There's this wrecking ball that I can dimly see from the corners of my squinty eyes, I think it's glowering at me.
But that's okay, today I'm SIX FEET TALL.
Kaffeine said so. She said she'd pictured me six feet tall with a massive fro. She called me a celebrity. The cat I don't have bit my tongue and kept me from telling her that I'd pictured her graceful and beautiful, but my imagination has never flunked reality quite like that before. Wow...
I'm leaning back, perched on a barrel at Foufs, whispering of drugs and things to Steve, the bouzouki boy who ran away to egypt for months and has suddenly reappeared.
Simultaneously, our jaws drop, as this delectable figure that we'd been idly watching turns to Rachel (seated next to me) and screams her hello.
Then she makes her way over, Steve and I sitting stunned all the while...
Then Rachel introduces me, and Kaff says "Gila, GILA MONSTER?!?! I'm Kaffeine!!!"
Talk about making my evening. She called me a celebrity and I tried to crawl under the table, but there's no way you can stay angry with that smile.... And I've learned something - never believe anyone when they say they've forgotten how to dance. That little beauty tore up the floor...
Something about a wednesday with Foufs in the plans. Okay, so Erik showed up at the wrong bar, then proceeded to go to ANOTHER wrong bar, but I got hugs aplenty from Marc and my nigger Russel and Eric (who has now become embedded in my mind as Johnny Depp's character in Ninth gate, which coincidentally I saw with Erik-with-a-K... All these Eric/ks, I get confused...).
And I got this letter. From Tiff. The kind that makes you sit back with tears in your eyes and marvel at how not everybody's lost the magic they hit the ground running with.
She said: "You see, you've managed to demonstrate that content, wonderful content, allows a most perfect form to emerge."
siiiiigh She couldn't have said anything that would'n't have torn my heart into smaller pieces. I'd tell you more, but I'm saving the real gooey stuff for me.
Every Tuesday night, clomping up the stairs past her door to Marc and Narc and Lucky's to pretend I'm a kick-ass stylin' wampire, I look at that door. I try to scream out at her behind it... But I'm fucked if I'm going to interrupt again. Louis made it clear... I left, and I'd better stay left...
But Tiff - could you come upstairs sometime? The boys won't mind.. We never get started until after 8, anyway...
Right. Somebody boot Leon upside the head for me, would you?