Weekend. Saturday and Sunday. Days that I always wait for five other days to arrive as fast as they can (when I don’t need to work at them, of course). My dearest friends have invited me to go out today, but I just didn’t feel like going out. Therefore, I decided to do something I’ve been thinking about too long.
I know here is a space where daily I write about the scandalous lives of the beautiful, dirty and rich celebrities, but inspired by my muse – Carrie Bradshaw – and utterly inflicted by Andrea Sachs – Miranda’s junior assistant in the novel “Devil Wears Prada” – I’m gonna write down some lines of my thoughts.
Why is it in English? Because I feel more comfortable speaking and writing in Shakespeare’s language. How often am I going to do this? I just have no clue, letting it flows with the wind…
A thought about: Love
Right now I’m listening to Marie Antoinette‘s movie soundtrack. Have you ever had the chance to listen to it? It is marvellous! Two CDs. Two different styles. Just like what the director Sofia Coppola tried to do during the flick. Gotta listen to it…
“Fools Rush In” – Bow Wow Wow
“Fools Rush In” frow Bow Wow Wow. It is such a remarkable cover. From Ricky Nelson, to Sinatra till Elvis, for me, the Bow Wow Wow version is the best. The lyrics say it all:
“Fools rush in
Where wise men never go
But wise men never fall in love
So how are they to know”
Definitely I am a fool, not a really wise man. And I say it because I know very much myself. Closest friends know it all too. The only ones that don’t know it – or didn’t, maybe – were those who I left myself be the most that I could be. I guess that when it all came down, it just didn’t work out. I know loads of them didn’t understand my ponit of view, but what could I do?
Why is there always someone who you like but don’t give a shit about you? Or worse, that guy who talks and talks to you, but all you care about is that “no answering the phone” boy! It’s such a big lame! Please…
X-files…
And I’ve got a collection of really bad relationships’ moments. When I think I’ve seen “love” it was just a nice thought of the distant dreamer that I am. From older guys to early 20’s lads, they say (or better, they don’t) I am too eagerly open about me and my lifestyle. What? Come on, I just live my life…
And when I think it all become clear, there is always that someone saying ‘hi’ and adding that his life today is fucking fantastic. Having a great job, having a boyfriend and asking me to meet him (what?!) or telling me that now he’s dump his pitiful girlfriend and started going out with lots, but lots of different people and he met a great guy and they are having a “thing”. GREAT! Now, fuck off and die!
I wish I could say “I don’t love you anymore… Good bye. Here’s the truth, so now you can hate me.”
It’s just a shame how I am so sadly related to love. I just don’t know what happens! It is not about sex or getting satisfaction. It is about having that special someone who would call you in the middle of the night just to say “good nite” after a long day of work.
Why is love so important to me?
Isn’t “the love” from your parents and family enough? Isn’t the company of your beloved friends enough? What’s wrong about being just friends?
Just Friends – Amy Winehouse @ Live BBC Sessions
When will we get the time to be just friends
It’s never safe for us not even in the evening
‘cos I’ve been drinking
Not in the morning where your shit works
It’s always dangerous when everybody’s sleeping
And I’ve been thinking
Can we be alone?
Can we be alone?
When will we get the time to be just friends When will we get the time to be just friends
And no I’m not ashamed but the guilt will kill you If she don’t first I’ll never love you like her Though we need to find the time To just do this shit together For it gets worse I wanna touch you But that just hurts
When will we get the time to be just just friends
When will we get the time to be just friends, just friends
When will we get the time to be just friends, just friends
When will we get the time to be just friends, just friends
Just friends
P.S.: The
