فيزا
So ! Bessie and I have somehow been able to walk back to the VIP couch where all of our friends are, leaving the creepy guy from the bar behind our backs for good, and miraculously finding a way to collect Sean's keys from the floor without showing him 3/4 of our underwear, too... and unsurprisingly much, one successful girly mission later, everyone is still here and doing their own thing. Except that Sean is still nowhere to be seen. Except that Cuntrell has never been there, as he's probably someplace else trying to get under my boyfriend's skin as his usual. And at my expenses, as always. And except that Chrissie and Chris are walking towards the restroom area hand in hand. Because they gotta do what they gotta do, aka fuck, and they gotta do it now, 'cause it's a twenty minute drive to the hotel ... and the experts don't recommend driving when severely horny. As for the rest of the gang, time seems to have frozen when I stood up from the couch and went to get myself a drink: Mimi and Syd Barrett are still talking, and I'm mewing at the sight of them as I think it's super sweet that she's laying with her head on his shoulder, and that he's rubbing the back of her hand while looking at her with nothing but admiration in his eyes. Awwww, I want the same with my own, fucking drummer boyfriend, except spicier and a little more extra, 'cause that's how we are and how we like stuff between us. These drummers all look tough as nails and unapproachable, they look angry and constipated 90% of the time, but it turns out that they're always the biggest cinnamon rolls of any band. Lucky Mimi and I, I suppose... except that she's luckier, 'cause her drummer isn't elusive and doesn't go missing every other hour as mine does. But mine is definitely funnier, far more unpredictable and more handsome too, at least in my eyes... so lucky me, I think.
Anyways, I'm happy that my best friend from university (or my sister from the same harem as Sean loves to call her, probably as a payback for her way of always mispronouncing his name as Sham) has found a guy who treats her like a queen and looks at her with heart shaped eyes, as she deserves all of that and then some... and she deserves this kind of treatment for more than just one night, if you ask me. Call me delusional, call me overly optimistic, call me a sap, call me a hopeless romantic, call me however you want, but I want these two to date, get together, get married too at some point... and then become Sean and I's neighbours back in Seattle ! He's not here, but if I manage to find him and I find him in a righteous mood at some point tonight, I'll tell him my plans for the future - we can move in a countryside house together as he said he'd like to. Although I'm a little contrary to that, as I'd prefer if it we lived in different houses in the current state of our relationship. But I need my neighbours to be Mimi and Syd Barrett/Martin Gore, and Kim fucking Thayil. Also known as my 'cousin', and as Sean's best pal that I know of. Imagine how many beer trucks we're gonna get delivered everyday! Imagine how much weed we're gonna smoke everyday! All together like a fucking family ! Imagine how much food are Mimi and I gonna cook, for these three music dudes who always, always fucking eat far beyond their sense of appetite! Imagine how great life is gonna be, surrounded by the people we love the most, all the damn time! I need to talk Bessie into moving to the same block of villas as us, together with her future husband, the iconic Mr. Stone Gossard, and I think I will! And I'll pull the trigger a little more, asking her to make all the babies I can't make myself because I won't be able to carry my own unless I get my periods back! I have plans for the future, and I'll tell them to Bessie, perhaps as soon as she's gonna call it quits with letting Horny Mike peel up her dress and expose three quarters (if not more) of her thighs. In front of everyone to see. Including Demri, who's being as delusional as her usual, and peeling up her dress to expose her thighs too. That, while she's still playing tonsil hockey with a visibly inebriated Layne.
Oh... my friends. I sometimes hate them, but most of the time, I just fucking love them and that's it. They sure do provide some of the best entertainment there is, their shit spectacle is free of charge, and it's for that reason that I love them so bloody fucking much. All of them. Including Horny Mike. But just not Mark Frangipan. The one who's sitting right beside me, calling me Jennifer like it's my actual first given name, talking some nonsense that I ain't even taking the bother to listen to 'cause I reckon it's rubbish anyways ... and who's attempting to poke my thigh after each and every (failed) attempt of his to do the unproblematic gregarious. At least he's stopped turning his head around to see if Sean's coming, probably because he too knows that the guy's gone missing and will never come back again ... and honestly, I don't fucking know how to feel about this. All I can do, is hope that Sean is eventually gonna appear, would be about fucking time he did, and catch Mark the Creep redhanded, right when his fucking callous hand is well placed above my thigh. And only after that we'll see who's gonna laugh last ... I definitely won't, as I hate these shit shows in which my boyfriend has to put creeps back in their place after having tried to get a piece of me. This kind of stuff always makes me wanna cry, to be honest. But for as long as they make my man laugh and feel 'superior', to some extent, it's all good in my book. Fingers crossed that I'm gonna see him laugh before we'll get back to the hotel, indeed. Fingers crossed that he ain't left me here unattended with a bunch of creeps and headed back to the hotel all on his own, too. There's a chance he could've as well done that, especially if he's bitter about something I don't know just yet... but honestly? I don't think so. It's hard to think that he'd go anywhere, without his trusted motorcycle that I have the keys to. Or without his helmet that's resting on the couch, right beside mine and right between Mark Frangipan and I. Sean? Going somewhere on foot? Nah, not his style. He's got to be somewhere around here. I just don't know where exactly, or I'd walk my way to the god damned place ... but he's here. I'm ready to bet my left hand on this. And before you pipe in and ask me why I ain't betting my right hand... let me remind you that. I am. Left. Handed. Not normal like y'all. Ok? But in my defence, I'll say I'm definitely more normal than Mark Frangipan, because unlike him... I don't talk to myself, and live up to the delusion that someone else is listening to me. I'm not saying that to be rude, but just because all of his one side gabbing is giving me a massive headache. On top of the massive feet ache that I've had for a while now, and that's making me want to throw Demri's ballerina shoes at him. As he's talking, talking and talking, saying a whole lot of bullshit while he's at it, hoping to get a reply for me in the foreseeable future ... and I can't stand his voice anymore. I can't stand him anymore and that's it. And I'm really starting to give it away, rolling my eyes back and grunting between my clenched teeth.
