FASHION ICON (Special Edition of Incestiable)

[Ed / 4 June 2006]

YES — I’ve the whole house to myself.

Nine Inch Nails is playing upstairs, God how I love that fuck you like an animal song. Music’s so-so-so-so L-O-U-D. Rhythm’s so hypnotic it’s giving me a headspin.

Dad’s with golfing buddies. Mom’s at some beading class or bingo session. Don’t know it don’t matter.

And Julie? Julie Elle Drake is out with Bobby.

Bobby the Nice Guy.

Bobby the Prince.

Bobby the Sweet Guy who Asked Me Out with the Burnt Cookie he made at Home Ec class.

Bobby the Everything.

Think about going over to Kingston’s house for a while. Dude owes me 100 bucks. I should steal that and more when I’m over. He and his CEO dad share a stash of porn mags and expensive tobacco. But oh. It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon. Too half-assed to even reach over, pick up the phone and dial a number.

Switch TV on. Lounge around. It will only last a few minutes.

This languid tranquility is the prelude to what comes next.That feeling, suddenly picks up again. I try and try but I can’t get away. Cell by cell, my brain is wired to the signal. It’s like a strange invisible smoke line, luring you in...to the destination place.

“This is so weird.” I speak my thoughts out loud. One nice thing about having the house to yourself is that you can voice your own thoughts without fear.

Everyone will kill me if they know about this. I’m a perv, a deviant, a psycho, a twisted individual! This is gross unhealthy abnormal I’ll cross over a line that should have never been crossed if I haven’t already and I need counseling or should I see a psychiatrist and get myself checked out, maybe we were brought up in a screwed up kind of way?

“I don’t think so.” Detective Green on Law & Order. Lost track of what’s going on in this episode. Can’t concentrate. Can’t concentrate on shit.

Body is aching. In the craving way.

Peel myself off the sofa. Ed, you sicko.

I wanna tell the voice in my head and the whole world to shut up. They can talk and talk but they’ve not been in the same situation, they don’t even know what they’re missing out on.

That. That’s the exact thing that fuels their disgust and anger. It’s a displaced frustration, that they can never have access to this deranged special kind of arrangement. Go, Ed!

Drag myself up the stairs in a weird mix of dread guilt apprehension and uncontrollable wild anticipation and excitement.

Find myself in front of Goddess Julie’s room. The door is closed but you can’t lock it from the outside. Glare at the morons on the poster. Some lame brothers emo-looking band with way too much eyeliner and black hair dye that really sucks BIG TIME, nothing but pop "rock" crap for 12 year old girls to listen to (Julie isn't 12 — figure of speech). Their lyrics are about their love life and if those lyrics are indeed true, damn their love life blows. They don’t have one insanely hard and talented guitar solo, no drummer, no bass player, and no talent. They are just another manufactured product and who knows what their appeal is. Where’s a new Zeppelin, Iron Maiden, Nirvana, or Guns n’ Roses? Good music is dead. So once again, I don’t think they suck, I KNOW they suck.