Chapter Four
I lay spread eagled on my bedroom floor, staring up at my Johnny Depp shrine on the ceiling—yes you read that right—and no don’t question it, trust me, I’m aware of how creepy that is. Many people have told me, and one day Johnny himself will tell me this, and I will die happy, as long as I have my 27 cats around me and Chelsea Grin playing the part of my musical eulogy.
Basically don’t think about my shrine, or my Johnny, I’ll cut any bitch who tries to steal my Johnny.
If only the obsession was mutual.
Oh well, I tilted my head to the side, and studied my room from a new angle, it didn’t really change much, pretty much the same. I let my eyes drift close, and let out an extended sigh.
I won’t lie, part of me was praying that if I let out every bit of oxygen I had in my lungs, I’d pass out and actually get some of that whatitmacalled sleep? Yeah, sleep, that thing. That thing that’s as mythical as Santa, and Man-Bear-Pig. That thing that’s as rare as Mewtwo, and as non-existent as a boy-who-just-want’s -cuddles, Yeah sleep, I wonder if I can download it. . .
Sleep, apparently that was when you turned your mind off and you let go of the day’s previous activities.
It sounds nice.
I wouldn’t mind some one of these days.
See, the great thing about being an insomniac is that you get 24 hours to mull and analyse the day and replay everything that happened. I say great in the loosest and most sarcastic sense by the way. Insomnia is about as helpful as Thin Lizzy is as an effective foundation.
Well it is effective, if you want to be more bronzed than a Greek statue.
Fuck off with your “penalized mineral powder”, if I want to look like Snookie, I’ll go to Jersey. Or consult an Ompa Lumpa. Thin Lizy and that stupid witch that attempts to make it sound worthwhile, can just leave.
I am thoroughly done with their shit.
And just as my hatred for Thin Lizzy and MTV—music television, hahah what a joke—reached its peak, Elise hammered on the front door of my house, well I say ‘mine’ but really it was my ‘parents.’
Yes, I quoted ‘parents,’ because to be parents they’d have to parent.
Let’s just say, caring wasn’t their strong suit. They were too focused on the other C word: carer. And that generally meant they were not here.
Not that I mind, I mean what sixteen year old girl wouldn’t want to have the house to herself? I mean seriously, I have all the raging parties, raves, hoe-downs, you name it and we did it; I truly got down with my bad-self. And by ‘we’ I mean me and my imaginary parties, raves and hoe-downs. I’m not exactly, how do I put this, a social butterfly, that was more Elise’s forte. I was more of a social donkey.
“Hang on, cupcake, I’ll be there in a second,” I called out to Elise.
A few seconds later she began to start booting my door. “HURRY THE FUCK UP!”
And with that, and the imminent threat of knowing the longer I kept her waiting, the less likely I was going to have a door, I picked myself off the ground, and made my way downstairs, and then to the front door.
“BITCH, I WILL CUT YOUR BOOBS OF—about fucking time,” I interrupted her by unbolting the big hunk of a door that guarded me from the outside world and the people that inhabited it. She pushed on the door as I was pulling it open, and it slammed against the wall, “Whoops “She said and stepped over the threshold. “Can you not play the ‘let’s make Elise wait outside,’ game. It’s really not fun,” she shrugged off her coat and pushed it into my arms. “How long was I?”
