This is one of those weird disassociation days.
…The kind that you get when the brains are pulled in totally different directions not even remotely in the same ballpark as one another, but at the same time.
Crap sleep again. Strange hormonal sweats coming in waves.
…Headache behind left eyeball through three cups of black coffee and all of Month-End.
Successfully hit my numbers, ate a banana, took some head pills.
…Which lead to more paperwork, and bookings, phone calls, and catch-ups with WHS Pimp, who is currently at a Managers Meeting in Florida.
…He hates it, and thinks they’re all racist schmoos.
(They are. What kinda dicks wearing 3000 pounds of aftershave, cram into a cab and proceed to yell things like “Onward Habeebs! Lets move it Moostafa!” to the cab driver, on the ride from the airport to the hotel?)
…Now that they’ve completed all the keynote speeches for the day, though…everyone’s been left to their own devices. Which means they will be wasted while getting lap dances on the company dime, by 1 pm, our time. Easy.
… I told WHS Pimp to go sit in the sun by the pool, and look at all the bikini bodies walking by, instead. He has decided, in lieu of this, to go back to the room and sleep. He never listens to me.
…And he should. Not just cuz I’m always right, but also on account of the fact he’s not allowed to come home without first securing a sugar mama of indiscriminate age, who will elevate him into the sort of lifestyle of which he should become accustomed…so I can quit work here and be his PA. And by PA, I mean “Personal Alcoholic.”
This was already decided before he left.
…I, of course, form no personal function towards him. As his PA, my job will be to drink Bourbon and Mojitos and park myself in ritzy resort cabanas with mountains of pillows and a foot-rubbing boy named Jesus-Federico, (who I will call “Fred” for short.) He will be supremely jealous of Conquistador Manuel Rodriguez (my lover) and Habitas Consuelo (my other lover), who both wear white linen over their tan skin, when not in their James Bond boy-short swimming trunks, coming in and out of the pool in slow motion to Julie London and Billie Holiday songs.
I have a plan, people.
WHS Pimp WILL deliver.
…Meanwhile…
In real life: I’m sitting here winking at the screen, trying to get my headache to go away…trying not to fixate on the fact I’ve my first actual rehearsal for the show tonight and still have no idea what the hell to do with my character.
…Still not off book like I wanted to be.
…Still exhausted, and trying to wrap my head around getting through the work day, never mind the four hours that follow.
…And knowing, as well, that through all of this relative nonsense, worry, and stress, they are putting my Grandfather to rest today.
A more deserving place to focus my thoughts, obviously. But they just don’t seem to focus on anything at the moment, merely “flit.”
…Is it any wonder it breaks away on it’s own little quest, beyond headaches and Month-End numbers and serious loss, to stupid mental escapes like a hummingbird?
…Oh look! Something shiny! I’ll look at that for a bit.
…Instead of what it should.
Stupid head.
~D