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I'm the music girl. I eat, sleep, breath, live music. Friends know they can rely on me to clear up a lyrical query or to settle an argument over anything from Eddie Vedder's birthday to the complete set list and artist line up for the original Live Aid concerts (yes, on both sides of the pond). I call it a sickness to friends as a vain attempt to cover up the...well, pride I have in the vast amounts of useless knowledge I've accumulated throughout my nearly nineteen years of life. But every time I shrug it off a little piece of me flares up and gets angry that I'm denying what so clearly means so much to me. So much to me in fact that often t

I can only blame it on the fact that I can't blame a single feature. It's the way drag your hands through your hair, you lick your lips when you speak, you wrap your fingers around your cigarette. It's the fact that you don't notice a thing about me as I stare intently at your thin phalanges as they tenderly lure the carcinogens past those pink lips and into the depths of who the hell knows. I don't know what's in there. I don't know if I'm the only one feeling this quaking in the pit of my organs as your eyes dart past mine or the frantic feeling as you get up to leave. But I've got to take this at face value right? I've got to let this happ