It's well past 2:00AM here in the tour bus, and we're all still well lit in this gang. All of us except Gerry, who's still weeping his guitar in the last row of seats of the bus. And except Sean, who's half asleep with his head on my boobies, while I'm kissing his forehead and rubbing his wavy, dark brown strands. He needs a haircut and I will never get tired of saying that, at least unless he'll get the damn haircut in itself... but man, what I'd do to have hair naturally as brown as his... ugh.
Anyways, back on the rightful track. I'm chatting to Bessie and the two other blonde chicks that we picked up at the gig of earlier tonight, and we're just doing the girly girls, and talking about girly things such as... makeup. One of the two blondies is asking me what brand and what shade is the lip liner I'm wearing... and I'm just frowning in confusion, because I literally ain't wearing any makeup at the minute. Maybe this poor girl is just very confused because my lips ain't pink or reddish like white people's, and there's an element of brown in their contour that really bugs people, at times... but sigh. Why is it so hard to be a non ethnically white, yet white skinned person, in this country? Why do people think that I'm always enhanced in some way? And most importantly, why do I always have to give people anthropological answers to their stupid fucking questions?
Thank goodness, the blondie seems to be chuffed enough when I just shrug at her question, rub my hand against my lips, and show her that the back of it ain't stained in lip liner. Then she moves on to Bessie, and asks her what foundation she's wearing, because her skin is looking shiny, glowy and flawless. Bessie frowns, to let her know that she's barefaced, and after that, the blonde chick and her friend look at both of us like they're wondering whether Bessie and I are human, or not quite. That, until Layne chimes in, says that he's found a new, amazing, big, makeup blender that's latex free, and that he uses it... on Sean, because Sean is allergic to latex. Sean resurrects from his state of semi-sleep and laughs his ass off at his bandmate's taunt... and honestly, so do I. I don't know if Layne is trying to make it sound like Sean is gay all over again, or if he's just hinting to the fact that he knows we get it on with no layers of latex between us... but it's funny nonetheless, and I can't help but laugh.
After Layne's very humorous remark, the two blondies narrow themselves into their shoulders, because at this point, they don't even know what to say anymore... and when Bessie giggles and lays her head on Layne's shoulder, I do about the same thing with my man. More like, I half lay on his shoulder, and I stretch myself far enough in order to kiss him. He throws his one arm around my waist, slides his hand into the bottom hem of my crop top, and rubs my back while we're exchanging a sweet, little and pretty much harmless kiss. At this point into the night, I wouldn't say no to bidding everyone farewell for the night, dragging Sean out of the gathering by the fabric of his shirt, and walking him to the bunk beds area... but he wants to stay here a little longer, and he lets it be known by pinning me well against the bus seat, kissing my lips, and tucking my both hands well between his legs. Excellent !
'Honda Four, I can see your panties. Wow'. A male voice speaks from a couple rows of seats behind us, and I don't even have to turn, to reckon that it's Starr. I mean, Gerry thinks I'm disgusting, the road crew guys are sleeping, the bus driver is just driving and singing a song by Gloria Gaynor, Layne is fingering Bessie from under the table for what I can tell, Sean is too busy kissing me to speak... so who else could it be, if not Starr? Who else besides him could be making such a comment on how he can see my panties from under the low rise jeans (too big for me, meh what have I become) that I'm wearing? Only Starr in the world, trust me. This is lowkey disturbing, the fact that he's saying this in presence of my boyfriend is indeed the definition of disturbing... but I'm an optimist, a good natured person, and I can still see a silver lining in his horny extravaganza: he could've said he could see my boobs, because I'm wearing no bra and I'm getting kinda... ahem, turned on by my man's kisses... but he kept things easy, and he made everything about the panties. Which are clean as a rose, and worth a solid fifty bucks at some expensive Italian lingerie store in NY. Excellent !
'If you want, I can show you your premature grave'. Sean answers, and although his words may sound like a death threat or the closest as it gets to that, I realise that he's the definition of tame and clowny, when he just laughs and flips the bird at his clinically horny, curly haired bass player buddy. Speaking of middle fingers, babe startles himself a little, when he grabs my hand in his, and remembers that he put a silver ring around my middle finger a few days ago. Since then, I haven't taken that one off, I kept it around my pointer finger even when I walked for a show in a golden bodysuit, and the designer himself told me that my silver piece of jewellery was clashing with his creation. I know it ain't an engagement ring, and I'm relieved that it ain't, to be fairly honest... but it doesn't mean that I can treasure it like it is my most prized possession, am I right? I am right. And the fact that the man who gifted me this one is looking down on it and smiling like he's accomplished by his own 'investment' gives me further reasons to realise that I'm a perfectly normal girlfriend. And oh, I'm also realising that I'm quite thirsty: reason why I'm reluctantly freeing myself from my boyfriend's hold, standing up from his lap, and heading to the beer fridge to go get us a drink or two.
I'm walking through the bus corridor, or whatever it's called I don't know because I'm no native English speaker, and I'm doing my best to avoid eye contact with Cuntrell, and to avoid showing more panty inches than he's already seen to Starr. These two specimens are weird as fuck and uneasy to handle to say the least, and from my personal experience, I've learned that avoiding them is the only way of making any day on the road with Alice in Chains slightly more bearable. Wish me luck now, because while I'm checking up on my squawking son who's sleeping in his cage on top of the fridge, I'm bending down on it to collect two bottles of beer... and I just know that Starr's gonna drool at the sides of his filthy mouth at the sight of my ass, and Cuntrell is gonna tell me that I have a fat fucking dumptruck.
Keep me in your prayers.
'Jennifer, did someone ever tell you that you should think about modelling?' One of the two blonde chicks speaks, and although she's still calling me by the wrong-est name in the world, I still chuckle at her very sudden, very nice... compliment, I think? And if it is a compliment, what have I done to deserve it? I'm just walking back to my boyfriend with two bottles of beer, and a little bit of entitlement that comes from the fact that I've perfectly been able to avoid Starr and Cuntrell's attention. I'm just... breathing and walking in an outfit that's literally worth less than fifteen bucks at Pike Place Market, the expensive panties aside. I have unstyled hair from the shower of earlier tonight, messy from the nap and the blowie of not so long ago, and a face painfully free of makeup... then how come she's encouraging me to give modelling a shot, if I haven't already? I mean, I think that I'm nothing special, and I regard my full fledged job in modelling that she obviously knows nothing about as a miracle... how's it possible that an almost perfect stranger is getting the vibe that I could be model material by just looking at me walking to where she is with two beers in hand? Is it because I'm the minimum acceptable height to be a model? 5ft and something, plus the fluff of the hair that makes me 5ft9? Is it because I have a very unconventional face? Is it because I've lost a little too much weight while I was working my rear end off in New York, and I give off waif model energy? I don't know, but I won't ask... and guess why? Because I'm too lost for words, besides being too lost for pounds.
'I don't think so? She's shy'. Sean takes the word, because he has an unconventional knack for answering questions on behalf of me, especially when I'm too lost for words... but now I'm square lost for words, because he's making a fool of my 'shyness' (that only surfaces when he asks me to sit on his face, what a fucking hypocrite, I will never do it), and I'm letting him get away with that by laughing my bum off, sitting back on his lap, and handing him one bottle of beer out of of two. He deserves his drink freshly picked anytime and anywhere, and y'know why? Because not only he never fails to slander me and make me laugh, but he is also the one person in particular who made me feel beautiful, and worthy of giving modelling another shot. He's the 'someone' that the blondie chick is unknowingly talking about, and I know it. I owe everything to him, because if it wasn't for his words of encouragement, his good loving and his IBAN, I would've stupidly held myself back from going out there and making my one dream of many come true. I'm working in the business of my 'dreams' now, and I can tell you that it's a weird mixture of cringe, creepiness, human trafficking and offering your body and your soul for carnage to the devil... but one has to get a taste off one's dreams, before labelling them as flat out dreams, or as concealed nightmares.
'I will never understand what's the hype about you, Khair. You literally look like a fucking man with lip fillers'. Gerry speaks from his seat on the back of the tour bus, and before I can process his 'insult' any further, he's here, right beside me. With a hand over my shoulder, and his gaze on me like he's tryna roast me under his hateful eyes or something. My first, based reaction is to remove his hand off my shoulder, dodge him like a bullet, and find shelter behind my boyfriend's long, long trail of hair. Now, I'm thinking that he doesn't need a haircut, because his trail always seems to turn into the most perfect shield for me... and I'm also thinking that I've heard that Cunty comment on how I've got lip fillers at least a hundred times, and confuted it just as many times. But hold my beer... what is this newly branded insult about me looking like a man? I've been told many things about my appearance, not necessarily all of these being compliments, but never in my life I've had someone coming for me, and telling that I resemble a... man. Because I just don't, and if you look at me, from any angle, at any time of the day, it's pretty obvious that I'm a woman. Then, if that's the case, why did that fucking delusional ass shout that shit right into my ear? Is he overimaginative, or do my small breasts and ethnic nose really give off man energy ? Or is he just pissed because someone's complimented me out of the blue, and he just can't stand to see people being nice to me without being asked to do it?
'I love my men plump'. Sean takes the word for me, once again... and I bless him, because he ain't even taking Cuntrell and his hatred seriously anymore, at this point. He's just picking up his words, mixing 'em with a generous amount of sarcasm, and handing them right back at him. This one was an amazing example of Sean doing the sarcastic recycle bin: Gerry told me that I look like a man with lip fillers? No problem, no violence: he's gay, he loves me... I mean, he loves men, and he loves his men with artificially plump lips. How fucking smooth was this? Definitely smoother than the way he's drinking his beer, totally avoiding the presence and the persistence of his blonde bandmate. Honestly, what a king.
'Really, Jer? You didn't say that, the first time you saw her'. Bessie intervenes, and after her taunt, Gerry turns his Edam smelling heels on the floor, and heads back to his rathole in the back of the bus. First, because he's been shut up by the only person who has any ascendancy on him in this gang, said person is standing up for me again, and he can't stand it. No pun intended. Second, because he must be feeling really awful, to know that the woman he claims to love surprised him wooing at me a number of times. Of course, rigorously before he decided to be mad at me for the rest of his life because of my endorsement of Mr. Stone Gossard.
Before Stone Gossard happened and shuffled the cards of the game, I was just one of the many chicks in what of Seattle that Gerry was tryna bed. The first time he met me, on that fucking cursed day of a few months ago, I was studying in my room at the shared apartment with the girls, and he was winking at me and scratching his crotch from under my doorframe. He introduced himself as 'Gerry of Alice in Chains', as if being a member of a band I'd never heard about before in my life was a personality trait, and I introduced myself as 'Victoria, not interested'. He told me that I was 'bloody hot', that he'd seen my movies, that he had a gut feeling I was a good slut... and when he dared to get any closer to me and touched my lower back, I hit him in the head with my tea cup, and locked him outside my room. Bessie probably witnessed that shit show, like she witnessed many instances of Gerry doing the cockroach and trying to fuck either Chrissie or me... and I appreciate her, because she has the guts to say that she knows that her fuck buddy used to have a completely different opinion on me, before I had the terrible idea of pushing her in the arms of a man who just ain't him. But am I to blame, if I only want the best for the ones I love? Huh ?
'Ooooh, now I understand why he's so mad... he wanted Jennifer, but she fucked the hierarchy and took the drummer...'. One of the two blonde additions to the gang talks back to a very entertained Bess, and when I process her words and realise that she thinks she's solved a crime case or something, with her intervention... I just burst out laughing louder than I've ever before. These fucking fans are so imaginative... this one literally thinks that I'm a groupie, that Gerry originally wanted me, and that he's now resenting me because I fucked band hierarchies and fucked the drummer instead of the guitar player... but no, the dynamic wasn't exactly that one. I mean, the guitar player wanted to fuck me and I'm sure he wouldn't say no to boning me, to this day... but it was never a matter of a competition between bandmates for the sake of balling me. Honestly, when I found out that the serial blonde harasser with a scary fascination for me (and any other woman in the Washington State) and Sean the clowny gentleman with a Honda Four were in the same band, I was kinda shocked. So was Gerry, the first time he saw me under his drummer's arm. But besides being a little disappointed because seeing me with Sean meant that he should've called it quits with tryna grope me, if he wanted to survive at least... I feel safe to say that Gerry couldn't had given and still couldn't give any less fucks about my hookup life. With Bessie it's different, because she opened her legs for him multiple times, it was always a good time, and he thinks that for that, he owns her. Actually, the reason he resents me so bad for is much, much dumber than me not wanting to spread my legs for him in the very first place. The reason why he resents me so bad is that I told my best friend to stop spreading her legs for him, and I talked her into moving on to a much better man. I even offered her a perfect candidate's name, my bad, in front of Gerry... and voilà. That's the reason why I get told that I look like a fucking man at 2:35 in a motherfucking, cheese smelling tour bus.
And by the way, for the last time before I lose my patience, my name AIN'T JENNIFER. Stop calling me like that, blondie #1. Mind my business as much as you want, but at least don't call me by my old porn alter ego.
'No ... trust me, you don't understand. It's a thing between guitar players... him and Stone Gossard I've heard'. Sean explains, winding his bottle of beer in the air in a very dramatic (standard Sean) fashion, between a pull off it and another one. He's taking it easy, oddly enough for his standards, but with very peaceful observation, he's kindly letting our new road buddies know what the righteous core of the issue is: Gerry ain't mad at Jennifer the groupie because Jennifer the groupie did something unacceptable and picked the drummer over the guitar player. Gerry is mad at Jennifer because Jennifer pushed her best friend in the arms of another guitar player from another Seattle band. The two blondies are looking at Sean like they have no clue why the heck he's just mentioned the name of the rhythm guitarist of Pearl Jam out of nowhere... but true ones, aka Bessie, Layne and I, are just laughing ourselves to oblivon, because we just know that Sean is just waiting for the right input in order to get aaaaall the dirty laundry out.
'Kinney... I think it's bedtime for you'. Bessie decrees, playfully scruffing at Sean's words... and telling him that he better go to fucking sleep than do the reckless clown and expose business that he's got nothing to do with. Honestly, I agree with Bessie wholeheartedly. I've had enough of the same old stories about Bessie's interest in Stone Gossard, they only trigger Gerry's jealousy some more, and a result for that, he only gets a little bit more passive-aggressive towards me. I just want peace, and I have understood that peace can't be a direct consequence of letting Sean say whatever comes to his mind at any given time. But he's his own person, he's a people pleaser on occasion, a Cuntrell harasser 24/7, and I know I just can't tell him what to do or what to say. Reason why I just finish my beer, rest my head on his shoulder, and rub his cheek all along. In the vain hope that he's gonna drag me to bed and call it a good night, rather than stir the same stale tea all over again. It ain't gonna work... but at least I'll be able to say that I've tried.
'Bedtime story time? You want me to tell everyone about the Stone Gossard ... incident?' He answers, clearly picking up Bessie's words with a fair amount of sarcasm, and in and out giving off the vibe that he wouldn't say no, ever, to telling our new friends about the infamous, inglorious 'Stone Gossard incident'. Aka, the story of the one time Bessie was getting it on with Gerry, he was horny as fuck and drilling her, and she released and called him by her not so secret crush's name. That would make for a fun pre-bedtime story if you ask me, pretty cringe on Bessie's side, because I'm sure she ain't fond of the fact that her bestie's boyfriend keeps telling it to every new person he meets... but reasonably, these two blondies gathered here with us don't have a clue of what's going on or what we're even talking about, and everytime Sean speaks, they seem to get just a little bit more confused. Yeah, that's what he does to people. But y'know another effect he has on people? Getting under Gerry's skin: because the Supreme (ew) blonde cunt is here, his hand is on my shoulder again, and he's looking at Sean with that war glimmer in his eyes. Not that he could be any harmful, one object thrown his way and he'd be praying for his life... this is just his very own way to let Sean know that he better keep that mouth shut, if he doesn't want any more trouble. Which in Gerry's passive aggressiveness language means that I'll be the one paying the bill for Sean's bravado in tears, in the end. So evil. Disgusting.
'No no... nobody wants to hear it!' I squeal, covering Sean's mouth because I know he's welcomed Gerry's challenge and he's oh so ready to say something regrettable... but shucks, I can't let that happen. The price will be all on me, once again, in forms of insults and/or blackmailing, and I can take the undeserved hatred no more. I'm full of it. I'm sorry for Sean, but he's gonna have to shut the fuck up for once in his life, at least if he loves me. I'm sorry for Layne, but the clash of the idiots is over now, hence we better find another way to keep having fun. I'm sorry for the two blondies from the backstage of tonight's gig, but they will never hear about the Stone Gossard incident from Mr. Kinney on the Alice in Chains tour bus. I'm relieved for Bessie, because I know she prefers her private stuff... private. And I'm relieved for me as well, because it means that Cuntrell will have one less reason to shit on me.
But he's here now, he's still got his hand over my shoulder, and he's still looking at Sean like he's silently trying to tell him to yeet me out of the fucking tour bus window. He doesn't look like he wants to leave just yet... and hey hey, I might have something very inoffensive for him in my bag. Just a second though, 'cause I gotta remove my hand off Sean's mouth and slide it into my (stolen) bag, if I wanna do my own thing...
'Look Gerry! I have a family and I don't have lip fillers! I was nine here, and I had 'em plumpy lips like my mama already!' I squeal, once I find an old picture on the bottom of my bag, and I hand it well over to the Cunt. This is a picture I found in a photobook I brought with myself to New York, y'know, in order to remember that I used to be someone's daughter, and that at the end of the day I still am... and in that one, you can see my mom and I ten years ago, fancily clad, all hugged up, cheek to cheek, smiling, and posing for my baba in the backyard of our first house. Days before it'd get flattened by a huge fucking bulldozers in front of our eyes. On a sunny, sunny day of July 1982. I'm legit crying at the minute, and I cried at least ten times over that same picture over the last ten days, because I miss my mama and that's it. Fuck our first house, I used to love it, one day it was gone right before my eyes, and I will never forget it... but I just want my mom back. I used to be her everything, her only daughter, her pride, her joy, her princess, her mannequin, her little doll, her mini me ... but now she refuses to talk to me whenever I try to get to her, and her silent treatment is killing me. Breaking my heart more than any spoken word could do. Making me feel like I'm doing her wrong, in some way and for some reason that only exists in her head.
I'm thinking about her now and always, I'm wondering whether she's thinking about me or missing me these days, I'm wondering if she's going through old pictures of us and reminiscing these days we used to be so united despite all the crap we'd gone through... and I'm fucking crying, because I just don't know shit, and I can't even ask her one thing. I got out a fucking old picture of us just because I wanted to feel her close to me as she used to be before I left for Seattle. As close to me as she was when she'd make me chai and braid my hair after I'd get back home from my afternoon classes. I have a family, unlike the Cunt believes, and I miss it more than words could say. Being seven thousand miles away from where your heart is is an emotional rollercoaster he'll never find out the meaning of, because he's heartless. He has a job that keeps him away from home for months in a row, but just not a fucking ounce is a heart. I have a heart though... and even if it's aching because my maker refuses to talk to me because of my life choices, and most likely goes around telling people that I'm disowned, I'm still able to see the bright side in everything. And I'm ever so able to turn my grief into a joke... or at least so I'd call the fact that I've just fed Gerry a picture of my mom and I, and I've used it as an evidence that I have a mother, and that my lips are natural and an inheritance that I got straight from her. Congratulations, girl. Another day, another successful instance of resilience to add to your already long resume.
At this point, everyone is looking at me and wondering why the heck I'm talking to Gerry, justifying myself, proving something to him and crying, especially the two blondies pulled from the backstage of tonight's gig. The true ones, aka Layne, Bessie and Sean, are looking at me and definitely wondering if I'm having one of my usual homesickness crises. Oddly enough, I ain't. I'm just wishing I still had my mom on my side, and that's it. No more and no less than that. All I'd like to have is just the certainty that I haven't basically been cut off the life of the woman who gave me life in the very first place.
'Your mom is mad hot, Khair'. Gerry blurts out, and even if he's drooling over my mother and I'm crying because I don't know if I'm even gonna hear again from her in the short term, I nod at his words. He framed his comment like the horny brute that he is, but my mom is truly a beautiful woman, the most beautiful I've seen in this life... and my heart swells with pride, when people tell me that I look just like her. My crying has gotten a little bit better, probably because I'm proving myself that I'm perfectly able to cope with my grief, and also because my boyfriend is rubbing the back of my hand all the way through my hysteria... but yeah, at the same time I'm wondering how can two faces of the same medal, mother and daughter, gone through hell and then some together, be in the same terms as my mom and I are at the moment. I'm aching, feeling like I'm getting one of my ribs removed without anaesthesia because it's been two weeks since I last heard the sound of her voice and her sweet, sweet accent... how come ain't she putting all of her pride aside and calling me, because I just know she's got to be missing me as well? Even if just a little little little bit?
I don't know shit... I don't know shit, y'all... religion does weird thing to people... especially to gorgeous women who swear to be emancipated feminists like my mom, and then proceed to cry because their daughters are just living their lives in their own terms... respectfully of themselves and of their loved ones. My mom was expecting me to study at her same university, marry some rich guy at 18, lose my virginity on the first night as newlyweds, move out and make babies at 19, become a heart surgeon at 24, and be the most perfect cooker and cleaner behind closed doors all along. Meanwhile I'm here in the US, 19, still unmarried, still with no human babies, just one feathered one. No house, no baby, no husband, no praying, no anything, studying to become a veterinarian, sometimes making coffee on my portable cooker, having a prohibited affair with a man who ain't no doctor, and MODELLING. I'm her biggest disappointment, I accept and understand that, but I'm also my own biggest flex. I'm a shithead, I don't comply nor listen to anyone, I don't fucking pray... but I work hard, I plan a lot, I act and react, and I know what I want. I want to live my life in my terms, not in some ridiculous terms dictated by her and whatever the hell's stuck on her head. She is actually ridiculous for treating me this way, and nothing and no one can take this belief away from me. She's ridiculous, not quite as ridiculous as Cuntrell... but a serious contender cause.
'Baby... I can see a pattern. Your mom, you, Syria... fuck'. Sean chimes in, as an attempt to cheer me up a little I think, as he sits me well over his thigh, makes sure I'm alright, and force removes the picture from Gerry's hands. I giggle at his words, and I about melt internally, when I catch him looking at that goddamned picture with the hint of a smile on his lips. How could he not smile at that one... my mom is a piece, and even if it's been ten years since that photo was taken, she looks just the same these days. Time has just frozen for her, and I hope I'll age just as gracefully as her, just with less religious complexes and less aggressiveness if possible. I used to be a cute baby back in the day, it's the growing up process that screwed me up a little... but hey, it's funny and very sweet of my boyfriend, to cryptically tell me that he sees a bit of my mom in me, and a bit of me in our imaginary daughter Syria. And it's totally normal of me, to snuggle closer to him, and laugh my heart out at his comment. If his intent was to cheer me up and pull me out of my misery, when he blurted out that one... well, I'm gonna say he's achieved his end goal hundred percent. But he better keep pulling out when we do the deed, because if it's true that my mom thinks that a woman's biological clock starts to tick at 19, and I'm 19... I don't want a Syria, and I'm sure that my boyfriend doesn't want one either. Unless it's just a joke we're talking about.
'Tori, would you mind coming to the loo with me?' Bessie asks, standing up from her seat, and offering me her hand to grab it. I do the thing and I nod vigorously, to let her know that I'm totally alright with being her loo partner, for a change in the air or something. Having my best friend well figured out, I know she doesn't want me to follow her to the loo because she needs my help to take a leak... she probably just wants to have a more private talk with me, and who am I to say no? I'll say yes a hundred times !
'Tori? Wasn't it Jennifer?' One of the two nameless blondies speaks, and I just crack up laughing at her observation. These girls are the shit, not gonna lie: they're silly, generous with the compliments, funny as heck when they try to give a meaning to everything us Alice people do and say, attentive to a fault... and yeah, the fact that Bessie has just called me by a name that ain't Jennifer is literally dragging them down confusion lane all over again. I am the confused one here, though, because out of all the names I've been called today... the only person that called me by my actual name was my teta when we spoke while I was at the airport in New York. Talk about irony... she's my mother's mother and she's waaaay less full of shit than her...
'It's Cleopatra'. Layne 'corrects' every blonde chick in the range of ten feet with two single words, and he kindly reminds everyone that I'm Cleopatra. But heck no, I ain't, any potential resemblance with the Queen of The Nile aside. Like I ain't Victoria/Tori, that's just the convenient translation of my name in English, because I like to keep things easy for the simple minded yanks. Like I ain't Jennifer, as that's just my old porn alter ego that my boyfriend bloody loves to call me after. Guys, I'm having a full fledged existential crisis here, and I'm feeling frustrated because no one seems to remember that I have an actual fucking name, besides all different nicknames for different purposes. Layne calls me Cleopatra and swears that it's my name at the registry office. Little does he know, that we don't even have the letters 'c' and 'p' in our alphabet, and it could never be it. Cuntrell calls me Chair with a K because he's done playing his shitty fucking game of calling me after capital cities of cursed countries. Starr calls me Honda Four because he apparently thinks I'm either a bike, or an East Asian person. I'm Middle Eastern and I told you a hundred times, ya hmar. Sean calls me Jennifer, baby, or Cherry, according on his mood, and on how benevolent he's feeling at any given time. The two blonde chicks call me Jennifer because that's how Sean introduced me to them. Standard Sean to be frank. Bessie calls me Tori because she's reasonable, pretty sane, and I've been the one to ask people to call me like that, for the sake of simplifying things. But am I entitled to feel on the brink of an existential crisis, because at this point, one could call me X and get away with it?
'I'll be right back, love! Mwaaah!' I squeal, as I dodge my man like a hurdle, because apparently I'm still going to the toilet with Bess Bess, despite my existential crisis ... but I instantly regret having dodged my babe, I sit back on his lap for a split second, I bid him temporarily farewell, and I only let go of his poor self when he deigns himself to kiss my lips. Ground rules, Mr. Kennedy, ground rules! After the little smoochie, I hop off my seat, and Mr. Kennedy doesn't miss his god given chance to smack my buttocks. I let out a loud, loud sound of ... endearment, I think, and I slowly make my way through the corridor hand in hand with Angel Bessie. Destination the loo, if Cuntrell decrees that 'his woman' can take a piss without consulting him first.
Surprisingly enough, we walk past the Cunt, and with our great, immense even pleasure, we realise that he's sleeping like a harmless baby. I poke his cheek for the sake of the taunt, and for the sake of doing something that would generally be forbidden to me, 'cause he bloody hates me... and the next thing I know after Cuntrell startles himself a little in his sleep, is that Bessie and I are in the restroom, and that she's looking at me ... like she's a bit disappointed that I've been having secrets with her. Erm... what secrets?
'Girl... you didn't tell me that Sean ... proposed'. She addresses me, grabbing my hand in hers, and gently rubbing the gems of the silver ring around my middle finger. Because she noticed it, and she naturally thinks it's a sign that my boyfriend must've proposed to me. Oh my goodness, noooo.... Bessie's thinking that she wouldn't be the first one to be informed, if Sean proposed to me... but he didn't propose, and he will never propose to me in this life. This was just a gift, an investment, a symbol of his feelings for me and a statement that I'm off the stock market... it's beautiful, elegant, expensive and all the good things, but I promise, it just ain't what it seems. It's a ring... with no engagement element to it. And explaining what it is to a normal person with a normal brain is going to be the hardest thing ever...
'Noooo! He didn't! This is a ring... for the middle finger! Yes yes!' I answer, 'reassuring' Bess that she ain't gonna have to come and help me pick my wedding dress anytime soon... but when I tell her that the jewel around my finger isn't an engagement ring, but just a ring for the middle finger, or a fucking circle as Sean himself described it, she looks at me like she's thinking that I'm coked out of my mind. Well, I'm not. And nor was Sean, when he decided that this would've been a nice present idea. I knew that the concept of the ring would've been easily misunderstood, to people slightly more sane than us, in fact Bessie misunderstood it herself... but I didn't, originally. As soon as Sean told me the ring was meant to be for the middle finger, I totally understood its rightful purpose, and I developed the habit of flipping the bird and flaunting the ring, in case of men daring to get too suspiciously close to me. I don't mingling, you sillies, I'm taken, loyal, and couldn't be any prouder to be both things!
'A ... ring for the middle finger? That's so Sean'. Bessie nods, perhaps understanding the original purpose and the original meaning behind my precious piece of jewellery... and I agree with her, when she says that buying me a ring for the middle finger was such a Sean thing of Sean. He's the king of flipping the bird, serving the deadliest side eyes, and giving overall zero fucks about anything in life, but he's got a big heart into that chest of his... and he always does know how to come across as super sweet without that backtaste of cheesy. He swore this was just a fucking circle, a simple ornament for the middle finger, a way to keep fuckers away 'cause they will just see the ring, and understand that they can't fuck with me without handling it later... but there's something about his ring that only Sean and I know. And if I know it, it's just because during one of our endless calls while I was in New York, he urged me to take it off for a second, and with great confusion, because he was drunk and I was tipsy, I obliged. When I followed his instructions, and saw his name engraved in the inside of the ring, together with mine (the registry office one), on the opposite end, I cried happy tears for about half an hour, because I just felt unworthy of so much love. But still happy, because I was getting it nonetheless.
Nobody knows about this... ahem, little detail about my ring, but I want to bring it to Bessie's attention. Reason why I remove the ring from around my finger, and I silently hand it over to her. Smiling, grinning even, anticipating any kind of reaction that my best friend may have by seeing Sean and I's names engraved inside the ring. This is gonna take a turn from the standard 'are you guys engaged?' to a mandatory 'did you guys marry unbeknownst of me?' in the blink of an eye... and I'm all ready for it. Missing popcorn only... but I can't eat it anyways, so what's the deal?
'I have no words, Tori... are you sure this is just a ring for the middle finger?' Bessie asks me, when she twiddles the ring in her hands, and he sees the names of my lover and I engraved on it. Her question seems quite legit to me... but let me tell you, Bess Bess, that engraved ain't a synonym of engaged. We are in love, but not engaged. I'm sure that this is just a ring for the middle finger, a mere symbol of love from a man who's in love to the woman he loves ... and I think I may as well rep a Sean of three days ago over the phone, to tell Bess why he thought that engraving our names into an already very ambiguous item would've been a good idea. Hold my ring... 'cause here I come with the explanation.
'It's a custom ring for the middle finger!' I answer, repping the Sean of three days ago over the phone, and telling him Bessie that this ring is just what it is: a custom. For the middle finger. Because yeah, when I asked Sean why the fuck he'd ordered the jeweller to engrave our names on the god damned ring, he answered my question with a dry as fuck a parallelism between a ring and a bike that I will never forget. You may think that a ring and a bike don't have much in common, except that both items leave the factory, join the retail chain, and end up in your nearest friendly store, available for purchase for x amount of money. If you have that x amount of money and that's it in your pocket, you buy the ring/the bike, leave the store, and call it a good fucking purchase. If you have x+y amount of money, you can make the ring/the bike more of your own, and ask for customisation. It's still the ring/the bike that you would've bought for x amount of money, except that the additional y amount of money makes it a an exclusive piece that only you can claim to have. People gets bikes customised because it's cool, and it's a way to make the bike more of your own. Sean got the ring customised so that it would've told the story of him and I. Regardless of the finale. I didn't think I'd pulled a business analyst/businessman extraordinaire, but apparently I have ... and I'm the luckiest girl alive for that. Besides being a superb strategist, Sean is apparently also a skilled investor, a sweet fucking heart, and the smartest person I've ever met. I mean... who else would have found the perfect coldness to answer their crying girlfriend's call for clarification with a monetised parallelism between custom bikes and custom rings for the middle finger? Only Mr. Kennedy.
I think I've just given Bessie the most compelling answer ever, I think I've cleared her mind a little, by explaining her what this ring is in Sean's own terms ... but when I look up to her, and see that she's even more confused than she was before, I realise that I was wrong all along, and that maybe Sean's own terms don't make sense to normal people like my best friend. However, she hands my ring back over to me, and I instantly throw it around my middle finger, because that's where it's meant to be, always. Bessie's laughing, and so am I, in a wonderful mixture of complicity and confusion. We're both laughing out loud to be precise, probably because at this point we just don't know what to say anymore ... and our laughing frenzy only finds a halt when she slaps my butt, tells me to go back to my man, and give him everything he wants without questioning, because he deserves it. I find myself agreeing with my best friend for the umpteenth time today... and I also find myself thinking that probably, at 3:00 on the clock, after a long ass tiring day, Sean just fucking wants to get in bed, smoke a joint, say goodnight, and fall asleep already. All of the above things with me, because let's not forget that I'm the luckiest girl alive.
Man, it feels fucking amazing to be back home. Word on my mamma, even if she doesn't talk to me anymore.