Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way?

...dammit I wish I coulda been in Nevada for the Wrecks show. Why must I be so poor?

The thing I'm thinking about at the moment is, my life is pretty well guarded. Oh, I like to think I'm an open book-anyone asks me anything and I'm not going to go to the trouble of making up an answer I'll just say what the truth is. But I don't volunteer much about me.
Granted, it's sorta strange to be saying that in an online blog which experience has proven can be found by anyone who types in the write string of words...interestingly enought that string of words isn't "lazy ass hippie" or "barefootin' folksingin' hippie" so I can't help but wonder what those words are---probably some random reference. Maybe if you go looking for Main Street Discount Wines and Liquors...No, none of those bring me up. Tis just as well, anyone who figured out I was the same person as the one that authored that scandalous tome writ one year gone would feel right sorry for me for the total lack of scandal in these pages...internets don't have pages in the traditional sense do they? but then, there are webpages, so there's that.
But I am shy, despite all performances to the contrary. And I'd rather not broadcast the darker side of my life. Or the wilder side. Although I happily branded myself the town whore, let's face it, being the town whore in East Nashville is something special and of note. I might be on a bus tour sometime soon. But then, I've got moments where I wished I was something other than that moments when I wish I'd never gone down that alley that leads to the Wild Side of Life. Moments that ring with flashing lights and questions I can't seem to answer no matter how much I may want to answer them. Then again there are the days when I wake up wrapped in the night before stained inside with disaster and trouble reeling with what it is to be that dangerous thing that reels through the neon lights and cigarette haze. Those mornings have a sweet drug haze (even without drugs there's a speed that comes with the life.)
I hide these things. Then I mention them in passing and no one quite knows what to think of them. Little old plain bespectacled red head me, how could I possibly be the mad angel I profess to be? That's the beauty of it all. The maddest are the ones that seem the least likely to be even vaguely interesting. At least I wouldn't look at me and think I was interesting. I think I LOOK very dull and sort of peculiar-esp. with the strange coffee eyes that never seem to be looking both at the same thing at the same time. I try to be deceiving. But that so many people call me "crazy lady" leads me to believe that maybe I'm not that good a deciever. Jackson Browne I ain't.
But you know-I think I'm alright.