entry #160- borderline

                                    

                                          
later that night
After the little, sweet, reconnective, mandatory tryst that Sean and I pulled in the backstage room, he cleaned me up from the mess he'd made of me, we cuddled up for a little while, we chatted and smoked weed together, as our usual... and at some point, under the pressure and the calling of our road buddies from behind the closed door of 'our' room, we stood up from the couch, we racked up all of our stuff, he loaded both of our bags over his shoulders, and we headed to the showers. We showered (together this time, yay!), we got changed into clean clothes, I dried his hair to save some time, I reminded him he needs a very urgent haircut... and in the end, we got on the tour bus, joining our friends and a bunch of fans picked up from the show who were already comfortably sitting on their seats of choice. I am a good mama, and knowing that my son Cock Soup was somewhere in the tour bus, as J told me, my first impulse was to find out where exactly he was. I began to explore the rusty Alice bus à la Sherlock Holmes in search of my feathered baby... and when I found him right above the beer fridge in the back of the vehicle, sleeping and snoring all curled up in his cage, I teared up a bit, and I just grabbed him in my hands and cuddled him. He woke up after a bunch of tummy and head rubs... and when he opened his eyes and saw me, mama squawk, with papa squawk's head perching over my shoulder, he went hysterically happy, made sounds of birdy endearment, and began to squawk Sean and I's names from the top of his little lungs. After that, he fell fast asleep with his feathered head on my boobies, and I kept cuddling him even when Sean and I went to take a seat with the other people in the tour bus. I was feeling quite gregarious, Sean not quite, he was just grunting, complaining and saying he wanted to 'get fucking dinner' and then 'fucking sleep'... but I somehow managed to convince him to stick with me, socialise a bit with the fans, and spend some time with our road buddies. 
Speaking of road buddies, each and every one of them had a near damn stroke, when they took a closer look at me, and they realised I ain't a Cherry redhead anymore. Bessie told me that she thinks this new mane nuance suits me so much, and that it really brings out my green eyes and my 'rare' complexion! As if having snow white skin with a yellowish undertone and light brown freckles was rare stuff at all, in my native. Anyways, I appreciated her compliment a lot... and I didn't miss my chance to give her the high couture prezzie that I stole for her in the backstage of a Todd Oldham show I've walked for: a beautiful, olive green, figure enhancing, jewel minidress that would look amazing with her fair complexion, massive bosoms, and fairy-like features. I tried that one on, the morning after stealing it, and on me, it looked like a tarnished, mayonnaise-crusty, alluminum shawarma wrapping. That, while I looked like a poorly wrapped shawarma in it. I'm sure that the dress will look a thousand times better on Bessie than it did on me... and I'm sure she appreciated the gift, because after she unpacked it and took a look at it, she hugged me so tight she might've easily broken my ribs all over again. But it was totally woooorth it! I have a prezzie for Chrissie too, in her favourite colour because I know she loves purple, and I know it looks divine on her. But so far I still haven't seen her, because she's travelling separately with Chris as their usual... and I rightfully can't wait to see her, hug her, give her her own Oldham prezzie dress, and see if she's going to appreciate it as much as Bessie did! 
On a less bright page, Gerry told me that I look like a scarecrow and that my nose is the scariest part about me... but I took no offence from his words, because I know Gerry too well, sadly, and that's actually the least offensive he can get when I'm involved. Mike told me that he'd fuck me, if he wouldn't risk his life and limb and friendship with Sean for even trying to do the thing. As if I would say yes to him if I were single, to begin with. Layne just did the Layne, and told me that with this new hair, I'm looking the most Cleopatra I've ever looked since he's been knowing me. I took it as a compliment of course, being compared to the beautiful Queen of the Nile is always a nice ego boost... but I told him that if I were a monarch, I'd most likely be Arwa Al-Sulayhi, the Queen of Yemen from 1067 to 1138, because I have Sabean ancestry from there by my dad's side, and that's apparently where the cursed, ancestral Khair nose comes from. And just when I was happily talking about ancient history with Layne, and asking a fan with a perfect, artificially upturned nose if she could give me her plastic surgeon's number for future rhinoplasty reference... the tour bus drove right past a pizzeria, and Sean, between a yawn and another one, yelled at the bus driver and told him to 'stop the fucking bus', because he was 'fucking hungry' and apparently wanted 'some fucking pizza'. There might've been more curse words than just three, but for the benefit of my diary's halal integrity, I'll keep the record simplified.