The things I do for love, Journal.
Not love at all, really. That's a laugh. In my own sick fucked-up universe though, continously wanting, for an extended period of time, to sleep with someone and not being able to is love. I hope Marie-Claire doesn't read this though, because she's in a different category. Or maybe she should read this so that she can finally realize what's good for her and ditch me. Anyhooooo....
In the last week, I managed to casually stumble into the lead singer of Sunny Day Real Estate's opening act, introduce myself, get myself invited to the concert, and end up exactly where I wanted to be.
"Who's fucking?" the ever-elusive Peter Landen called in a sing-song voice as he stumbled backstage before the show. I grinned widely at the ceiling as Lucy (Or was it Lucia?) continued to do what she did best, not even hearing Peter over her...vocal expressions of happiness.
"Lula?" Peter mumbled, brushing his hair out of his ears.
Lula, I noted silently. That's a name I never would have guessed.
Just then, "Lula" came and collapsed down next to me. Peter's eyes grew wide with surprise as they fell upon me. I remained ambivelent in appearence and grabbed my pants off the floor.
"That was definitely worth the price of admission," I mused as I put my pants back on.
"Don't you know it, babe," Lula mumbled through her cocaine induced haze. She yawned and stretched out on her bed, most likely falling in unconciousness a few moments later.
I left the room and looked back at Peter, who was still standing there in his confusion. "Oh," I said nonchalantly. "You again."
"It's kind of my fucking concert," he mumbled off-handedly. Now that I got a better look at him, he looked completely out of it. Heroin, I was going to guess. "So, are you just the groupie of Liverpool? The communal bong? Everybody takes a hit and passes it down the line?"
"I'm offended. She was a very lovely girl and we connected on a personal level," I shot back and smirked. I jumped up and grabbed a bar hanging from the ceiling, swinging back and forth in my post-coital adrenaline rush.
"You're fucking ridiculous," he said, point blank. "What are you, 15?"
"16," I corrected, jumping down in front of him. He stepped back, so I stepped forward and sneered. "And you are, what? 25?"
"I'm fucking 20," he scoffed, pincing my cheek. "You're going to be so cute when you hit puberty."
I brushed his hand away and grimaced. "So who's this chick you're marrying?"
"My personal affairs are none of your business," he said coldly.
"Wow," I exclaimed. "You almost sounded, like... not stoned out of your fucking mind."
Peter sighed in frustration and turned to walk away. Seeing as that would be highly detremental to my sleeping with him, I couldn't let this happen. I grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and went for it.
A few moments of heavy breathing, salvia sharing kissing later, Peter pushed me away. "I'm still not into sloppy seconds," he shrugged.
"Whatever," I shot back. "It's not like guys are lining up to screw you, seeing as you're engaged and all. Even if they were, they'd choose me over you in a heart beat. Even if you're famous."
"You think quite highly of yourself for a teenybopper."
"If you got it, flaunt it," I shrugged, quoting the Producers.
"I'll make you a deal," Peter said, pulling me in closer. "Lula's passed out. Might not wake up tonight. Hell, might not wake up ever. And we need an opening act."
"Fuck no." I said before he could even vocalize his thoughts in question form.
"It's a shame," Peter shrugged. "I really wanted to..." Peter looked me up and down.
"Fuck you," I reiterated. "Can't sing," I said, counting out my reasons on my fingers. "Can't play an instrument. Can't hold a tune to save my life."
"The opening act makes us look good," he shrugged. "Just take off your shirt, grab an guitar and a microphone, and sing some old song that you know, and feel free to bomb."
I shook my head. Peter groaned and threw his hands up in frustration. Suddenly, he patted his pocket and pulled out a syringe.
"No," I said.
"It's not heroin," he assured me.
"What the fuck is it then?"
"I have no fucking clue. But it's amazing."
Journal, I know this sounds odd. See, if you could freeze the frame right here, I would like to explain myself. I knew that I shouldn't take whatever he was giving me. I knew that I didn't want to fuck around with drugs. I knew this and that meant that I was going to do the right thing. I was going to be responsible. And I couldn't fucking stand to live in my own skin if I was going to become the "responsible" guy.
"Sure," I nodded.
I clenched my fist and Peter blindly stuck the needle in my arm. The moment he pushed down on the syringe, I knew that he had been lying about it being heroin. I didn't give a fuck at this moment. I was on fire.
"Do you know the song "Five to One" by the Doors?" I asked. Peter nodded. "Play it."
And honestly, Journal, I have no fucking clue what happened next.
Xavier gets into some serious shenanigans. I don't even know how he manages this and then I remember that you are the one who's writing him and it all makes sense.
ReplyDeleteI like where this leads. I know you think it's not very good without the second entry which I haven't read yet but I think it sets up for a very interesting shenanigan and I am quite sucked into it, which is always an author's goal.