Can anybody find me, Somebody to love?

I once had Somebody tell me my blog was nothing but a stupid girl's rant.

I once had Somebody tell me I am so (excuse my language) fucked up in the brain it gives Somebody a headache.

Well Somebody, considering the nature of my aforementioned brain insides, if anyone should have a headache, it's this girl.

My friend once told me a story about a girl he knew while we were in college. I knew her too, but only slightly. She worked at a coffee shop in our small college town and was very noticeable. She was tall and slender, with astonishing eyes. They were blue, but not blue like the sky or blue like Billie Holiday. They were an icy, fiery blue. They were so blue that you kind of wanted to pee yourself when she looked at you and asked dully, "What kind of milk?"

She also had a mane of blond hair. It sprouted up from her skull defiantly and rippled down to the middle of her back in oddly perfect waves. She was striking.

This girl dated somebody equally striking sophomore year. He wasn't honest about it though. He wore pinstripe vests and girl's pants. His black hair, streaked with amber and bleach, played footsie with his eyeliner. He called himself by his first name, twice. Evan Evan.

After spring break his eyeliner decided it liked another girl. He returned to school and told coffee shop girl he wasn't interested anymore. I wonder what fierceness the blue took on when she looked back at him.

"So.. I love you and all, but I'm in love with another girl. Her named is Alexandra Alexandra Evita and we are very happy. You understand."

FIRE EYES.

A following evening, our blond heroine could not sleep. Everybody knows the insomnia that comes with anger. The last time I went to bed angry, I fell asleep drooling on my computer. On the document I had been working on, entitled "Manifesto of Obscene and Impressive Hatred and Vengeance Plan that will take place thereafter."

Fire eyes whips out of bed, throws the covers off, and goes in to full vengeance. Evan Evan had left one of his fancy, gleaming guitars at her place. It's shiny wood, oiled from Evan Evan's forehead grease and Oil of Olay make up remover, sprung an idea from her head like Athena out of Zeus.

She grabbed it's thin, strong neck, and smashed it to splinters, courtesy of her driveway and the months of frustration stored up from Evan Evan asking her if his eyeliner was even.

She then gathered the pieces and marched to Evan Evan's door. She dunked them with gasoline, and let out a banshee scream. Evan Evan arrived to the bonfire like Evita to the balcony and watched his baby burn.

Burn, baby. Burn.

I may not have the heart and guts to dramatically destroy some property, but I find it oddly comforting to tell a story so weirdly poetic. I have told the story to males of mine and they grin crookedly and say "That's awesome."

Is it awesome? It could happen to you. It might be happening to you right now.

I know it may be silly, but in committing this anecdote to Internet infamy (haha) I find myself feeling as victorious as if I had smashed a Gibson, without the possible destruction of property charge. I see this blog as more like a literal manifestation of guitar demolition than a collection of women rants.

And you know what? Somebody should be glad of that.