Perfect Example

There’s a band called Everclear, and this band, consisting of four members, has a song called ‘Amphetamine’. The definition of this word eludes me, not unlike Trix to that poor rabbit. But the meaning of the name of the song is irrelevant, because I mention it for the sake of one line in the song, at most three seconds out of it. Nestled somewhere in the song, between chorus’, is the line ‘she’s perfect in a fucked up way’. The implications of this exert of Everclear’s lyrics is so profound to me I’ve added it to my signature on the vast world of cyber space.
You see, for some reason, that sums up my ideal woman, the one I’ll never find; the rainbow to my treasure hunter if you will. Like a perfect circle, great in concept, but nonexistent. Which is a shame really, because my ‘perfect’ girl could very well be out there, but knowing the women I stalk, she’s either died with a needle still her vein, killed herself, or is working in a sweat shop somewhere in Thai Land, I pray to whatever god or goddess that is out there that I was just joking about that last statement. Or, closer to the truth, she’s in some Goth bar in the sleazy part of town, shooting up, popping X, or snorting Coke, or a combination of the three, but if that’s true, I’d better find her soon.
If she’s dead, she probably got there in a painful way. She may have, as I already mentioned, found life to dull, boring, hard, cheap, surreal, or any mixture of those, and killed herself. Though, if she was my ideal woman she would have been in the newspapers when she did it, my ideal woman is not dull. She would of found a creative way to end it all, like hooking a large amount of voltage to a section of razor wire, and then proceed to throw herself on it. Or, even more creative, dress in a giant chicken suit and jumped off an extremely tall building. Like I said before, my ideal girl isn’t your average teen, she wouldn’t of OD’d on Aspirin and hoped to be found, or cut her wrists and left a note saying that everyone hates her. No, she’d have a legitimate reason, such as the oppression of mimes. Did I mention she’d have a sense of humor? Another way my elusive object of desire may of died would be in a police brawl, protesting against Starbucks. Hopefully, she would have been the first to throw a brick at the coffee shop’s glass banner and instigated the ensuing riot. And, hopefully, she would have been the first to fight back against the police that would surely come. Let’s hope she got in a few good hits before an officer cracked her skull open with his baton.
My temptress may have also met her end at the hands of a serial killer, though I hope it was a unique killer, and not some mindless Son of Sam mimic. No, if she met that end, I’d want her to be a martyr, the first in a long dynasty of death. And when the police finally found this killer, I want her pinky bone on a necklace around this man’s neck, otherwise, what would her legacy be? A stupid hitchhiker who got in the wrong car? That’s hardly fitting for such a perfect person.
But hopefully, the bride to my Frankenstein isn’t dead; otherwise, what would be the point to writing about her? This would become a perverted eulogy, and once again, that’s hardly fitting for my perfect example. Speaking of Perfect Example’s, this leads me into one of the handiest tools of writing, contrasts. Simon Says, a Sacramento band that has broken up and remade themselves like a Phoenix, with a somewhat fitting name, Key To Arson, has a song called Perfect Example. This song is filled with twisted vocals talking about, in my mind, a Prep. Now, I don’t have a clue as to what they had intended about this song, but this song represents, once again, in my mind, the opposite of my Perfect Example. There is no way she is a Prep. No, hopefully, she beats Preps down for the shear pleasure in the knowledge that she’s making this world a better place. And she’d do all this in time to sneak behind the High School cafeteria and smoke a cigarette. Happily oblivious to the rest of the world, well, all but the unfortunate Prep that went to far in acting superior to her.
After smoking her vice, and checking back in on her victim, she would show up to class five minutes late, just in time to rudely interrupt the teachers mindless, boastful tirade about being prompt to class. After launching into a threatening verbicide with the above-mentioned teacher, she would be handed a detention and a hall pass to walk to the office, which, of course, my perfect example has no intention of doing. Instead my rebellious temptress would walk to my house and sit there, listening to my radio while I wrote about her, staring occasionally at her scarred and burnt arms, pretending my best not to notice. After a while she’d light up another cigarette, and tell me that it’s not funny anymore that I’m sitting there, writing about her, but words are my only weapon, and hopefully, she’ll appreciate this.
Once the lighter that she lit her diluted nicotine with is safely hidden in her right front pocket she’d get up, and hit skip on the CD player, changing songs from ‘Hey You’ to another, darker song, called ‘Blister’ both by the second band I mentioned, Simon Says. Did I mention this intangible pot of gold has an excellent taste in music?
A few seconds into the song, she’d stand strait after bending over to change tracks, stretch her shoulders, pull her black t-shirt back down over her pierced belly button, and take two fingers and place a stray strand of dyed hair back behind her five times pierced ear. She runs her tongue over her teeth and then shakes her head at the fact that her, my perfect example, is standing in my room, and I’m sitting her writing about her. She’ll breath in after taking another drag, and holds it for a second or two, long enough for it to tickle her lungs and give her the reassurance that the smoke is now in her blood stream. Exhaling, she walks over to my wall, above the couch that she had been sitting on moments earlier, and stare at the numerous articles I’ve printed out off the net about teens killing themselves, or maybe she’ll read Marilyn Manson’s response to everyone blaming him for the Columbine ‘tragedy’. My perfect example would smile knowingly when her brown eyes reach a picture drawn by a friend, depicting each of our alter egos in our struggling band. Of course she’s never been here, her gracefully movements have never graced my floor, and her shapely body has never rested itself upon my couch. She’s perfect, and perfect, apparently, isn’t real.
Regardless, I can see her here, standing behind me to the left, aimlessly scratching her left forearm where as cut is healing while she is reading over my shoulder, inwardly laughing as I make, what parents and authority call, the scum of society, into a goddess. A beautiful black clad, silver adorned, chain smoking goddess. But Darwin proved something way back when, that there can’t possibly be a god, or if there is one, it has nothing to do with this earth and it’s multiple religions, so if a god isn’t real, then neither is my goddess.


Unsurprisingly, I don't have any of these band's permission to make references to them.