Addicted to Love

	Florence And The Machine - Addicted to Love .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Rarely do I say a song is sexy. Rarely do I say a song stirs something in me that makes me want to slowly remove my clothes while staring through cat-like come hither eyes. This. Song. Does.

I was never a huge fan of the original, but when Florence and the Machine remade it... Hot Damn. It pulsates with sensual intensity and it works faster than any mix drink or shot I've ever had. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I read too much into it too fast, but her voice, like "honey with a touch of scotch" is just the ticket to making this soulful song a definite winner.

I had never heard of this group before and was achingly dissapointed when I found out they were at Coachella fest this year when I was not. I weep for my own loss in the privacy of my bedroom as I wear oversized earphones and sing along to the best of my ability.

Anyhow, listen to this song in the dark with only your thoughts to accompany you. Smoke, if you must. Drink, if you're lucky. But most importantly, have a single candle burning as the melody and her voice moves through you in waves of unimaginable (or very imaginable) desire move through you.... It is an experience you will remember ever after. It is a dream you will not want to awaken from, like the first time you fell in love or the last time your heart was broken. Either way, it is painfully beautiful.

The Lonely Life

We writers are an odd bunch. There are times when we can't stand the sight of each other because we are all egomaniacs who live life as if we were reading books with excerpts such as "She angirly walked away from him, casting one last glance of frustration over her shoulder as the gray morning reflected her animosity towards him...." blah blah blah. Seriously, we really do that. There are also times when we feel that no one in the world will understand us except other writers or the bottom of a bottle of liqour; however, the worst are those times when we don't think anyone in existence understands us at all and so we are forced to spend time with ourselves.

It is not that we are all introverts who only seek solace in dark corners of seedy bars or smokey cafes; we don't ever particularly mean to ostracize ourselves from humanity... it just sort of happens from time to time.

Take for example tonight: My fiance and I got new cell phones. I'm of the opinion that so long as I know how to place a call or send a text message, that's all that really matters. He, on the other hand is the type who reads the entire manual cover to cover, sits with his new gadget as if befriending a newborn child, cradling it and showing it a kindness I could never express to technology. So when he came bounding in our room like an excited little boy grinning from ear to ear as I was writing the last paragraph on yet another chapter of my life, I felt myself cringe when he said "Hey babe! I just figured out how to personalize a ringtone to your name!"

"That's nice sweetie." I said absentmindedly, hoping he would get the hint that all I wanted was to finish the last two sentences. He didn't. Instead, he sat there smiling, hopeful eyes staring at me as he grasped his phone.

"Wanna hear it?" He asked, still grinning.

"Um, in a little bit sweetie but right now I just want to finish this." Already I felt like a bitch.

"Oh... Ok." His big blue eyes seemed to swim in disappointed heartache.

Sighing heavily, I caved. "Ok." I said, hands reluctantly removing themselves from the keyboard so I could give him my full attention.

He grabbed my phone and dialed his number. Within seconds Simon and Garfunkel sounded through the speakers of his phone as they sang "I Am A Rock."

Insert pause here.

"You associate me with Simon and Garfunkel?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well... yeah! Cause you're a rock."

But I'm also an island I thought. Was this who I was. A rock? And island separated from all of humanity as life passed me by and I wrote about it?

He frowned. Oh no. What had I done now? I didn't react with the enthusiasm he had been expecting. I just stared at him, attempting that smile he hates. The smile you give to people when they give you a gift you don't really like or understand.

"I'll just leave you alone now."

"No, I like it!" I said in some vain attempt to express enjoyment, but he had already walked out of the room, shoulders slumped and head down.

I am a terrible person. I am a writer.

You see, this is why most of us drink. It's not that we don't like people, it's just that we so often live in our own heads creating scenarios, characters and entire lives that we put reality aside for hours at a time so our social graces end up getting completely flung out the window. Believe me, we know this is what we do because we write about selfish characters like this in almost every story we create!

When I write I am in a zone, nay, I am in the zone. Nothing else exists except what is pouring out of my head. I become a monster, hunched over the keyboard or notepad with a crazed look in my wild eyes and a maniacle grin floating just above my lips like the Phantom of the Opera over his organ. I talk to the pages in front of me, yelling at my characters if they take a fork in the road of their destiny I had not anticipated. I curse more than usual if suddenly they have me running alongside them on a completely different path I had chosen and I lose sight of the outcome with every step we take because I had already planned their fate two chapters before. "Are you crazy!?" I yell to creation. "What the (bleep) are you thinking? This wasn't supposed to happen! What's wrong with you!? Fine! It's your demise!"

However, what most people don't realize is that this is when I am happiest with my work, becuse it is moments like this, when I seem to be in excrutiating pain, that I am molding and creating and actually doing what I love, which doesn't happen very often becauses the muses come and go the way rainfall does in the desert. Writers are not struck with creative bouts of genious on a daily basis; it's not like we can punch a time clock and suddenly, there it is, our work laid out for us and all we need to do is organize it into neat piles. No, when we are struck by lightening, nothing else can exist because that moment might never come back again and usually never does. I wish it would, but it gets lost the way so many socks do in dryers. Then there we stand with half an idea in our hand that could have been really good if it had it's mate.

So yes, I felt bad for saying what I said to my fiance who actually does know how important writing is to me, but like me with books, gets over zealous with gadgets. Still, I would have felt worse if I had not been able to finish what I was working on.

And by the way...if you think writers are horrible people when they write... you should see us when we're not writing. Now that my friend, is scary.

Ends, Middles, Beginnings...

There is an eerie stillness in the air; the kind that only presents itself after you've just been rattled by a particularly horrific storm. You stand there, not quite trusting that the worst has passed. The last time I felt this way I was staring at the ceiling fan of my childhood bedroom; my eyes slowly moved over every single object draped by the moonlight, from the corner desk where I had sat so many nights typing away fanciful stories as the soft glow of the computer screen washed over me, to the billowy chiffon curtains my father had so vehemently protested, and finally back to the wooden rungs of the bunk bed above me.

I remember thinking I would never see that view again and a happy sadness washed over me. Of course, I knew I would enter my parent's house many times after that night, but only as a visitor... and not always a welcome one at that!

As I cleaned out my office and answered e-mails I knew I didn't have to, but what the hell, working late had become a common practice, I felt a sense of relief followed by a brief, unwelcome sense of panic. It is perhaps the feeling a crab might experience when it has to abandon its shell for a larger one because he has outgrown it; there is a quick sense of immense vulnerability as he stands there naked and exposed to all manner of predators, but suddenly... warmth and security and more importantly, solidification of knowing it was the best decision he had ever made engulf him as he snuggles into his new roomier quarters.

I pack the remainder of my belongings into an empty copy paper box. The sun has set outside and there is a chill in the air that makes me quicken my step across the lonely parking lot. The horizon looks beautiful as the luminous orb descends behind it, sending a last cascade of rays across a small group of clouds and giving the black mountains an effect of being torn paper ripped across the indigo sky. I am meeting a friend later for coffee (at times like these we all need a friend).

As I approach it I notice that the parking lot is completely dark and the familiar warm orange glow I had come to associate it with is extinguished. Instead, I am met with a large red sign that reads "SPACE AVAILABLE." My heart sinks as an ebb and flow of memories talking with friends at this coffee shop go through my mind like the tides. I decide to make my way to another coffee shop and as I settle in sipping the warm, delicious drink I look around the new meeting place. It is not as intimate as my last one but it will do... and I feel safe. And I feel warm....

What Did You Say?

I'm tired... but not really.

It's two in the morning. I'm mad.

Sometimes I don't even know why I get mad. I just do. It's a waste of energy and I know it. Knowing that makes me even madder. Little Dragon croons "Twice" through my speakers and all I want to do is cry or sleep. I don't know which I want more.

There are moments in life that define who we are; sometimes those moments are fleeting, like when you subsonciously give up your seat on the bus to someone else; sometimes those moments are eventful, like when you decide to leave your job because you've suddenly realized that you are more ethical than the company you work for. Then there are those moments that slip by with barely even a breath. We miss them the way we miss countless of shooting stars every night; but they're there nonetheless, molding and shaping and defining us in every sense of the word.

Where are we?
What the hell is going on?
The dust has only just begun... to form crop circles in the carpet
Sinking
Feeling....

Imogen Heap is beautiful like the wind when it talks to you through the trees. It's so very late here but I'm not tired at all now. Not in the least. I feel... disembodied from myself. I want to do so much right now. Too much, but the hours are slipping by and I can't keep up with them.

Mmm what'd you say?
Mmm, that you only meant well.
Well of course you did
Mmm what'd you say?
Mmm, that it's all for the best.
Well, of course it is. Mmm what'd you say?
Mmm, that it's just what we need.
You decided this.
Mmm, what you say?
What did you say?