I go through constant states of flux at the moment concerning my personal matters of the heart.
Sometimes I get extremely antsy over my current hook-up scenario, and need to be alone to get over my anxiety, thereby shutting myself off from everything in order to feel in control. An hour or two later I can emerge a sociably adept individual. Other times I sit dreamily thinking about Guy I’m Sort Of Seeing’s legs, or the little tuft of hair that rises up above his collar, or his lovely smile that manages to make me (infuriatingly) less irritated by something he did. Or how he plants a kiss on my head when I’m half asleep.
But for now, I’m in one of ‘those’ moods. Where, on sticking Babs Streisand full blast while taking a bath, (first mistake) wielding a glass of La Motte, after a long day in heels. As per usual.
Babs isn’t the brightest crayon in the box. This alone annoys me, since her ballads have influenced thousands of romantic liaisons, I’ll bet. Albeit I think she has a voice like crushed satin, but still.
I listened to the lyrics of such a song, as I sat sipping on my wine after another long day spent at the Sandton Convention Centre in and out of presentations, writing like a bitch onto my notepad. I was tired. Hence, ‘the mood.’ Amplified by her, quite frankly, unbelievably stupid lyrics. She sings this ultra-corny duet with the formidable Celine Dion who, I believe, is asking Barbra Streisand for love advice. To which:
Tell him (Oh yes)
Tell him that the sun and moon rise in his eyes
Reach out to him
Tender words so soft and sweet
…I’ve been there with my heart out in my hands
But what you must understand
You can’t let the chance to love him pass you by
Love will be the gift you give yourself
Your love can’t be denied
The truth will set you free…
I’d heard enough. This bitch was ruining my bath.
I jumped out of the tub, leaving a trail of Dorothy Gray bubbles from the bathroom to the hi-fi in the lounge and switched the bloody thing off.
She must be thick. Barbra is a 40-something woman, who surely has been through heartache before. She certainly must be taking the piss to be serenading Celine with such misguided advice. Or she's trying to fuck with Celine's head. Basically telling her to profess her undying love to an oke.
This is the biggest load of pants I’ve ever heard. Now I may only be (cough) 26-years old, but I at least know better. And if I were to dish out any advice:
1) Never, ever, ever mention the ‘l’ word to a man. As long as you live, if at all possible. I did this once, and the man ran out of my door and never looked back. Case study proven.
2) Actually just don’t fall in love. Never define your lust, longing and sexual perversion towards someone as love. Trust me.
3) The exception of course, is if a man tells you first. He basically controls the situation, however, and this sucks.
4) If you do fall in love with someone, a) you’re a hopeless case and b) at least keep it to yourself.
5) Barbra Streisand is a nutcase. She’s way out of control. Someone put a leash on that woman.
6) “The sun and moon rise in your eyes.” Peeeyuke?
7) And to think that Barry Gibb and Company did tours with this chick. There are impressionable teenagers out there for goodness sake! Those who’ll take these lyrics seriously, tell their male halves they love them and then cry for months afterwards wondering what the hell they did wrong when the oke never calls back. Have some social responsibility Barbra Streisand, I mean really.
Anyway, it’s good to know that I know better, and all is well in my little bubble of self-content. Just really relieved the conference is over. It was quite fucking taxing.
If I were to write a song right now, the lyrics would go as such: (With a The Killers background accompaniment)
I dig your comp-a-nee
It’s kiff to, like, hang out
Holding your hand is niiiiiiiiiiice
I dig it china
I dig your comp-a-nee
Today I dig your comp-a-nee
Tomorrow I might hate you
But right now you’re kiff
You make me hot
You’re my chinaaaah
You have great legs
You kiss niiiiiiiiice
Thanks for being a chinaaaah
OK, maybe not. OK I’m embarrassed. OK ignore above.
He visited me last night, after I’d polished off a fair amount of La Motte, and was indulging in some Tchaikovsky. God he's amazing.