The Holidays

That's it. Officially I'm holiday-ing. Realistically I'm holiday-ing too. And on the inside my brain's working overtime, and my heart is exhausted. It's as if I think I need to grow up somehow. Or perhaps I am mistaking it for the feeling that I'm becoming so child-like that nothing's tallying with anything. And I think this last sentence doesn't make much sense either. I just remember Quasimodo's statement, God you made the world all wrong. And while I have my reservations as to if that is true or not, I think I can understand. But then I am no Esmeralda, seeing I have finally killed my spiral hair out of professional blow drying. And I don't look one inch of Bohemian any longer because I've turned into a fiery redhead. But I am still looking for a purpose and perhaps it's the same as love. It happens when you just get so tired of looking that you don't care anymore. But I'm not tired, I'm not too sure I will manage it, but I will try not to care, so that perhaps it happens. And that isn't making much sense either. It doesn't matter what I wanted for Christmas. I got myself a Chanel and a Dior and another Chanel bag to cheer me up and to do my bit so as not many shop assistants get laid off. Depression will be coming along with the recession. I think I'm safe in that department, but hundreds of people aren't. The ones who will be making the most of it are shrinks, although wording it like that isn't fair. Shrinks are essentially doctors, and doctors help people. If they weren't there it would be a lot harder, and at the end of the day, everybody has to make a living, even if it is out of me going down with the flu. Although I wonder if depressed, laid-off people will be able to pay for the service. I hope so, because it does not come cheap. If not, I can only prescribe some early Mozart to lift up the spirits, some late Beethoven to help you have a good cry, and perhaps a touch of Debussy as a topping. Because I am no doctor, just a musician, and that is all I can give.