entry #183 - shake the disease

                                    

                                          
فيزا
'Morning'. I answer his morning wish, after a solid twenty seconds of ignoring him, looking at him with the side of my eye, and giving all of what's left of my attention to my feathered baby who's eating dried fruit right from my hands. And yeah, I don't wish him a good morning, just a morning and that's it, because I like to keep things real, as this morning has been and still is nowhere near good to me. I woke up in a place where I would've rather not been, all hugged up with the only person in the world I would've rather slept without. I've had at least a thousand flashbacks of what happened between us last night, and each and every one of them was very painful and gave me reasons to believe that I should better leave this tour before that shitstorm repeats itself. The only good thing that's happened to me over the last twelve hours is that I talked to my best friend Bessie, and she supported my decision to leave this slate of a tour with a sprinkle of sorrowed in her tone, because she knows how much I love and am loved back by the guy who originally lured me on the road. Besides that, I only had sheer heartaches: I talked to my father, and he basically told me that dumping a man because of a 'mistake too big to be forgiven' ain't a good woman's way of handling things. My feathered baby came back to me traumatised after last night's events, he speaks and squawks no more, and I had to give him a syringe of these disgusting tasting vitamins to make it better for him. I had to get ready in a rush, silent as a thief and with a heavy heart, because I knew it would've been my last few hours on the trail of the man I love oh much. I'm a polite person, always, even when I'm at my lowest and also when I just ain't feeling the vibe... and that's why I'm making sure to be right back at him with a 'morning wish'. But I'm also a reasonable person, and that's why I just can't get to call it a good one. If he's smart, which I'm sure he is, he'll understand the point that I'm trying to make, stinginess of words entailed. And hopefully, he'll also finally shut the fuck up and let me explain the dozen different reasons that will have me hopping on a flight back home later this morning. 
'Wow... you're looking even more beautiful than in my dream, baby'. He chimes in, his words, as smooth and as sweet as they come, accompanied by a smile so beautiful I can feel my heart flutter ridiculously into my chest. He's in bed, laying on his elbows, looking at me with heart eyes, a sweet smile on his lips, he's beautiful and back at his best, mood wise... and I'm having a hard time not rushing to him and going missing under the sheets with him for the rest of the morning. But if I don't give in to my primal urge in that regard, in the end, it's because I'm too busy trying to stand my ground in front of him, and lighting a cigarette as a getaway for the sheer sense of anxiety that's starting to build within me. I want his attention because if he doesn't give it to me, I ain't gonna be able to tell him what I ultimately need to tell him... but he's giving me a whole other type of attention, and for that he's pissing me off and bigging me up at the same time. If his stare and his words weren't enough to make me feel like I'm the most beautiful woman who's ever lived, and trust me, they're making me feel like Elizabeth Taylor in person, but hotter... what's with that other comment about me looking more beautiful now than in his dream? What was I in his dream, then? A fucking scarecrow? A two headed, monstrous octopus with a penis as big as my eight other tentacles? Because I swear, if it wasn't for my well erased eyebags and for the lipstick adding some plumpness and texture to my peeled, purplish lips, he would've ran away from me at the speed of light. Or he would've cursed the day he assumed I was somehow pretty. But he's here, he ain't going anywhere anytime soon, and there's something a little too fishy about him and his persistence: is he pranking me, telling me I'm beautiful when this is literally the worst state he's ever seen me in? Even worse than last night, if that's even an option? And most importantly... is he bullshittin', trying too hard to win me back, showing a little too much compassion, acting like a desperate simp, or did he really, fucking dream of me? Then how come he ain't cracking a very Sean-fashioned joke on his it was a full fledged nightmare, then?