The first thing you see is her guitar. It's roughly the size of her, inky black, with tons of mother-of-pearl inlaid all over. Fancy barbed-wire designs ring the sound hole. The whole thing glistens in the dim light, each curve reflecting a little differently, like a grand piano on a stage. Some musician's dedication is scrawled onto the top in silver ink.
The strap that holds the instrument on her wiry frame is harsh fluorescent pink, with a black checkerboard motif. Perhaps an Avril Lavigne custom model.
She talks like a wasp flaps its wings, with spits and starts, twitches and buzzes.
How she has 7 guitars.
How this one is her baby.
How her doctor has no rules on what to eat, and what not to eat, as she slams a Starbucks Frappucino, the first of three.
How she tried Ritalin, but she doesn't take it anymore.
How you might recognize this song that she's about to play, but after playing three bars, she can't sing it or play more because it gets harder.
A constant barrage of statements and quips flies out of her mouth, like a verbal seizure. Everything fires at the same time. She's out of control, gunning at random, and there's no sign of the ammo running out.
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