let's make this happen, girl
we're gonna show the world that something good can work and it can work for you
and you know that it will
two door cinema club
I'm really tired. Kind of exhausted. My appointment was thirty minutes ago in T-minus twelve seconds. The woman across from me is reading one of those magazines that advertise the secret faces of celebrities with no make-up. God, how hideous they all are! She licks her thumb every time she flips a page. It's annoying the shit out of me.
On the outside cover is Edward Cullen. He usually surfaces at least once a month with some scandal or another, though they're generally the same thing. He sleeps with someone, he breaks up with them. Sometimes he gets sued by porn stars. I don't know.
He's got the face. You know. The pouty one. The John Mayer. Like every particle of his body is made up of some sort of sex escapade residue. He's usually smirking or scowling. Or smirk-scowling. Like right now. He's smirk-scowling at me from the cover of the magazine. It's like he knows that the doctor is running thirty minutes late and that the room smells like Icy Hot.
She rests the magazine on her lap. Edward Cullen is no longer smirk-scowling at me. Instead, he's smirk-scowling at thunder thighs. Ha. Eat that.
Ew. Never mind.
A portly woman with graying hair and scrubs plastered with kittens glances around the room, tapping her clipboard with a pen. I stand and shuffle over to her, my messenger back digging into my sun burnt shoulder. It was only sunny for one day in Seattle, and, lo and behold, I'm burnt beyond belief. I wasn't even outside that much. I think I walked to the store to get a bagel and that's all it took.
"How are you?" she asks, leading me to a room and taking the blood pressure monitor off of the wall.
I put on my fake face and smile.
"Good, good. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm swell," she answers while inflating the cuff with unnatural vigor. I didn't even know people used the word swell any more. I mean, my grandma does, but I feel like she doesn't really count.
"What can we do for you today?"
"I need to switch birth control." I should've been out of here twenty minutes ago.
"Are you having problems with the one you're currently using?"
I can't talk seriously about my vagina with someone who has kittens all over them. It's like a pregnant cat threw up on her body.
"I'm just looking for something I can take less often."
"I think we can do that," she mumbles, clicking through her computer.
I should've been out of here twenty five minutes ago. Jessica is going to kill me.
We talk about some more mundane aspects of my life until she finally lets me off with a prescription for something with an overly-feminine sounding name. She waves to me like we're old friends as I practically bolt out of there. My car sits patiently waiting, the beat up red truck towering over the rest of the vehicles in the parking lot. It groans a little starting up, but pulls through.
The sky is milky white, with a struggling little sun attempting to push through the barrier. The bright clouds hang low, almost as if I could reach up and touch them. Seattle weather is an acquired taste, but I find it beautiful. I think we're secretly the closest to Heaven, what with the clouds so close so often.
The traffic out of Seattle is unbearable, as it always is. My dad's house sits on the outskirts, in a quaint little suburb with a quaint little high school that quaint little me attends. Quaintly. I'm about to be a senior, but I feel like I'm too old for this place. Then again, I often feel too young and too scared at the same time. Jessica's stupid little PT Cruiser is already sitting outside my house when I arrive.
If you don't automatically judge people who own PT Cruisers, you should start now.
She's sitting on my porch, but stands when I pull into the drive.
"You're fucking late. And your fucking door is locked! My clothes are in your fucking room. Now we have no fucking time to get ready!"
Jessica has the mouth of a sailor. It's because her dad's some super intense televangelist leader. Just blame the repression.
"Sorry, the traffic sucked. And the doctor sucked. My life sucked."
"Wah, wah, drama queen," she says as I lock up the car and fish the house keys out of my purse.
It's the second to last day of Bumbershoot, Seattle's yearly music festival. It's our last hurrah before senior year starts and we return to the drudgery of eight hours a day of learning facts about the Reformation Age.
"Get your clothes on now!" Jessica cries as we thunder up the stairs. I throw all of the clothes I own onto the bed, looking for something soft yet water proof. Yes, it exists. It's rare, but it exists.
Jessica puts on something skimpy and throws a clear poncho over it. I appraise her, arms crossed.
"You look like a water proof stripper."
"Success!" she shouts. "Now, hurry up."
She attacks her eyes with thick black eyeliner. She thinks it makes her look more mature and European. Apparently all Europeans really over-use their eyeliner. I end up with a black floor length skirt and loose blue, long-sleeved top. It's not exactly water proof, but oh well.
"God. Hello, Mormon," Jessica snorts.
"Hey! I like it. It's flow-y. And fashionable. And stuff," I say, unnaturally defensive.
"Yeah, if you're a grandma. Or a Mormon. Or in a cult. Or all three."
I scowl and throw my hair up in a bun. She's got on so much eyeliner that it's turned into eye shadow. Mission accomplished.
"Fuck you. Let's go."
We speed down the highway. Charlie would have a coronary. Thankfully, he's working the night shift. He also thinks I'm spending the night at Jessica's. Jessica's parents think she's spending the night at my house. It's a classic, but it never fails. Well, usually.
It's a little past noon when we get there. We wander, making eyes at boys who are both drunk and five years older than us. Jessica bats her eyes, which just makes her look strung out. I tell her and she flips me off, running up to a boy and unzipping then zipping his backpack.
"Oh, I just saw it was open so I was closing it!" she giggles, throwing her hair over her shoulder. I watch as he looks at her chest with appreciation. She really does have great tits for someone so short.
"Hey, I'm going to find a bathroom," I tell her, leaving so she has a chance to thrust her goods in his face. (Through her poncho, of course. Gotta keep it classy.)
The lines for the porta-potties are like eight hundred people long. I dance around in the back of the line, watching as some drunken twenty-somethings stumble up and cut the line, taking the open ones right as they are vacated. The rest of us just grumble, futile in our sober and therefore socially polite states.
I give up and try to find some secret porta-potties that aren't right next to the main stage. After wandering slash dancing around to keep my legs crossed, I see three behind a make-shift portable fence. A guy with a Live Nation shirt stands in front of the entrance, checking badges that hang from the necks of those who go in.
Crossing my fingers, I walk up and attempt to try my hand at my brilliant powers of seduction. I use the term "brilliant" loosely. Very loosely.
"What would you say if I just took a quick peek in there and used the bathroom? I would be so grateful to you. I just have to go to the bathroom so bad," I say to him, biting my lip.
He's older, with a mexistache that overpowers his already bloated face. The Live Nation shirt barely covers his beer belly, and his forehead is sweaty with the exertion of standing for so long. It's not even hot out.
"We're not allowed to let anyone in without proper documentation," he says.
"You can watch me. I'll be out so quickly you won't even know I was in there," I reply, crossing my legs.
"We're not allowed to let anyone in without proper documentation," he repeats.
"C'mon, please?" I ask, getting desperate now.
"We're not allowed-"
"Save it," I snap, cutting him off. Apparently Polly can only say one sentence.
I'm turning to leave when I see someone approaching the entrance, a VIP lanyard draped around his neck. He's wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap, his head tilted toward the ground. My internal debate it short. I really have to pee.
I intercept him. He's studying the ground so intensely that he doesn't even notice until he's within two feet of me, at which point he stumbles backward.
"I know this is kind of stupid to ask but could I borrow your VIP lanyard for like six seconds? Happy over here won't let me in to use the porta-potties without one. The lines for the regular ones are so long and I'm probably going to pee," I spout off, my voice going at a mile per minute. "I'll pee on your shoes," I add for emphasis.
He looks at his shoes, then up at my face.
"Look, I'm not going to steal it. I just really have to pee."
"Okay," he mumbles, shrugging. He takes off the lanyard and hands it to me.
"My bladder thanks you so much!" I exclaim, throwing my arms around his shoulders and kissing his cheek. It reddens.
Little do I know, this won't be the only time today that I unknowingly kiss Edward Cullen.
this is a modern adaptation of a very classic plot :)