رفت عيني تريد تشوفو
وكفوفي تشبك بكفوفو
حالف بربي ماعوفو
اتمناه يظل بسدي
So, I'm on ground floor of the hotel right now, and although I'm all pimped up and feeling rather cute, in my improvised fit and in my elaborated makeup, I'm a whole fucking mess inside. I'm walking through the corridor, heading to the hallway I believe, and I'm keeping my head up and swaying my hips with some sass that I don't even know where exactly I'm managing to find... because my mind is all over the fucking place and my anxiety is doing me head in, in a rather unprecedented way. And apparently, everyone around me, even people I don't know, can tell it by just side eyeing me by mistake. Five minutes ago, I met a lady who was very gorgeous, very nice, and about the same age as my mom (in the elevator, 'cause for once in my life, I didn't take the stairs). She noticed that I was totally freaked out, and she asked me why a girl as pretty as me (what? Me? Pretty? How?) would even have a thought in this life... so, I proceeded to tell her that I'm not pretty for a start, and then tell her the story of the last couple months of my life secondly. Because sometimes, a girl who isn't pretty at all and in the throes of worries just needs someone to talk to, and even a stranger will do. Paradoxically much, a stranger does it about a thousand times better than someone who knows you (and your 'boyfriend') and, hence, is kinda biased. That nameless lady smiled with condescension at my dramatic as fuck narration, and talking to her and being listened to by her somehow brightened my chaotic as heck, downright terrifying afternoon. First and foremost, she wished me good luck with my 'boyfriend', because I did tell her that I was desperately looking for him... and she reassured me that I would've found him, sooner than soon. Based opinion, because at the end of the day, we're in the same hotel and sooner or later he's gonna have to get out of his fucking room to head to the gig at the Trocadero of tonight. Then she asked me to describe my boyfriend, perhaps as a way to see if she could help me find him sooner than due time... and when I told her that my boyfriend has hair longer than mine, dark brown and wavy, the most beautiful, sleepiest deep brown eyes ever, a long (but beautiful) nose decorated with an oversized silver hoop in the right nostril, she smiled and told me she'd seen a guy matching my identikit at the poolside bar not so long before. But he was wearing sunglasses and keeping his head low, so she wasn't hundred percent sure it was the same guy I was looking for. I asked her if he was wearing shorts, to make sure y'know, and the lady nodded her head yes. She also proceeded to tell me he had a slight beard on and that he was wearing an all black t-shirt with a stain of something on it, and that he had pierced ears... and that was the moment I realised we were both talking about Sean. So, thanks to that stunning, kind hearted and chatty lady, I know that he isn't in his hotel room, and that's the reason why he didn't even pick up a single one of my countless calls... but if he isn't in his room, where is he? Why haven't I already met him? Is he okay? How come I can't find him, given that this hotel ain't that big to begin with, and he can't be that far away from me? Asking if because I've walked by the poolside a minute ago, hoping to find him... but much to my dismay and disgust, I only found my biggest fan instead: Mark Frangipan. That creepy old fart, wooing me, calling me Jennifer (he thinks that's my actual name, and that's because he only knows me from my old porn movies), and motioning me to sit on his lap. So, Screaming Trees are on this fucking tour leg with Alice in Chains, I had no clue about that or I wouldn't have gotten back on the road to save my life, as I have a very scary backstory with their frontman and I still have vivid memories of the night I had to call the cops (Francis Kinney, of course) on him ... and naturally, I got war flashbacks of the other leg of the tour. The No More Tears one. The one in which I suddenly, unknowingly found myself in a Kinney-Inez sandwich. In Oakland. More or less the same moment I broke the entrance barricade and met Inez first... and Sean not so long after. And they both tried to let me get away with having broken the entrance barricade in front of the security by claiming I was 'with them'. As if I were an escort. Or as if I were a prize to be won, to say it à la Princess Jasmine, future queen of Agrabah, my favourite film character ever, and queen of my heart too.
