DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #181- can't catch me now

فيزا
Madison, Wisconsin
November 3, 1992

Sabah alkhair, beloved book of my secrets. In my native language, because this morning, or extension of last night I just can't tell, as I haven't slept that much, I ain't even feeling like making an effort to speak fucking English. But I know I gotta, because to say it à la Cuntrell, 'this is the US', and 'we speak English here, not your fucking hiccup language'... so hold on. Rewind. Let's start this all over again.

Good morning, beloved book of my secrets. More like, shit morning for as far as I'm concerned, because I woke up at 8:30AM in a bed I'd never said yes to laying on to begin with, in company of the guy who laid me and put me here to sleep against my will. I opened my eyes to find him sleeping peacefully with his head on my chest, his hair (he needs a haircut) scattered all over my flatness, his body all hugged up with mine, and his arms pulling me closer to him between a snore of his and another one. That, while I was feeling like a trainwreck inside and outside, and having an overall hard time getting out of bed because I was squished between him and the mattress, and the sensation was overwhelming in so many different ways. The severe lack of sleep and the extreme tiredness were making me feel like wanting to lay in bed and rot there until at least 12PM. My lover's warmth and tenderness were making me feel all funny inside, and like I had no other will than to waste away the rest of the morning with him like we always do... but then I rubbed my eyes open, yawned out loud, got all the painful flashbacks of what happened last night, and I realised I wanted to be with him no more. In bed, but in life too.

So, I did the only thing I could've done, to convey the wave of bitterness decorated with sprinkles of love that I still had for him in my heart: I gently rubbed his strands back, giggled at the memories of the humorous conversation about him needing a haircut that we had last night... and I kissed his lips. Like a fucking thief or like a fucking opportunist, I don't know and I don't even wish to find it out. But it felt pretty amazing and reinvigorating, to take profit of his sound sleeping state to kiss him without his... ahem, consent. Maybe I shouldn't have done that, because consent is key and I'm not the type who grabs stuff with one's own hands without permission being given first, but I have zero regrets about what I did as I breathe. Because in quality of the smart woman that I am, I knew I couldn't have kissed him when he'd finally be awake, of course not without mortifying my dignity in front of his two, beautiful, soulful, little brown eyes... so, in the end, I did what he would've loved me to do right when he would've never been able to find out that I did. Winner mentality, always, even when I'm wrecked.

I mean, I had a major jumpscare and I got the feeling that he was going to wake up and catch me redhanded, when I kissed him a second time, and he mumbled and pulled me closer to him as soon as he felt our lips touching. I just leapt back, hid my well reddened face behind the blanket, because the fear of being caught by him and his sleepy cuteness together were doing me head in. And only when I was sure that my once boyfriend, kissy kissy boy whom I still loved with my entire heart, was still fast asleep... I gathered the basic strenght to hop off bed, I stood up on my feet, and I decided to do something with my day. And I decided that the first couple things to do to kick this one off would've been treating myself to a mandatory shower (because in the end, I didn't get to shower after I returned back from the night club, ew, I was fucking stinking), and trying to silence all these thousands of thoughts on whether I should've stayed on the motherfucking tour, or if I should've just fucking left it like my existence depended solely on that.

So I headed to the restroom, pretty hellbent on taking the shower that I was neglected less than twelve hours before, and I began to fill the bathtub with boiling hot water for that purpose. But while I was washing my hands to kill the time, and stupidly attempting to clean the purplish marks off my wrists, the most tangible and most painful memory of the quarter an hour of hell I had last night... I heard a bunch of knocks on the main door, and I understood that Allah didn't have any plans to let me shower anytime soon. That was my sign that I should've prayed fajr instead of peeling my eyelids down and falling asleep on top of the man who hurt me so much... but that was also the moment I realised that Sean and I had swapped positions while sleeping, because I was the one on top when we fell asleep originally. But most importantly, that was the moment I understood that if I wouldn't have opened the door within fifteen seconds or even less than that, the knocks on the surface of it would've gone on, and most definitely woken Sean up. So, I threw a towel around my bust, the thing in its own, as simple as it may seem, made me get the hellish flashbacks of when I did the same last night, right before the shitstorm began... and I headed to the main door. Shaking a little, worried very much, but deep in my heart knowing that shit could've never been as bad as last night's.