Whiskey. Red Lipstick. And guitars.

“Pour yourself a drink, put on some [red] lipstick, and pull yourself together.” ― Elizabeth Taylor

I have always liked the idea of pulling yourself together. Like a phoenix, rebirth out of ashes. Looking better than you feel and then eventually faking it until you make it. I do not like to dwell. I do not like pity, sad eyes, woeful looks or sympathy cards. In fact I am probably a bit too averse to them. I do not like people feeling as though I need to be taken care of. Even if I do. It’s been something I’ve worked on as I’ve gotten more mature; asking for help is both humbling and difficult everything I do it.

And perhaps because I place a judgment on what it means to ask for help. I much prefer the advice of Liz and even now when I feel sad I reach for my NARS “Cruella” red lipstick. In general, I just want to be good. Feel good and be good. I prefer to live in sunshine rather than dark clouds. It’s been that desire that’s gotten me into so much trouble. Not wanting to be where I am. Wanting, in fact, to be anywhere but where I am. Looking for escapes. Looking for a lipstick red enough to transport me to tranquility. Or a drink stiff enough to sooth my ails. They don’t exist.

Lord sometimes I wish they did.

I decided tonight that my future partner needs to have a solid appreciation for acoustic music. I was listening to The Paper Kites “Bloom” and they whisper so delicately to the receiver “Can I be close to you?” It’s tender enough to make me melt. I can’t imagine not sharing words…and the feelings that they elicit over a the simple strum of a guitar. It’s the safest way I know to leave. And even when I go, I am always aware that I will be coming back. Temporary. Because nothing lasts and nothing should. Every destruction is a palate for creation.

I can fall apart when a song plays. I can be how I feel because the lyrics tell me so. The artist sings my pain so I can remain silent. Or at least wordless. I get to be, in music, everything I try to drink away or cover up. So if he can run with me in music, maybe I’ll be strong enough to stay. I won’t have to reach for whiskey. Or lipstick. I can just be there in the song just beneath the melody covered in the lyrics heart pulsing with the strumming of a six string. And then the moment will die. The feeling will pass and make way for a new one. Always something new from some old ending.


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