فيزا
Updates from the Western front ... I mean, updates from the East Coast, downtown Philadelphia to be precise, from your exotic looking bestie who still can't believe she was West Coast based and getting Botox in San Fran until this morning! And who's feeling recharged and as fresh as a rose after having napped on her 'boyfriend's chest for a solid twenty minutes, getting sweet hair rubs from the guy himself for the entire fucking time, in what of a squalid, darkened backstage room, too! And who still ain't sure whether the man whose chest she's slept on is her full fledged boyfriend, not yet, or not at all anymore... but who even cares about that now? I don't! As I don't think I even gotta ask myself any more, stupid fucking questions about the good faith of a man who rubbed my hair the entire time while I was fully asleep on top of him. Probably snoring in his ear too at some point, 'cause that's how tired from travelling and panicking for the previous twenty-four hours I was.
Actually and indeed, my biggest concerns of the minute don't involve Sean, although he ain't physically with me, but roaming around the god damned place looking for the keys of his bike that HE LOST on the way back to where I am now... they all concern his cunty as heck guitar player whom I'm trying to stay as far away as possible from, too afraid that he might as well come here, get me, call me Chair with a K or any kind of denigrating slur, and mess up with my vibe. Which ain't bad at all, compared to my vibe of last night at the same time on the clock as now. Confusion (not the Alice in Chains song, ew) is a part of the process, and I trust the process, ALWAYS! I trust that Cuntrell won't come, get me, and harass me in his usual, cunty fashion. At least not now that Sean ain't here with me, ready to defend me and throw a couple items (or deadly punchlines) in his bandmate's face. I trust that Sean will find the keys to his bike and his way back to me too, at some point. I trust that he'll be able to drive us safely to the hotel, and hopefully help me ask the receptionist lady a duplicate of my badge without pissing her off too much. I trust that I will find my way to his heart as well, 'cause that's quite literally why I'm in Philadelphia today. But I can't bet on either one of these things... so, all I will do is keep things realistic, and remind myself that those who live, will see how shit goes. And in my state, a little tipsy, a little tired, and very sore from having worn shoes too small for my feet for too long... I'm not entirely sure I'll survive this wild, chaotic, cold as fuck, booze fuelled, all American partying night. Not without a knight by my side for any longer than this, at least. But stay tuned for more updates just in case I'll make it alive outside of Starr's hundredth, tacky as fuck, VIP after hours club of this leg of the tour. It's a miracle how I made it in here, considering that I'm not 21 and cleared for night clubs yet... so I want to be able to get out of here and have AT LEAST one story to tell. I mean, to write about.
So, let's cut a long story short, beloved book of my secrets that ain't that secret anymore, at this point. I am here in the VIP booth of this exclusive night club with all of my friends, my (long gone, probably lost) 'boyfriend' and all of the Alice gang too... and although my feet are all kinds of sore and cramping from having worn Demri's shoes for too long, excuse me if I've said it once already but my feet really DO HURT SO MUCH I CAN'T THINK ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE (and I urgently need a certain, long, dark haired gentleman to rub them, if possible), I'm having a blast! Or the closest to that as it gets, considering that I've downed a whole bag of cocaine with my 'boyfriend' in the ladies' restroom as little as ten minutes ago, and that I'm feeling all kinds of euphoric from the substance. In the most underwhelming meaning of the word.
I'm spinning like a top, at least internally so... because looking at me now, twiddling my thumbs, all chilled up and a little too silent for my tastes, sitting down on some couch, sandwiched by my best girly pals in the world, you wouldn't be able to say I'm high on cocaine and balling. But my mind is all over the place, my thoughts are running 250mph, faster than Sean's bike that got us there earlier tonight... and all I can think about, besides that my feet hurt, is that I miss him. Lots. And that I wish he was here now, squeezing me and keeping me entertained, instead of just being out there looking for his keys and stopping at the bar to get us drinks that will have us feeling even more miserable than we're feeling now. Not gonna lie, I'm so lucky to have a man who gets me overpriced, overwatered drinks and pays for them 'cause he loves me and thinks he's my allround caregiver ... but I'm feeling quite miserable now. And it's because everyone around me is seemingly getting something, that while I'm just being a mere spectator to their extravaganza, and butthurting 'cause I wish I could have the same. But in my own, different way. If it even makes sense. Bessie is sitting on Starr's lap, and they're talking about the 'steaming hot' sex they'll have back at the hotel. I've heard ropes and anuses being mentioned, and trust me, I wish I hadn't heard one fucking thing 'cause all I wanna do now is throw up. Chrissie is swapping spit with Chris, causing dozens of girls to pull hair off their scalp in jealousy, and causing my best, brunette friend to pull her man by the arm, perhaps eager to get him in the restroom and hop on the god damned snake already. But I get her and I can't judge her for that, 'cause wanting some is what good kisses do to me as well. Demri is swapping spit with Layne too, giving me a fucking stomachache by just looking at them because ... well, their dripping, horny, entwining tongues just ain't a great sight to behold. Especially if you're one of the true ones, and you know that Dem is exaggerating shit for the sake of pissing Bessie off. As if she could. As if we don't ALL know that the moment she turns her head the other side, Bessie hops on her fucking man and her fucking man loves it. Mimi is talking to her own Syd Barrett/Martin Gore of The Screaming Trees, mewing an awful lot while she's at it, that fucking shy little bitch... and it looks like I'm the only loner lady from the elite grunge groupies club right now. I could have my boyfriend with me, but he's looking for something he'll probably never find, in the rowdiness and in the dim lights of this night club, and sadly it ain't his penis I'm talking about ... and apparently, all of what I will have to settle for, for a while, is Mark Cardigan winking at me every other second. Meeting my annoyed gaze by mistake, and then just looking around in a suspicious manner, worried that Sean could walk in at any given time and smash his fucking face for his shitty fucking ways of flirting with me. What a fucking coward. And to think I'll never get rid of this one, 'cause he's so obsessed with me he can't stop trying his luck on me although he now knows that my everything belongs to another man... and that I've called it quits with making the porn movies that he likes so fucking much for the sake of keeping our relationship as drama free and as exclusive as possible...
