I found the god damned sticker notes I was talking about ! I found them attached to my fridge with magnets, right next to the grocery list that I still haven't brought to the supermarket, because I couldn't be any less bothered about having enough food in my fridge and in my pantry these days. As long as I have towels for crying purposes, and as long as I have toilet paper for when I hit the loo, it's all good in my book. And speaking of books... besides my numerous sticker notes, I found a page I wrote after I got back home from the tour, right in my biology book. I'll glue it to the front page of this new diary of mine (which is the back page in reality, because I use books from back to front), I'll finish my banana, I'll keep listening to Sade and singing along, I'll start to do my makeup, and I'll revive the painful memories of the afternoon I headed back home. Because a girl who doesn't want to eat proper food nor get laid anymore needs a pastime of some kind, before heading to the tattoo parlour first, and to Matt Cameron's place second. But don't worry: I'll keep things relatively short here, I won't shed a single tear, and I'll try my best to eat like a normal person in company of my new favourite Seattle drummer and his future wife, later tonight. I will end up thinking that learning how to play the drums with Sean was funner, I will butthurt at the sight of Matthew and April being total lovebirds in front of me, knowing that I can't have that with Sean anymore... but hey, I still haven't healed from our breakup, and suffering a little is a part of the broader process of forgetting him.
Seattle • November 4, 1992 • فيزا
hours off the road: about 7
I've watched many American romance movies, and I was fully prepared to face the occurrence that the first few hours away from whom I consider to be the love of my life would've been the hardest. The flight back home was a pain in the ass. I thought about him (and us together) the entire time, I napped a bit on my economy seat, and I even had a little dream about us being together and happy as we used to be until yesterday... and man, that one really fucked me up in the head and had me in tears, because it felt so real I couldn't fucking believe he wasn't right next to me when I opened my eyes... and I realised it'd been just a dream.
I'm a mess now, but it will get better. I will get better. I promise it to myself, because I know I deserve much better than crying for a man who couldn't respect me enough after he was the one who lovebombed and wanted me first. I must be strong for myself because no one else is going to do it for me... and this little resolution of mine starts today. No more tears. No more Sean. Just a lot of wholesome selfishness from my side, and for my own good.
So, here I am now, in all of my misery, back in my crusty, dusty, messy apartment in Seattle. This place is a mess, as Bessie, Chrissie and I left it and didn't once come back since the beginning of last month, aka when we joined Alice in Chains on the road. A month and a broken heart (mine) later, this place looks like one of these nightmarish places from horror movies. It oddly reminds me of the cemetery in Michael Jackson's Thriller music video, even. In fact, all I've done since unlocking the door and walking a single step in there, was throwing my suitcases away, crying (of course, how could I be supposed not to cry), de-dusting every flat surface, and then crying over each and every single one of them. I've still got a lot of cleaning to do, but I suppose I'll get to it later today, if not tomorrow... because now I'm sitting on the couch in the living room with a cup of chai in hand, trying not to cry my heart into that one, and just attempting to finish my makeup. Because yeah, I may be broken, in heart but in spirit too, I may be tired from the seven hour long journey that took me away from the love of my heart... but I feel like I just can't stay a single minute in there without going insane in the membrane. And I won't leave this place if I don't look decent enough first, even if it's the supermarket I'll eventually head to. Standard degree of preoccupation that comes from being born the same day as Mata Hari.
