You Really Are a Lion

Today is a new day, and finally here is a new post. Obviously I can't be trusted to make promises to anyone. Darn my Piscean nature. I have so much to offer and apparently not enough will-power to offer it. Oh well.

Well, I haven't much say, except that I'm sorry to Viktor Krum and Gregory Goyle for never writing them the story they deserve. Hmm. Perhaps I shall make myself a little side journal here in this blog? Hmm? Does that sound alright? Here and there I will through in a dream, but it will written as if it were a short story. Yes. This sounds delightful. I think I will start now.

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Amber and I wait patiently in the book store. It is a rather large bookstore, it goes on for miles. It kind of reminds me of the Pacific Theatres in Paseo. It's red carpeting and buttery smell do nothing help. We are in the YA section, rolling our eyes at the mountains upon mountains of useless, fluffy things that have the nerve to call themselves literature.

But still we wait. For what we do not know, but we are here. I've heard The Used are to be playing here today. Oh, Bert, long time no see. Since our last chat he has become increasingly...How do I put this delicately? Well, he's become quite the head case, and markedly less interested in personal hygiene. I suppose it's not my business, though. I've only met the man once and even then he was quite strange. Bert somehow managed to convince me to buy a life size poster of him for my wall. Ridiculous.

Amber and I have given up waiting and begin our walk through this store. But, oh dear, now we are at Granny's house. Damn rifts, always teleporting us where we don't want to go. Sitting at the table is my great-grandmother and several younger men. She smiles.

"So glad you could make it! India, I want you to meet my friends." I turn, Amber is not there. Perhaps the rift only took me. I always seem to be the unfortunate one. "This is Steve-O, Johnny, and Bam," she says. "They're part of my cooking club." There are more people there and I'm sure she's introduced me to them, but for obvious reasons these three stand out. I sigh and rub my temple, before raising a hand in greeting. Steve-O smiles wide and I can smell his cigarette breath from here.

I retreat to the kitchen and grab some ready-to-bake cheesy chicken tenders from the freezer. I shove them in the oven and return to the table. Most of the boys are in the din, playing Grand Theft Auto with my cousin Ryan. Amber is here now, but I don't speak to her. She is too deeply engrossed in conversation with Bam to notice anyway. So I sit with a smelly woman named Maggie and we play cards. Three minutes later I check my chicken tenders. Steve-O is in the kitchen, and I'm wondering if that game of cards was so interesting (or if Maggie smelled bad enough) to cover up the smell of Steve-O wandering into the kitchen.

He smiles at me again. I grimace and look in the oven. The cheese is melty, but not melty enough. I leave. But I am back in three minutes, checking again. Steve-O is still there. He laughs at me.

"You OCD, or somethin'? You keep checking on that chicken like it's life or death."

I shrug. "Well, I burn stuff a lot. I'm just being careful."

"Sure," he says, walking over. He leans over my shoulder and looks into the oven. "But I think they're done now." His breath is hot on my ear. I pull back too fast and land on my ass. Steve-O laughs.

"T-This is nothing," I say. "You should see me with grilled cheese."

He looks at me like he's genuinely interested. "What do you do with grilled cheese?"

"Well, you see I butter it, right?"

He nods.

"Then I put it in this really cool skillet thingy. But I have to sit with it. 'Cause both sides must be cooked for exactly three minutes. I get freaky if it goes over."

Steve-O laughs. I smile.

"You must have a lot of scars...from all the stuff you do, right?" I ask, still on the floor. Steve-O doesn't answer. Instead he slides on some potholders and pulls out my chicken tenders and pretends to inspect them. I repeat myself.

"Do you have scars?" he asks instead.

"Well, I do have this scar from when I had a skin biop-"

But Steve-O has been called away and I am back in the bookstore with Amber. Damn rifts. There's a tiny perfromance space near the front. The Used is there. I decide that I'm not interested in Bert McCracken right now. So Amber and I wander up and down the wide, cavernouse hallway, dragging our feet across the blood red carpet. But Amber dissapears on me again and I'm left to wander alone. After hours of the nonsense of the bookstore(pinwheels, bubbles, small children in diapers, that kind of thing) I decide to take my chances with Bert and his silly man-band.

There are few people at the concert, and for some reason the bulk of them are black. Odd. I hadn't pegged The Used as being appealing to the general black community. And here I thought I'd be the only black girl in the crowd.

By the time I arrive, their set is nearly done. So, I decide to go wild. I'm jumping manically and screaming the words to the songs. Bert smiles the appreciative smile of a sex god who doesn't remember his favorite priestess. I'm not hurt.

The concert ends and I am left alone with twenty other people. Then Amber comes to my side. She tells me she has an in, a way to get backstage. So, we waltz to the back and find her friend. Her nameless, but very beautiful and snobby friend. She pushes us through door after door till we come to her bedroom. Through the other door is the band. But they will only see us when they are ready. Another girl (presumably another one Beautiful Snobby's friends) is already there, her dark hair billowing around her as she hangs off the bed.

She and BS gibber gabber as Amber and I admire her room. There's one of those cool Appcies on the ceiling, doing it's things, all 3-D fun and whatnot. Amber and I discuss the differences between Appcies and MacApps, the latter of which we agree is simply better. Suddenly BS and the dark-haired girl are telling us to get dressed. I've got on that pretty green toga dress that the announcer from Dancing With the Stars was wearing.

The matchmaker is coming, they say.

Matchmaker? I came for Bert.

Apparently so did they. They came to be hopefully matched to the unhygienic nutball.

Well, this is interesting change of events.

Once again, Amber has left me. I run. It's all I can think to do. The streets of China are brighter than I remember. I run through the streets till I find a place to rest. Amber finds me again, but now she's got a pregnant teenager in tow. I sigh. But Amber says that we have to be matched to someone. The goatwoman nods. I don't know where she came from, but she's telling us it's in our best interest. So we leave and go back to BS's place. Apparently, we're friends now.

It's two weeks later and Amber is married and gone from my life forever. Or, at least until her mother-in-law lets up a little.

But apparently I've been matched to Bert after all. Oh joy, oh rapture.

Not.

I've got on that deep red-violet halter dress BS bought me. I hate it. People keep looking at us. Bert tocuhes my hair and nibbles my ear. I am not happy.

Bert and I are on the First Date. The one where the arrangees get to finally meet each other. We're not supposed to be intimate, but apparently Bert isn't much for rules. Or soap, as it were.

The girls are mad at me, because I got their smelly rockstar. Boo hoo. But luckily Dan the Poster is here. He's brought a message from the matchmaker. Apparently she did not approve the match and I should go home at once. I obey. The others throw cream pies at me as I hurry up the mall steps to the apartment. I take off my heels 'cause they're killing me and shout at them that there's been a mistake and Bert is still on the market. All is well in bitch paradise.

A week later I meet Sebastian. He is officially my groom to-be. He's 1/16 lion. His skin is bronze and clear, his eyes a very strange gold. But his hair. Oh, Jesus, James, and Mary his hair. It is wild and golden, like his lion ancestors.

I feel ugly with plain, human genes. Sigh, but Sebastian is a quiet boy. His mother does all the talking. Our First date passes almost without anything of intrigue. However, Bastian proves indeed quite spirited when it comes to politics. Thankfully our views do not conflict. But as we lay on the gaudy five-star hotel comforter, I become bored of his politics. My fingers have a mind of their own and I tickle him, but just ever so lightly.

Bastian is not amused. I tickle him again. He asks me to stop. I do not. I suddenly find myself beneath his coils of muscle. His golden eyes flash and I cannot help but laugh.

"Sebastian, you really are a lion." I push him off and smile as he blushes.


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That's all I remember, really. Hope you enjoyed! Teehee. Oh, and just so you know, I skipped a lot. If you wish to hear the rest (at least those of you with my number) call me and will be more than happy to explain to the missing pieces.