmire of longing with one hand down my pants. That’s me alright ,wrapped in an ankle length hooded cloak working my “French lieutenants woman” shtick for all its worth ,collecting kindling on the dark mist shrouded moors of memory to keep something pointless and non illuminating alight. A flame that attracts all the wrong moths. The drunkest of sailors with ships sinking and the cruelest of  predators ever scanning for the lame and loveless.

How to stage a blackout without extinguishing all hope in my nasty neon hot Pink Hello Kitty core?

Not possible and trust me, I have consulted the experts,( Lady Thraxx and My Bandmates ) so I have to temper it ,train it or murder it.

I ask the amazing men that populate my existence what I am meant to do and being the only girl in the rock-pile my dudes are the best.

They are all older than me and married as hell. Some so famous that it would rattle you to your core if I named names and some that you will never know. I am lucky, my dance-card is full when it comes to these magnificent men. So I feel safe with them. I can spill my guts.

As always it is the rhythm section that I am closest to. Poor Mal and Nate. They always cop it sweet and deal with it tres beautifully.

Mal tells me that guys talk up a mess of shit about what they want in a woman but when faced with the reality of it they fuck it up.

“Why!!!???” I sniff all hot-pants, dodgy ink and dejection.

“Because mate, you are not meant to exist!” I look at him eyebrows inching towards my hairline. He sighs and continues ” Look, you are one of the boys and you look like …well…how you look and your not a snob, I mean you are cool, you know, like a good mate!”

He can see that although he is telling the truth that it is not making Queen Snot here real happy.

By this point in the conversation we are both some what exasperated. The jist is that I am a catch supposedly and gee, that’s why all the men that I think are amazing date / marry / fornicate with pie eyed- sub par- bunny boiling- pinch faced- junkie -swat team worthy –whack jobs.

Naturally. Why of course!  *slaps forehead* How stupid of me! Why on earth would you be with someone who supports and accepts you unconditionally, treats you like gold, lets you do your thing and goes off like a roman candle in the sack when you can settle for a pick-and-mix of complete bullshit and drama! What on earth was I thinking??!!!

I express all of this to my fellow brother in bass with a lot more colorful language thrown in and a selection of ribald hand gestures that could get you shot point-blank in broad daylight in Southern Italy.

“Yep,that’s pretty much it.” he says and again I give up.

I quit, well I try and quit because nobody says what they really want.

It’s like when girls say that they want nice guys. Bullshit! Well  ,in part…I do want a nice guy but I don’t want a doormat. I want a bit of fucking friction! ( Pun intended,now stop staring at my rack and keep reading….) A man who knows who he is,alpha prime honey and let’s me let my guard down when I am off the battlefield. Puts me in my place and makes me beg for it dig? I don’t always want to be the one wearing the pants…especially if I have a man who wants to peal them off me with his teeth. And let’s call a spade a spade just to keep with the vague horticultural theme I had going back there…. no nice guys want me.

I get friend-zoned by the hotties who tell me what a stone cold fox I am and ” You are so cool and understanding Michele and any guy would be stoked to have you! ”

Oh yeah buster? Well why not you?

In the name of science and sexual frustration I’m actually having this conversation via txt with a dashing male friend as I bang out this dire high school rubbish. Me and him are good so I am hoping that he will give me an answer that will enable me to commence unraveling all this bullshit. We used to flirt back in the day and he has always been a champion of my various unorthodox charms so…..

Hold on my phone just went off….

“Lol! Of course I find you attractive Michele ( Oh WHAT!!##!?? So sue me! I’m due for my period and I was fishing ok?! ) but I look up to you (” Ruh-roh Shaggy!”…..  This is rapidly turning to shit…..abort! abort!!) You have spoken to me about all my issues ( That would be because I give a shit and I am great !) I guess I see you as my hot second step mum?! Lol! ( Yeah if I had you when I was EIGHT!!!!! )

Ok, so much for that exercise in ego extinguishing futility.

( Commence sexual shut down in T minus 10-9-8………)

And meanwhile,out of my pants and back into the world.

Had a rather magic time on Friday night when Los Hombres played with BRUCE and Beastwars at The Square. The following night found me all dressed up and waiting for Marcus and Tony to swing by and get me as Looking Glass were opening for Unida at The Manning Bar. Fuck Sydney and it’s no right turns! We made it to the show with 8 minutes to spare. I don’t know how Marcus does it but he got up there and threw down one of the most amazing sets I have ever seen.

I can’t wait to play music with that man again!

And here come my boys!

Being in a band is just the best feeling. The more time goose-steps me towards my grave I think that it is the only feeling worth having. Being in more than one is an orgy of the sonic senses. Charmaine,the drummer for the punk band that I am in ,The Squirters, was there too. Heaven! Just missing Nixon who is recording in Melbourne with PC at Goat-sound studios with his band I Exist.

The security treated me like a princess as always and I will always feel like I am tangled up in Indio one way or another. I was leaning on the rail by the speakers,head hanging, lost in the waves of low end washing over me when my phone went of. I smiled when I saw who it was.

Always connected.

Even when he is pouring the pork to dire drug dunked ding-a-lings out on the fatal fault line, swing batter batter swing! Even though we are not together we are always us…And as I stood there watching one of his oldest friends maul the mike with one of the most distinctive voices in rock I wondered if he smiled when he looked at the stitches on his wrists knowing that I would match him till the dizzy dirty end….

See where romance gets you? Rode wet and hung out to swing in the breeze is where.

Meanwhile back on earth…

The crush that I am harboring looks to be crushing itself out of existence. There is a point when aloof becomes enough. I wait for him to contact me and um….hello? …..HELLO?. This does not do a real  lot for my self esteem as you can imagine. I try and keep in mind that he has a life and stuff but is a text gonna fuckin’ kill ya???

Throw me a bone(r) here!

I’m locked down writing and eating baby-food in my acid trip gypsy caravan of a bedroom. Think I am gonna get down with radio silence. Hang with my guitars and notebooks .Dye my hair Stephine Seymour “November Rain” film-clip red. Use all the hot water at 2am.Play dress-ups, do sit ups…..

Sick of extending myself and getting nothing in return. Makes me feel dumber than necessary.Date D-day is this Saturday… I will end up taking myself if worst comes to just that. I guess I will just hang around listlessly draped across my cushion choked chocolate box of a bed listening to Dion and The Belmont’s and see what happens next.

And stay the hell off Porn-hub.

……maybe.