So, I have to apologize for my…sluggishness in updating. XD I've been knee-deep in useless college work that I don't quite understand, but now I have time to do such things! Don't worry, my friends, I wouldn't abandon this, I love it too much. Ha ha, but, anyway, I don't own anyone except Harvey and Cleave and, without further ado, on with the show!
XxXxXxXxXxXx
I wait and, after that little display of circus affection, I can't help but get to thinking. I think, and I think, and I think thoughts that I wish didn't exist. I'm starting to play his game, unconsciously, unwillingly, but I am. His tiny gestures (see: things that frighten me out of my brain) are all—
Dear God, I'm in true-clown-love.
I can only sit at the edge of the bed and stare unbelievingly into space. This is ridiculous.
I finally manage to get some form of clothing on, even though it's not mine. Cleave has hidden my favorite shirt, though I can honestly say I could care less about the jeans. I'm going to be very upset, though, if he doesn't give me back my Springsteen merchandise. That's some break-up material, right there.
Did I just think the words 'break-up' in the midst of a faux relationship?
Oh, fuck me.
He's brainwashed me into thinking this really is romantic involvement. Is he really talented at manipulation, or am I seriously in a functional…association?
This is repulsive.
I try to cope with that feeling for a little while as I riddle through Cleveland's clothing choices. I happen across a pair of boxers with the tiny Nintendo One-Up Mushrooms (Nintendo? More fodder for a breakup, I'm more of XBOX girl) and a shirt that says 'Celine Dion: Las Vegas Tour'. I note that I cannot pass up the opportunity, and throw on the t-shirt I am narrowly swimming in.
My guess is: this will not end well.
How can you let that go, though? I mean…Celine Dion.
I let myself crack a smile and a chuckle at how…positively drowned I feel within the confines of his clothing. I feel twelve times smaller than the actual size, and the alarming sensation is that I feel so warm within this bastard's outfit. Oh God, he's really done it.
I should be horrified, so I sit at the edge of the bed and wait; subtly calm for the panic I feel is going to set in.
The abnormality of it all is that…it doesn't. Something else, though, interrupts me as I swing my legs childishly on top of the psychedelic mattress.
I know who I want to take me home…
The irony, the sheer irony of my phone ringer irritates me, but I only glare dumbly at it as it does a vibrating dance all over the dresser. I hum with the song, in fact, while I try to figure out whom in the ever-loving fuck 'Mistah J' is and why he seems to be trying to get in touch with me.
Am I being stalked?
Are telemarketers seriously getting to me in a secret, underground lair of hemp?
Irritably, I flip it up and grind out, into the receiver, "Uh, yeah?"
Insert eye roll here. I get up to check myself into the fun-house mirror stashed in the corner, leaning in closely enough to see my own face. My eyes have turned a brain-mush shade of grey, as is the sometimes-habit in the dark. The cloudy color overtakes the continuously mushy brown. I busily note that for a few more minutes, listening to the hilarity-ridden laughter on the other end of the line.
I pause, and realize that this is 'Mistah J'.
"Hoo hoo hoo hoo, Harvey-cakes! I just wanted to give you a jingle and ask if you'd like a fuuuuuur-rappuccinno?" My nose wrinkles, confused, and I wonder what to ask a psychotic, murdering clown to pick me up from starbucks.
However, just to be safe, I ask very slowly, "Are you sure this frappuccinno is made of…you know…coffee?"
"What else'd it be made of, toots? Sheesh, you got rocks in that little head? Caramel or vanilla?"
"I'm guilty by association right now, aren't I? You're holding someone up for this frappuccinno, aren't you? Please, p-p-p—" I stop, assess my words, diminish the stutter quickly, "please tell me you aren't?"
"Whaddya talkin' about, Hahvey? I'm in my see-oh-vilian clothes," His voice is tinged with a smug edge, and I hear him paint on the silliest mock-Scottish accent I've ever heard, "Doo ye think me daft, laddie?"
"Get me an espresso brownie."
"That'll cost ya—hum—" I listen and I hear him, swiftly, lick his lips into the phone, dropping his voice to a subtle purr in that I-hope-no-one-else-hears-me way, "ex-tee-ra."
"I'll show you ex-tee-ra."
And I hang up the phone.
Just like that, in his Celine Dion shirt, with no convictions and no guilt.
I snort, talk to the air beside me, the oxygen-fabricated life-form sharing my bed, "Perv."
