Seattle • November 10, 1992 • فيزا
Good morning, beloved, backup book of my secrets! This morning I woke up early (as per usual), and as of right now, 8:30 on the clock, I'm in Matt and April's kitchen making myself coffee and doing my makeup while they're still fast asleep in their (almost marital) bedroom. Last night was a nice one, I learned a few more drum beats and tricks from my new favourite Seattle drummer, the mighty Mr. Cameron of Soundgarden himself ... and how nice of him, he told me that I have 'great sense of rhythm' and 'a nice groove' to my playing! I'd like to think that it's all my own work and dedication here, that all I can do I've learned by playing the snare drum at Christmas celebrations in my (and Jesus's) hometown... but at the same time I don't want to do the delusional, and I ultimately have to admit that everything I've learned to do behind a drum kit, from the ground basics to the more advanced stuff, is all due to Sean's teaching. I've been taught and spotted behind a drum kit by two top tier Seattle drummers, and I feel safe to say that Sean is a much better teacher than Matt. As a drummer I don't know, they're both amazing in their own, unique and respective way, but my ex boyfriend is hands off the superior teacher. His cymbals sound a thousand times better than Matt's. I have a feeling that they're more expensive too, but I don't know for sure. His drumsticks are less slippery than Matt's. He makes me laugh when he teaches me stuff, he doesn't have Matt's same, 'let's get this over with and be serious about it' attitude. He pinches my thigh while I drum, and tells me that he loves to bang with me. He tells me that I'm hot when I sweat and make constipated drumming faces. He kisses me during breaks between a song and another one. Matt just shows me how to play paradiddles all over the drumkit once, and expects me to be able to pull 'em off the same way he does, at first try and without asking him anything. But hey, that's normal behaviour, because I'm not his girlfriend, so I shouldn't complain. Reasonably enough, I should just be grateful that he ain't charging me any money for the lessons, because in this capitalist society of 'ours', not being charged for shit means that you're someone's friend. I used to be someone's girlfriend, and my drummer boyfriend bloody loved to teach me how to play his instrument. The fact that I now have him no more makes me want to bawl my eyes out and cry... but guess what, I won't shed a single tear for him. Remember that resolution I made with myself, the one in which I promised I wouldn't have cried again for a guy who got his last haircut in 1988? I'm proudly, stoically, resiliently sticking to it on day six of being away from him.
This morning, I'm missing him more than any other day, to the point that I can't go two minutes without thinking about him. Half an hour ago, I woke up all curled up on Matt and April's couch in the living room... and as soon as I opened my eyes and welcomed the new day, I grunted and sighed because I wished I'd woken up with Sean by my side. But he wasn't there, it was just me, my delusional ass, my pillow and my nostalgia of the love of my life on the couch... so I did the sap, and hugged and kissed the guest pillow pretending it was Sean. I called that fucking pillow 'Sean' too, at some point, but I'll never tell him that. Like I'll never tell him that I touched myself and got myself off in my friends' couch thinking that it was his hand between my legs (if not his face, haha sorry I was very horny). I sincerely hope that the Cameron's didn't hear me moaning all the way to their bedroom, because it'd be pretty fucking embarrassing if they did. But they're still sleeping through the annoying sound of the rain and of their fucking rusty, old ass kettle ringing because the water I've poured in it is boiling... so I shall be safe from questions like 'hehe, what were you pervert doing on our couch? hehe? what makes you think that we'll ask you to stay over the night again, if you shamelessly masturbate in our living room while you stupidly think we're asleep? hehe'.
However, they're sleeping, and I shall be safe. I will be safe, I think to myself, as I pour boiling hot water into a coffee mug, add coffee powder to it, and mix it so to make the shittiest coffee I've had in a while. A long, watery, homemade shitty fucking Americano, unsweetened too, because that's how much I hate myself this morning. I take a sip of it, taking a break from doing my makeup... and I realise that in the end, it doesn't taste any worse than the average coffee from Starbucks that gets sold for seven bucks. No 'bucks' pun intended, I think, but I'm not sure about that because I ain't caffeinated enough. I hold my warm cup of coffee between my hands, icy and pale because it's unbearably cold today, no matter the fact that I'm wearing two sweaters and a fleece jacket... and I end up staring outside the window, between a sip of coffee and another one.
