...Well I don't believe the world could handle us. I know that if Lady Gaga were my girlfriend, we'd love until we bleed. You've seen her drive, she doesn't stop. You've seen my passion, a heart full of love. A big superstar, strong and powerful as hell. Yet when I hear her speak, or when I look at her through the television screen, I don't see a superstar. I see a jaded little soul.Albeit the "Fame Monster" and all, I feel like one conversation with her would certify that she hasn't let that fame to her head. This is how I imagine our world, if The little Lady let me in...
*note; despite her being famous, I don't doubt the possibility of this happening. She seems quite down to Earth.
...Writes music, loves NY, likes Monsters, likes fame, nightlife, rebels, eyeliner and red wine. A fragile soul. ..who? Me or her? Ha Ha little one, that's the point! Perhaps she has been broken and bruised. Perhaps she has known too many vices, or has met TED at a young age. She likes coffee, she likes to dream aloud. Whatever her story, just hold my hand. We'd go for casual walks down the dirty streets of NYC. She'd show me her first venues and tell me tales of days gone by, late nights alone on the streets. Dim streetlights. Misty roads. Sweet girl passing by the hookers. Running home to her warm bed. She loves and hates this city at the very same time. We'd walk and talk, and no one would stop us because we'd be perfectly disguised. I'd lend her my wolf hood and she'd wear oversize Ray Bans, and let her lilac blond hair fall down. She's twist my ombre hair to make it look like a birds nest and have tendrils fall loose. It wouldn't be complete without a couple of plastic monarch butterflies peeking through, and finally of course a swipe of bright red lipstick... on both of us! We'd run all over town, scratching our nails into the windows of our favourite shops. Pressing our paws into wet cement, leaving behind "LG&LN=LO"
We'd giggle and run away before we get busted. Run in our high platform Jeffrey Campbell wooden clogs, and she'd choke on her laughter when I fall to the ground. She'd pull me up. Fluff my hair. Kiss my cheek and say "This world was meant to bruise us Darling" Oh but did I tell you how we met? A coffee shop of course, I spilled coffee on her shoes, and felt absolutely terrible. But she said she liked the way it made her shoes looked and I took a black and white photo of it. From then on we became best friends. Our love would come from our appreciation and gratitude for the others existence. We go to the top of the Empire State building and practice ballet. We'd drink giants cups of iced tea and lay in the sun. She'd tell me to go for that upcoming role, and help me rehearse my lines. But I'd say, "No way... OK... I'll only go if you come with me" ...I'd call her Lady. She's call me Lula. We sit on big wooden crates that were left on our rooftop terrace. We'd walk barefoot and rest our feet on top of our furry dogs. We'd throw our records on the floor, leave a sink full of dishes and cut our shirts. We'd create a wall full of our hand prints and funny old photos. I'd tell her what I dream of. She'd tell me what she's scared of. We'd promise to never break each others hearts like the last boy did. We'd never be without inspiration. We'd have each other, NY, whiskey at dusk and cigarettes in the park. I'd hug her like an octopus when it rains, and she'd smother me with love when I cry. We'd wipe off our tears and bear our teeth to attack this cruel world. Then we'd pray to men who write poetry and thank them for their brilliance as we recite our love like this, "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."