Right up my alley

Place: Townie bar.
Song: Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers
Scene: Old guy attempts to dance with me, when I refuse, picks up chair and begins to waltz.

a tribute to the delictable pink pills which currently reside in my purse

Dear Pink Pills,

It's been a long time hasn't it? Almost a whole year since we last crossed paths. I take partial responsibility for this, dearest Pink Pills, because I felt I didn't need you (and in truth I really didn't) and also because I don't live 15 minutes from Tijuana anymore and couldn't get my hands on you without a prescription. As much as I love you, my pride forbade me from providing sexual favors for doctors specifically to procure myself (unnecessary) medication.

But this week I found myself needing you, desiring you, begging to have you back in my life (literally, I actually begged someone. Like, down on my knees,begged them). And you came through for me, Pink Pills. You made my life better - a place of happiness and light in those hours I couldn't rely on my main man, Jack Daniels, to take the pain away. (Fabulous as he is, he isn't always appropriate company. Remember the mess he made the last time I enjoyed his company on the train? Not. Good.)

You've helped me through some tough times before, Pink Pills. Like the time we first met after I had been so roughly assaulted by a baseball bat (though others may not agree, I maintain that merely taking part in the game of baseball counts as a form of assault), or our encounter when you so kindly helped me recover from a ballet (pulled groin) related injury. But the time that I knew you were really for me, Pink Pills, when I knew that you were more than just a fairweather friend was when you helped me through the pain when I fractured my wrist trying to save my bottle of Patron. I thought I was going to die from the pain and you saved me. You even made my week one day shorter by allowing me to slip into a mild coma for 36 hours.

And now, although I'm not asking you to help me climb mountains, you have gotten me through the last eight hours. So I thank you for that, please don't think badly of me this evening when I abandon you again and run to the loving arms of Mr. Daniels. You know I love you - he's just more fun in social situations.

Thanks again, Pink Pills; for some you may just be an aid to combat pain, but for me you are 400 milligrams of candy coated happiness.

Eternally yours,

Rebecca

It's been a year ...

If tears could build a stairway
And memories were a lane,
I would walk right up to heaven
To bring you home again.

No farewell words were spoken.
No time to say good-bye.
You were gone before I knew it,
And only God knows why.

My heart still aches in sadness
My secret tears still flow.
What it meant to lose you,
No one will ever know.


I miss you so much, Nicky.

An Impromptu Tour of My Brain.

Among my many quirks is this - I get obsessed with things fairly easily. The length of obsession generally varies. Sometimes its with people. Sometimes its things. When it happens, I am amazed at how quickly I am completely consumed. The more there is to learn about something, the more voracious I become.

For example, in eighth grade I became fanatical about Charles Manson. Yeah, I know, it's kind of weird coming from a cute little thing like me. I hung the cover sleeve from Antichrist Superstar on my bedroom door and would dance pirouettes around my room to Iron Maiden.

Six years ago, I became quickly infatuated with anything Russian. Don't ask. From there, I jumped into the whole saga of Nicolas and Anastasia, which was even darker and more plagued with dirty, Russian secrets. Those thick, heavy accents, the filthy snow and ragged serfs begging for food. Autocracy and despotism. I was all over it.

There have been other obsessions: Chuck Palahniuk novels, vanilla perfume, John Bonham, cake decorating, the Dirty South, Irvine Welsh, deep sea creatures, tornado's, the poetry of Philip Larkin, Mark Strand, the plagues of the Bible, Hunter S. Thompson. You name it, I have been completely consumed by it for at least twenty-four hours.

But by far, nothing has captivated me more than music history. Though, specifically between the years of 1967-1972 in England and New York. Yeah, I'm talking about the Punk Rock movement. I know a lot of you already know how insane I am over this shit ... and it doesn't even apply specifically to this era - I love SoCal punk bands who played night after night in the garage beneath my unit, who play at Pacific Beach Pub on a Wednesday night. If you're dirty, loud, full of ink and have some sort of substance dependency ... there's not a day my heart won't find you.

My obsession remains unwavered.

And for a chick like me -that means something.