DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #153 - black or white

إن كنت أعرف ما هو الحب, فهذا بفضلك !

After Katy asked Sean if he could help me with my last name 'issue', and after he basically laughed in her face, so hard that I had to tug his arm to make him fucking stop, because we were talking about rather serious stuff and he was shamelessly clowning the high powers... I had a little talk with Katy, we bargained a little, that with Sean's mediation, and we finally solved the issue concerning my commercial last name. In the end, we settled for what's easy and pain free, for me and for my mom too, because this means I won't be using her maiden name as my sharmoota alter ego. And, ladies and gentlemen, let me tell y'all, with a sprinkle of pride, that my new, commercial last name is ... Al-Karaz. Jordanian. Like my shitty passport. It basically means Cherry (farmer? tree? could be both), but with a twist of camel, desert, tatreez, olive oil, chai, no sharmoota but yes shawarma in it, in a language that nor my boss nor my clowny boyfriend will be ever able to speak. I honestly like it, I think it's very fitted for me, and I also think that if it wasn't for my boyfriend, I would've never been able to get the idea and finally solve the issue in a favourable way for me. This whole Cherry thing began when I met a part-Irish, super fly guy at a basement party in Seattle. He was funny, handsome as heck, sweet, cryptic, into putting his hands over the pee pee for no reason in particular, he even owned my all time favourite motorcycle... and I fell in love with him at first, little sarcastic brown eye sighting. We clicked straight away, spent the night together talking, smoking, laughing, kissing, drinking and petting, pulling an elusive in two while all of our friends were partying... and before we bid farewell until next time, he gave me his number, called me Cherry for the first time ever, and told me he had to see me again. After that night, he began to court me like the gentleman that he is, and a few days into hearing from him AM and PM, I cracked all shits and eventually got on the road for him. A few weeks forward, that part-Irish, super fly guy from the party is my boyfriend: he calls me Jennifer on occasion, but I'm always his Cherry, and he is always my better half. And when I say that, I mean that he betters me, and makes things ever so easy for me. If I'm here today, getting all dolled up by professionals for my first photoshoot ever, it's because of him and his support and encouragement. If I came up with the idea for a business last name that doesn't make me wanna jump off a cliff in embarrassment, or that doesn't make my mom want to hit me with a slipper and call me a sharmoota ... it's because of him, and of the way he was rubbing my sour cherry, red hair during my exchange with Katy. It's incredible the turn that one's life can take, it's reinvigorating to find out that a fruit joke can somehow turn into something much more serious, it's amazing to witness how much your life can effectively change when you allow the right people into it... and with Sean in my life, I fucking bargained and I know it. I mean, how many girls can say that they've been pulled out of porn, and pulled into a literal dream job in modelling? How many girls can say that when their actual last name got rejected by the management of a modelling agency, because too similar to a colleague's, they decided to use their boyfriend's way-to-go nickname in Arabic for them as an alternative? Besides me, I've never heard of a girl so lucky to claim any of the above things... and I'm loving this for myself. I'm also thinking that I owe one to my man, and that I will always stick by his hip and support him, until our last day together. At the end of the day, ain't this what true love is all about?

Actually, how many girls can say that while they're getting their hair done before their first ever, real fashion photoshoot, their boyfriend is sitting on the floor in front of them ... and massaging their feet? Not many girls, I reckon. This is a first time kinda thing for me as well, as Sean's hands have never been anywhere near my feet prior to now... but I'm digging this little massage thing, for as impromptu as it seems, and I'm finding it beyond soothing. Anxiety relieving, even. I don't know if he can tell my state of anxiety and for that he's massaging the palm of my feet, but I'm very nervous, and very scared I'll fuck this photoshoot thing up. I'm my biggest critic and my biggest enemy, I work against myself even when I should just supposed to go with the flow and hope for the best... but he's helping, in his own way, and he's giving me further reasons to believe that I owe him one. But what do I owe him, in particular? It's hard to figure it out, now that the hairstylist lady is pulling my hair a bit too roughly, and is attempting to loosen the front strands of my curly mane. She's pulling my hair a little too hard ... and I suppose that I'd be rude of me, to chime in and tell a professional hair handler that she's hurting my scalp.