Celine didn’t shape me. Celine defined me. She was and thought everything I did and thought and in that gave me a definition of my emotional needs and handicaps. But because I am nothing if not an idiot, what did I do? Did I use those words to tell everyone that here was living breathing manual to help you understand me? No. Far from it. I specialise in talking. And for someone whose one art is to talk, I do a damp, poor job of it. I speak and speak and speak until you find your ears bleeding, but you will never hear me say the words you came to hear.
I don’t beat around the bush. I caress it, cajole it, I bloody well make take it to the point of orgasm and then just before my world is about to explode with clarity and understanding, I let go. Like none of this matters to me. So you come and stand around me and wait to hear the very words you came to hear and all you feel is heat, because suddenly some concept of chivalry take over my Joan of Arc and she needs the other party to walk the next step before she forces herself and them into anything. It is because I am exactly this, detached from the outside so it won’t appear like I care. And completely numb from the inside from feeling too much too often and never ever letting go. It gets so bad that my skin is always red, my words are always red. So red, that they have now turned blue.