Dead Idols

I'm already not doing so good at posting to this every day. It's the mundane factor weighing me down, like I was worried about. Right now I'm making a Billy Idol's greatest hits CD for a woman I'm seeing, the Pharmacist. Yes, the snarling brit decked out like a punk but who was really just a crooner at heart. I wanted to be him in highschool. I showed the The Parmacist my senior picture of of my spiked hair. No snarl though. She said the rest of the weekend she had Billy Idol songs stuck in her head. After Billy I wanted to be Jim Morrison and grew my hair out and wore beaded necklaces. Then it was Harry Connick junior and the hair swept back like a muted pompador. I was always trying to be somebody else, then sometime in college my idols died away. There's nothing more foresaken than a man without his idols. Now it's just the ghosts of french poets and outsider-artist janitors that I like to imagine are watching me, but I don't want to be them.

There is more to tell about The Pharmacist. Later. She's my anonymous poster from a while back, and had sent me the journal in the mail.