you see this look? this is the look of satan’s first baby girl. her name? lucy. last name? fer. we call her lucy fer. GET IT??
[skrillex plays in the background]
A nice pair of green eyes can and will cloud my judgement
UPDATES TAB: /10
Aaya will do this:
Adi will do this:
And Aubrey was her name.
A not so very ordinary girl or name,
But who’s to blame?
For a love that wouldn’t bloom,
For the hearts that never played in tune,
Like a lovely melody that everyone can sing.
Take away the words that rhyme, it doesn’t mean a thing.
So what if my best writing has an overwhelming relation to my being under the influence? So what if I need a little grass before I lay out in the meadow? You can’t have a meadow without a bit of strung out grass, yeah? Cheers.
I listen to The Black Keys while I’m riding the green wave; they always manage to elicit a momentous bout of copacetic vibes. God, my diction has gotten inflated. I pushed away the moment of self-hate from my head and took another sip of tea. (My mother sent me a box of Yogi’s “Blue’s Away” tea. It was just another hint of hers to say, “Oh, Aubrey, you do seem to be having another one of those dreadful phases you get.” I guess Dr. Kelvin’s prescription of Zoloft wasn’t a good enough hint at the fact that these bouts of depression aren’t mere “phases,” but rather disorders of the manic depressive kind.) I sat on the desk chair with my knees tucked into my oversized sweater, Indian style. My current “get-up” consisted of a bra, underwear, a white polo my mom forced me to wear to the country club, and an oversized thing; the one that your grandmother knits you when she starts to believe that big clothing manufacturers aren’t keen enough to make their grandchild’s clothes. And I had socks on. Because I always have socks on. They were white and reached the ankle only to pour over into lace; truly notable. So, yeah, I’m not dressed for a productive day. I’m dressed well enough to sit on windowsill of my bedroom, tucked away in my sweater, wearing black Ray Bans, smoking a bowl.
It’s not that I’m an avid marijuana junkie–but it’s also not fair to deny that I am an avid marijuana junkie. I don’t even do it socially; it’s not some sort of recreation for me. (My friends are the more alcohol-friendly types anyway.) I smoke on my own so that I can feel the magic of the world that lies only in the hearts of children under five years of age. Somehow the purity we’ve lost upon our fall from innocence can be reclaimed at the end of a joint. Pardon me for holding onto that for dear life.
And I’m really not as sad as I seem. It’s not entirely my fault that my humor comes across “deadpan,” and my defense mechanisms spout out sarcasm from time to time. My father always tell me that I am an “acquired taste” kind of girl. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a polite way for my dad to tell me that I am unarguably hard to warm up to. Eh, we’ve all got our trust issues.
Of course I’m at a pub on a Friday night, sitting at the bar with my face practically sucked into a plate of buffalo wings while my “gal pals” (their name, not mine) dance the night away with some average-looking boys on the dance floor. There’s electric music playing, but I snuck a headphone into my ear discreetly enough for mere passing folks to notice I’m listening to the playlist (I titled it Aubrey because A) it’s the title of a song by Bread that I really like and B) because I’m admittedly a tad bit narcissistic and Aubrey is my name) I posted earlier on 8tracks. Whenever I post a playlist, I like to wait an hour and listen to it again to make sure I did it justice. So far, so good.
"You know, there are some gentlemen on the right of you trying to get your attention–like, desperately trying to get your attention. I’m beginning to feel pity for these poor chaps.” I turned my head slightly and became face-to-face with Harry Styles: boyband member extraordinaire. (To be fair, he has made himself quite successful in a short amount of time based solely on personal talent, and you have to give him loads of credit for that.) “Of course, they’d probably have an easier time if your right ear,” catching me off guard, he snuck his hand behind my hair, straight to my right ear, and retrieved the earbud, “wasn’t distracted by,” he held the earbud to his own ear, “The Smiths?”
"You know your music. That’s good; you know, considering the fact that your income revolves around music and whatnot." This is supposed to be that snooty moment I completely cast judgement on the popstar, and rule out any chance that he, too, listens to deep music. But, alas, I am completely capable of deciphering what is cliché and what is real; Harry Styles’ taste in music is real. Once Harry stopped his small laugh, I continued the conversation, trying to avoid any momentary lulls that may cause an awkward, forced tension. "I’m interning at Rolling Stone, and they actually told me that I might be getting my first real article and interview."
Harry’s eyebrows perked up, giving me the sign that he was actually engaged in the conversation. “That’s amazing. What’s the article about?”
"One Direction." As per usual, my tone was pretty forward and slightly monotone, which is why I was thrown off by his laughter. "What? Did I say your band’s name wrong?"
Looking genuinely perplexed, Harry stopped his laughter and said, “You’re seriously going to be writing an article about us?” I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion, feeling slight anger towards his ambiguous nature. “Sorry, I just,” he put his hand on the back of his neck and continued, “didn’t think you were the type to like a boyband.”
I turned in my barstool completely so that I could face Harry straightforward. “That’s a rather funny judge of character coming from the boyband member himself who also happens to listen to The Smiths. And the Arctic Monkeys. And the Ramones. And Coldplay. And–” I stopped my sentence short at the sight of Harry’s raised eyebrow and the dimple sprouting out of his left cheek showing signs of an indefinite smile. “What? I did my research thoroughly?”
"Hm, so it seems you have. What else do you know about me?"
"I know that your name is Harry Styles."
"Fair enough. Since you know mine, it’s only fair that I get to know yours…"
“And Aubrey was her name…" Harry’s voice trailed off as his smile interrupted his playful singing. "That’s my favorite song by Bread. Possibly even my favorite song ever."
I couldn’t help but let out a sarcastic laugh. “Wow, I’ll give you credit for that smooth transition into panty-dropping mode. You want to know something else I know about you?” Harry nodded his head in curiosity, a (friendly?) smirk still etched upon his features. “I know that you’re not getting laid by this girl.”
"I’m not playing these promiscuous games you’re suggesting, Aubrey. I’ve got proof actually.” Harry began searching his pockets until he retrieved his phone. As he maneuvered through the phone he said, “It’s on this playlist I’m listening to on 8tracks. This girl–I think she’s a girl–posts a different playlist every week. God, if I met her–supposing she’s a girl–I think I’d kiss her on the spot. She’s, like, my musical soulmate.”
"I’m sure picking out your eternal soulmate is as easy as classifying a similar music taste." Harry ignored my sarcasm with the shake of his head and another slight giggle.
"Here it is." He nearly shoved his phone in my face, only to reveal the title of the playlist. Aubrey.
I let out a laugh–a real one–before saying, “Pucker up.”
thank you so much. i truly needed this, kind friend.
may life treat you as kindly as you have treated me. much love