It was poofed hair that brought us together. Poofed hair and copious amounts of booze.
I knew you a couple years prior. We worked together at the same coffee shop where I currently sit, still, after three and a half years. Some things don't change.
I was about seventeen, you were about twenty. I was introverted, and captivated by your extravagance. You were mouthy. You were a badass. You ranted about rock stars and boys and tattoos. You sang country songs out loud.
I can recall you once saying you wanted to get to pistols tattooed on either side of your hips. I'm really glad you didn't do that.
Shortly thereafter you moved away to Montana to be with a boy. I hardly knew you at the time, so it didn't really matter. For the next couple of years we lived our seperate lives. I met a boy too. My life progressed in good ways and bad. Looking back I can see how it started to parallel yours, even though we were on opposite ends of the geographical spectrum.
We both fell quickly and carelessly into what we thought was love. Yyyyeah. We slowly and surely began to lose ourselves in our relationships. I dated a boy who gave me lots of tattoos and drank with me on weekdays. He was cool. He was confusing. He let me down. You dated a boy in a band. He introduced you to a brand new life. He was cool. He was confusing. He let you down.
One day I heard that you were back in Seattle. Out of the blue you texted me asking if I was at work and had my makeup with me. I replied, "duh". I'm pretty sure your exact words were, "I knew that bitch would have her makeup!"
You came into the coffee shop that afternoon. You pulled up, music blaring as it always was when you came to work. I noticed how we had the same hair. Somehow we had both developed the Elvira-inspired "poof" in the back of our heads, incorporated somehow into the rest of our 80's metal band-esque rats nest. We had become more alike. It was clear that we were both a little jaded, and were both hanging on to the last fragile strand of our relationships. Hanging on for dear life like little stupid puppies.
A week later, we were both dumped. You called me when you heard the news of my dumpage, and explained how you were also a newly single dumpee. You were pretty drunk on the phone, I could hear it in your voice. You also told me you were drunk, and had been for the past two weeks. So it's not like I had to guess or anything. We decided it was vital that we get together. Common interests, ya know.
I remember what we now call our "first date" vividly. I think it will always stick out in my memory because it was the day I really got to know YOU. You picked me up at my new apartment on the beach. I asked if I could smoke in your car. You told me you quit, then proceeded to ask me for one. It was love.
We drove to a bar on the beach. Immediately we began spilling our guts. Our lives spewed out of our mouths effortlessly. It was easy to talk. We expressed our hatred for men and our love for music. I had taken up guitar, something you were well-versed in. The night progressed and we made our way up to the pub. You insisted I order some poisonous, green drink which apparently gets you really fucked up. We reminisced on old memories working at the coffee shop as we sucked down green drink upon green drink. We laughed. I think we probably even cried, but that sounds retarded. We figured it was in our best interest to do this again sometime.
Our second date you came over to jam with me. You showed up in your six-inch stilettos, guitar in one hand, case of PBR in the other. I was nervous to play music with you, mostly because I was nervous to ever play music for anyone but myself. But you weren't hard to please. I played you "Doll Parts" and sang to my heart's content. You smiled and encouraged me. You listened intently. You never tried to one-up me, even though you easily could have. You were patient and understanding. You taught me "Gunpowder and Lead" and we sang it together. We downed endless cans of PBR and watched them fill up my kitchen counter. We teased our hair and threw on some vests and had a photo shoot where we established our "C.D. cover". (Check it out, it's on thedirty.com BITCHES). We were the deadliest team of potty-mouthed, aspiring country pop star idiots you had ever seen. We were on a path of destruction, we had met our match.
From that point on, you came over every single day. We were heartbroken and inspired. Each time you came over I had written a new song for us. You loved all of them. There was never judgment or criticism. You built me up. We played music all night and recorded our songs in my bathroom on my sister's laptop. It was so ghetto, and they sounded so bad, but we were excited. For those fleeting moments when we stood outside, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other (cigbriety), nothing could bring us down.
Days turned into weeks, weeks to months, and soon enough it was summer. We were continuing on our unspoken but painfully obvious bender. But it was a beautiful bender, I'd never take it back. Some nights you would come over in tears and I would console you and hand you a beer. I would tell you you were too pretty to worry about anything so shut up. I totally turned that frown upside down. Ha. Sometimes we would just sit. In silence. For long periods of time. But it was never really silence, because we were comfortable. And I'm pretty sure we were having mind-reading conversations.
It was a scorching hot summer. We were on top of the world, at least we thought so. I mean, technically we weren't but a little vanity can go a long way. Everywhere we went, people knew us. Or at least all the bartender's knew us, and that works too. We spent our days at Duke's. We spent our nights at Duke's. We picked at loaves of sourdough bread and consumed large quantities of Scott's famous snake bites. And Bloody Mary's. Lots of those. You talked too loud and swore too much, and the bartender's always had to tell you to keep it down for the sake of the people around us.
Some nights we would venture out to the Hill. We always had fun there, making fools of ourselves and strutting around the streets like we owned the place. Our nights always ended the same. You would drive me home and I would pass out with my shoes on.
We had countless flings with countless boys, none of which we wasted too much time on. Boys were disposable, we wanted to ruin each and every one.
We compiled a set list and got a gig at a coffee shop. I will never forget the first time we played there. We were dressed to the nines, with heads full of hairspray and chests full of cleavage. It was a blissfully warm night. We bought jumbo plastic cups from Subway and a fifth of tequila. We drank our tequila and Sprite mixtures like water. We practiced our songs in the parking lot on the hood of your car, the sun beating down on our pale, emaciated bodies. It's cool to look like a heroin addict, I heard. All our friends and family gathered inside and cheered us on as we played. We were hot messes, screwing up constantly with every song but we didn't care. You entertained the crowd with your sailor mouth. I'll always remember when I dropped my pic halfway through playing and you pulled out another one for me from in between your gigantic tits. It wasn't even planned.
And then there was Portland.
You came galloping, or more realistically you came dragging your ass in, to my work one day, exclaiming how we were going to drive to Portland that night. We would not be worrying about money or work. Fuck it. Somehow we figured out how to get me out of work that day, and then a customer gave us 150 bucks. It was a lucky day.
The sun was out full-blast. We packed a bag and threw our guitars in the backseat. We turned on Pete Yorn really loud and we were off.
After a couple hours of driving we realized we were starving to death. We stopped in a barren little creepy town where we stumbled upon a tavern. It embodied everything a tavern should: deer heads mounted on the wall, a juke box, a brunette bartender with bad tattoos who's probably, like, 19, and your everyday selection of bearded, big-gut, beer-drinking lifers. It was exactly what we wanted. We scarfed down burgers and got ourselves a nice little buzz off Jack and Diet's. We took pictures of ourselves seducing the life-size cut-out cowboy.
Not even two minutes after hitting the road again, we were pulled over. For driving over the speed limit like TWO miles. You began to spit some game at the cop, flirting or something. You tried. The cop was not impressed and asked you to step out of the vehicle because he apparently smelled booze. On us? What? Noooo. I sat in silence, my heart pounding like a little bitch. You practically skipped out of the car joyously, almost excited. Mr. Policeman decided to be a real dick and give you a field sobriety test. He told you it would probably be smart to take off your six-inchers before walking the line. You strutted up and down that line like it was a fucking runway. Somehow, even after blowing into the breathalizer, you were way under the legal limit. Like I said, it was a lucky day. Fuck you cop.
We reached P-town around 11p.m. We found ourselves Downtown, or so we thought, and decided to just park somewhere and do whatever we wanted. We hit the first bar we could find. Everywhere we went we were surrounded by gay dudes and trannys. We watched an awesome drag show and chatted it up with the queens. Stumbling around the city, we were positive we were in the wrong part of town. Where were all the hipsters? No one seemed to have the faintest idea where "the other part of the city is". Finally, a bartender who wasn't out of his goddamn mind told us we were on the wrong side of the Burnside Bridge. Woops.
After countless drinks we decided we probably needed to sleep. You wanted to sleep in the car. I told you that absolutely would not be happening. We found a shitty motel. For some strange and creepy reason we ordered a "smoking" room. We even asked for it, like, for some reason we thought we would really need one. Later we would regret this, considering it was a smoking room. We passed out cold in our smokey dungeon.
The next day we explored the "right" part of town. We found ourselves a park and played our songs there on the grass. We came to the conclusion that we would be moving here as soon as humanly possible. We had to get away. Seattle was like, a germ or something. We went to dinner and you picked out a boy, our server. Said he had a "cute butt". We drank margaritas until he got off work, then invited cute-butt guy to hang out. We bar-hopped the night away. We danced. A lot. You took some unforgivable pictures of me.
Then the time came to drive back. It was very, very late. We both had to work in, like, five hours. Upon being carried into the passenger's seat of your car, I immediately passed out. This is usually what happens to me. I enter a coma-like state. Healthyyyy. You had a strange, exhausted drive home. The next day you would tell me you accidentally hit a dog. I still didn't wake up.
Weeks passed and the end of summer began to arrive. I had foolishly gone back to my ex, and you had met a boy too. We got Thelma and Louise tattooed on our asses.
I got way too caught up in my relationship. I spent less time with you. We stopped playing music. It was a stupid time. Still, you were my go-to bitch. You supported me, even though you probably knew I was making lame decisions. Still, you told me to follow my heart. Throughout this time you moved to the beach and became my neighbor. I started to see you content. You were independent and happy with it. You never brought up your ex anymore.
When I got dumped yet again, you were there for me, no questions asked. You never held it against me for sort of leaving you in the dust. The duo was back.
Months have passed now, and I was just thinking about it and it's been basically a year since our first date. A lot has changed in our lives, mostly for the better. It's definitely been a year of learning. Without having met you, I don't think I would have realized my potential. You kind of brought me out of my shell in a way. You're my best friend because you appreciate me. You appreciate my quirks and my red lipstick and poofy hair. I've always said, "the dude who loves me as much as Darc will be the one for me!" You will always be my Louise.
Also, if you were in a wheelchair or your face got 90 degree burns or something, I would totally still hang out with you. I'd cart your ass around.
