Author's Note: This is what happened. If you don't like it, I really don't care because I am frickin DONE (in all caps). Maybe I'll rant about it tomorrow when I'll inevitably be more annoyed. Please excuse my terseness to any reviews.
Day Two-Hundred Twenty-Six: West Coast by Lana Del Rey
There was no place in the world like the West Coast.
It was the place where miracles happened; everything happened on the West Coast. She wanted nothing more than to experience it for herself. It was a place for great thinkers, beat poets, and contemporary artists. It was the worldliest place in the country (except, likely, Miami and New York City). She heard once that the Hotel Chelsea in Manhattan was popular for artists and free spirits because nobody cared about others' choices. She imagined the West Coast to be just like that.
They had a saying, she learned from an early age. "If you're not drinking, then you're not playing." That embodied the spirit of the West Coast to her; people went all out or they didn't go at all.
Ever since she heard about the West Coast, that was her dream. With its golden gods and silver starlets, rock n' roll legends, and Queens of Saigons with nothing left to rule, the West Coast was her paradise.
She told her boyfriend back home that she was leaving because she wanted something better. She wondered if he actually cared. More than likely, he didn't.
All the tales and stories of the West Coast turned out to be beautifully true. It was even more like paradise than she ever imagined. The music was beautiful and there was always another show.
One day, at one of these shows, she met someone who looked like the embodiment of the West Coast. He just looked so cool and calm with his cigarette in hand and lit. He was like fire—she could see it in his eyes. The way he was swaying to the music…she could tell he had that rhythm in her. He was the music.
She knew he was meant for her. It all dawned on her the moment she saw him. The way he moved to the music…she was in love.
He was a typical person from the West Coast, she came to find; he loved his movies—all his thrillers and comedies and noir classics—and his legends like Marilyn Monroe and JFK. He loved the music. And she was right—he had it in him, in his bones.
He brought her to another show one day, one he promised her she'd love.
She had loved it, so much…too much, even. For so long, she felt cold and dead inside, but around him, she felt this stirring, unnerving feeling at the bottom of her stomach. She felt herself shiver at his touch, though the heat she felt from his skin told a contradicting story. The way he was putting his hands on her at the show was driving her crazy. She never wanted to leave. She'd miss him so much and he knew it.
Losing him was her greatest fear. It kept her really quiet just thinking about losing him.
He continued to kiss her like crazy on the balcony, where they were standing. She moaned slightly from how painful and pleasurable his touch was. He pushed her right against the rail of the balcony and she pulled away quickly, grabbing him by the wrists. He made her feel like a little girl at times like these—she felt so small, not in a demeaning way, but in a sweet way.
Darling, it's you that I want.
All her Cuban friends would say, te deseo, cariño. They were all crazy like the two of them.
She got this buzz when he pulled her closer. She was drunk on his love. She was intoxicated and she'd always come back for more. For once, she felt alive and charged full with the charge of the soul, like she found her soulmate, all because of his love.
She was in love.
AL3110: You sound like my music teacher. She always asks us if we have stuff in our archives. Everything is saved on my computer (and if I lose my computer I would probably die).
Guest: Not really, but thanks. Thank you. My writing is bad often. Hopefully I get at least five more reviews.
Sarah: Everything is sad, especially me. Thanks. Stop calling me perfect because I'm not. And apparently, I'm shit at acting and being a fairy as the director so kindly points out every fricking night we have rehearsal (because there's only one good fairy, apparently). But thanks. I'm not angry with you. I'm angry with him. He's making me angry and I'm taking it out on you. I'm sorry.
Tomorrow's one-shot is Kind of Woman (Why Not Me?) by Emma Wallace. It sucks. I'm so done. -Kayson