Well, what do you know? America got it right! I was so certain that he wouldn't win because of all of the teeny-bopper and old lady voting. I am so glad I was wrong. I wanted him to win because his voice is amazing and because I think he deserves it. And I really hope they allow him to write and sing his style of music. I went out and got an iPod just so I could download his songs before they disappeared forever. And you know I voted like 100 times for him, right?
Now, with that out of the way, I must obsess for a moment.
Sweet, sexy David.
(Old ladies and those underage should leave this blog immediately. It's about to get all steamy in here.)
Folks, David Cook makes me all swoony. All swirly and twitchy. All giddy and stupid. And swirly. Did I already say swirly? He makes me wanna do things I shouldn't blog about. But I'm going to try to blog about it with class and dignity and maturity. Even when really it makes me want to rip the sheets off of my bed.
Rock on, Baby! David can rock me gently all night long. Or hard, even. 'Cause he looks like a bad boy. I might have to go to one of his concerts. And throw my panties on stage or flash him during his performance. Twice.
David Cook has done something to me every single Tuesday. That sounds kind of k1nky. Seriously though, his gravely and smooth voice - his genuinely fine and gracious nature - his adorably green eyes and completely punked up hair have just knocked my socks off. The dude can sing. The dude can rock. He's the bad boy nice guy. And, well, the dude is straight up SEXY.
He's the kind of guy you want to run into backstage in the dark. All mixed up in the curtains and amps. All hot and naughty. The kind of guy that can kiss you so hard right there in the dark that your pancreas hurts. And fireworks go off. Twice.
Maybe three times.
Three times, I've decided.
Definitely three times. In a row.
Wait. What was I talking about?
Right. The thing is, watching David sing has made me realize that I need to loosen up about future plans. I've always thought clean cut and Brooks Brothers suits were sexy. I think I've been ignoring some possibilities. Maybe the bad boy can still be the nice guy. So I'm thinking I need me a man with punk ass hair (you know, eventually - not now, for goodness' sake... but I am allowed to think about it). And some stubby gruff on his face. And clear, piercing eyes. Someone who will fight for me with his guitar. Someone who doesn't have to wear a suit to feel powerful. Someone who's willing to scream and rage and cry to make love work, even when it's hard. And maybe this imaginary rocker-David Cook-man I need could sing rock songs to me in the shower and melt my heart.
But for now I'll keep busy thinking of David. Maybe in my thoughts he'll be singing The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face while standing naked on the bed with his guitar in hand. With his punk ass hair all punked up.
That's enough of that. I'm off to bed to dream of fireworks.
I'm going to listen to my iPod, People. Get your minds out of the gutter! Besides, I told you all before, I was going to openly obsess with class and dignity and maturity.