Payne in the Ass

23. Piece of Cheesecake

"I'm not a one-trick pony. I'm at least a five-trick pony."

-- Amy Winehouse (1983-2011) 

 SAMMMI’S POV

I had spent the day trying to write a song on my own before the girls’ and my next meeting with the creative team.

They’re like super heroes, the creative team.

DA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA CREATIVE TEEEAAAM.

Oh.

It doesn’t really have the same ring to it as saying ‘Batman’ instead, does it?

That’s sad.

(If I’m being honest, I forgot how many ‘Na na’s were in the Batman theme song, so oops.)

I would say that having Niall in the same ill lit, small dressing room while I tried to accomplish writing a song was very helpful with his popstar experience, but then I’d be a huge liar and my pants might combust into flames.

Actually, they wouldn’t. I’m not wearing pants.

AHA, I HAVE BEAT THE LAWS OF THE UNIVERSE.

Wait, that sounds like I’ve got no trousers or anything at all on. I have shorts, I swear. Good ol’ shorts.

Niall had to be the most distracting creature put on this planet.

And I’m not just saying that because he was wearing a tank top that showed off his arms because it’d only be distracting if per say, I fancied him and that was not the case.

Not the case at all. Ha ha. Ha ho. Ha.

And his tank top also isn’t the reason why it feels like the room is so hot that I'm sitting on top of the Sun. I’m blaming it on the air conditioner which must be broken.

That’s the only logical explanation.

I’m so clever. It’s like I’m Einstein’s descendant.

Minus the fuzball looking hair on his head.

I swear, it looks like he’s been struck by lightning or something.

Double shampooing and conditioning, Einstein.

It’s all about the double ‘poo for proper hair health.

That sounds really weird.

Sometimes I really wish I had a little puppy. I’d name it Princess Weenie.

While I'm on completely unrelated subjects, you know what fruits are really good? Mangos and watermelon.

UGH.

I. NEED. TO. STOP. PROCRASTINATING.

SERIOUSLY.

FOCUS, SAMMI.

My Irish, just-a-friend who lounged on an old, black couch with his feet kicked up on the arm looked up from his phone, his eyebrows crashing together. “Ye alright, Sam?”



I looked down at my hand, which had scrunched up and crinkled the life out of the rectangular, lined page torn from my song notebook.

Oops.

That must have made quite a ruckus.

Silly hand, acting on it’s own.

“I’m grand!” I responded, trying to seem tranquil and normal (HA!). I softened the grip on the paper and smoothed it out on top of my notebook that rested at an angle on my bent knees in front of me. I was leaning against the cream walls of the dressing room so no monsters could sneak up behind me and eat me, just as a precaution.