I have a celebrity crush on Duffy. I’m convinced hanging out with her would be a lot like the song Sylvia Plath by Ryan Adams…lots of carefree, silent moments. We’d live on a boat and swim in the sea without clothes; and she’d probably get me into hand-rolled cigarettes and I’d get her into bourbon. Our house in the country would be full of old polyester furniture; our loft in New York would be sleek and contemporary, with lots of little corners to get warm in. She’d make me sing to her before she ever sang to me, just to toughen me up and remind me why she’s the famous one and I’m just her secret.
Our life together would never last; I’d cheat on her with someone who didn’t equate in a moment of horrible oversight, and she’d write an album about me but never mention a man in any track, as if she learned enough in the short time since we’d broken it off to forget all about me. I’d turn to drugs and careless, emotionless sex, and I’d move to LA to try and land another starlet but end up dying my hair blue and hanging outside the Viper Room playing harmonica for tips.
Ah, she’s a special lady.
3 years ago