فيزا
Been a while, a quarter of an hour I believe, and Sean and I are still sitting in reverse on the saddle of his motorcycle, pulled right outside of the nightclub that turned out to be a fucking wrestling nightmare for me. And that turned out to be a perfect, wrestling ring to him. Different feelings for different people, I suppose? But perhaps same degree of intoxication, because neither one of us feels sober enough to ride our asses back to the hotel already? Yeah, I suppose that's the case. As I suppose I'm the one who's more looking forward to getting back to the hotel and sleeping eight hours on a row on the rowdy events of tonight. On his side, he looks like he's just fine, and most definitely not in a rush to go back to the hotel and fucking get some fucking sleep. Meditation sleep and a couple of nightmares as a payback his shitty conduct, if you ask me what I think he deserves.
He's talking, talking and talking, talking nonsense and going on a rant instead of doing the long overdue and asking me if I've by chance (or even by accident) found the key to his bike ... whereas I ain't giving him a smidgen of my attention, and I'm just smoking, smoking and smoking. My third cigarette in a row, if I'm not mistaken and it turns out I'm on to the fourth one already. I'm probably, also giving him silent treatment, yeah... but I promise I ain't doing it as some form of shitty revenge for his actions of not so long ago, or as a way to teach him a much needed life lesson. I'm not his moral teacher nor his spiritual guide, bruh. And I'm not that level of petty, rancorous, and grudge-y anyways. I'm just grungey, I suppose ... and my hardcore, man-like smoking is really giving it away for me. As my runny eyeliner and swollen, reddish eyes are, I reckon. And as Sean's jacket (that's so big it could fit two me's and a half) thrown over my shoulder is, I sense. Nice finishing touch, that his worn out, almost ripped, leather jacket over my expensive as fuck minidress is. The runny makeup/random clothing ensemble totally, fucking makes me look like I've escaped the psych ward in Seattle and made my way to Philadelphia on foot. And on foot only. No hitchhiking and shit. Running, too afraid that the psych ward assistants would've come catch me if I'd slowed down for a second and/or stopped along the way to get some food. Heroin chic, they call it. But honestly, I don't see anything chic or glamorous about being a fucking homeless looking, heartbroken mess.
I don't want to be too hard on myself because it would be the end of my sanity if I did, but I'm pretty sure that, to all the people passing us by, leaving the club and nearing their cars, not forgetting to look at us with the side of their eyes while they're at it... I might look like a junkie hooker. Or like a hooker junkie. It's the same. Or why not, like a fucking hot mess and that's it. And sadly, if these curious strangers knew that I have a dose of Xanax, a lot of cocaine and just as much booze in my system, they would only reinforce their twisted opinions on me. But who gives a fuck about opinions? I have never given one fuck about what other people think of me, and I definitely won't start giving any fucks now that I'm ... wrecked. Outside, but inside even more, although I'm doing my best to keep it to myself. As I'm doing my best to keep my words to myself, because I'm sure that they would go in vain anyways, if I voiced them. As if I would (and could) even work the nerve to voice them in the first place, now that I feel like everything I may say and do would be pretty much useless ... and redundant too. Sense of guilt for what Sean has done to that guy inside the night club is eating me up, not knowing how the poor, offended dude is doing and if he can still move after having been jackhammered is destroying me... and I should care about my appearance? Or I should care to voice my thoughts? While there's a guy laying on the floor and spitting blood a fucking entrance door away from me? And the guy who assaulted him for a petty fucking reason is sitting here with me, talking and talking, and acting like nothing's just happened? The fuck ? He's showing no regrets and no remorses for what he's done whatsoever, he's being all unapologetic and going on a desperate rant to get me to talk to him, and I should be bothered by the way I look and feel? When, before he did the asshole and ruined not just my mood, but my appearance too, I almost thought I was looking... pretty? And I was feeling pretty unproblematic too? And to tell it as it is, I was bouncing off the walls as I couldn't believe I was finally getting to enjoy a night out with my boyfriend ... and our mutual friends I'd missed and that we love oh so much ?
