Ingredients for this My Time: my weekly song roundup, of course! A much-requested new edition to My Time, an important part of your Sunday--a dreadful day, Lovers, of hangovers, regrets, pacifying through drugs, and weighing suicide. With a cocktail match of course! You can't consider living the next day or not without at least a drink to aid your philosophy.
My Time matching cocktail: Cazadores tequila, fresh grapefruit juice, club soda, ice, straw, all in a thermos with a safety lid.
Hello, Lovers. You know, sometimes a day of my life, especially Sundays, plays out like the entirety of my life. EMOTIONALLY.
The first record my rich, kingly father gave me. Limited edition blue vinyl. I sold it the day after he was murdered in an huge CEO merger. If you want to talk to me about my weak, selfish heart, Honey, leave a comment already. Just so you know, this is the first song I played at his funeral, so if it makes you feel better that I'm a person who might feel guilt, just presume this is the time that would happen. That night, at a round circle of common men with 40 ouncers, I had this song, even though I sold the records, guns, and tools. That's what marrying rich is for, Honey! I've never looked back. Ever. I'm maniacally happy. Seriously.
The first band I lost my heart to, and I never got it back. I don't want it. I surrendered long ago. Truly, Medicine, medicine, and a credit card are all I need, Honey, in this tragic world of irony and materialism (philisophically, not actually). Perhaps someday when I marry into even more wealth, I'll walk down the aisle, pumped to veins bursting, antlers on my head, a good throwing knife in my left hand, a selenite orb in my right hand, and an squinted eye toward the (presumably) male who could take a terrifying beauty like me. Hand-made 3-piece suit or Grecian gown? Truly, this is what I wish for now, Honey. Mysticism of pilgrimage to love. Or money. Whatever. You don't think I can float an inch of the ground? Well, you haven't met my pearl-handled jack. Let's get together. Champers on me!
The first song I thought of today when I awoke naked in a 6,000-cotton-count-sheeted-bed of 100 dollar bills and had to hear, while thinking of a young man I've been eyeing from afar. Of course, like a moral man, he does not look at me while we speak, only when he thinks I'm not looking. A wild, amazonian heart like mine appreciates a distrustful eye. Ah, Lovers, thinking I might still be young enough to lose my heart to a sound. Maybe not to much else, truthfully...but every song, like every Sunday, like every statement of the self, like every drug, needs its anecdote.
Are you listening, Honey? Then tell me. Leave a comment. Join the site. Set your tracks with me. Lay down in the sun on Sunday. Don't get up. True love means taking someone to the tub (again) and waking them up with a cold shower and pinch, or dropping them off at a Simi Valley hospital to get their stomach pumped, at least, while you get fries at Denny's. That's why every time I get married, there's two adrenaline shots in honeymoon suite. I've never had to use one, myself. But I'm not above it. Such is the life of a rich, elegant woman.
Happy Sunday, Honey. Are you ready for Monday?
Songs keep coming, songs keep coming, too much to listen to, will make it till Monday.
your loyal (ha ha, no really. no) friend (seriously, no),