GRRRL VIRUS MANIFESTO!

 In   an   effort   to   downsize   the   amount   of   blogs   I   have    (  and   the   amount  of   stress   I   have   about   the   amount   of   blogs   I   have  )  ,    I’ve   decided   that   Jane   would   actually   fit   in   perfectly   with   the   rest   of   the   muses   on   my   multi  ,     so   from   here   on   out  ,    she   will   be   over   on   @thegothfiles  !    

「      ♛      」.      𝐏𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐓  𝐂𝐀𝐍  𝐅𝐈𝐙𝐙𝐋𝐄𝐒  &  𝐏𝐎𝐏𝐒 !   gravitating  cold  brim  ,  he  imbibes  a  long  swig  ,  hazy  blues  fixating  on  television  in  contemplation  as   bleached  blonde  makes  room  .  NOT  LIKE  HE’S  GOT  BETTER  SHIT  TO  DO  .  when  he  journeyed  through  the  kitchen  ,  there  was  little  awareness  imparted  as  sock  clad  feet  trailed  through  living  room  ,  the  erotic  whimpers  lowly  echoing  within  their  apartment  only  context  discerned  .  he’s  seen  videodrome  once  before  ,  SORT  OF ,  it  was  during  a  date  ,  but  he  hadn’t  paid  much  attention  considering  his  focus  had  been  ELSEWHERE  ,   incapable  of  behaving  himself  no  more  than  twenty  minutes  in  .  𝑯𝑬'𝑫  𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹   𝑴𝑨𝑲𝑬  𝑯𝑰𝑺  𝑶𝑾𝑵  𝑷𝑶𝑹𝑵  .   a  stifled  eruct  emitting  ,  muscularity  weaves  around  small  sofa  ,  then  heavily  falls  beside  roommate  ,  sinking  into  worn  cushions .  maybe  he’ll  succeed  in  watching  the  whole  way  through  this  time  .    

                       ❝      right  on  .  i’ve  seen  parts  of  it  ,  but  it  was  a  long  fucking  time  ago  .      ❞     drawing  soft  pack  from  white  muscle  tank  pocket  ,  fingers  cull  cigarette  &  wedge  filter  between  lips  .  brawny  arm  reaching  ,  wrist  flicks  marlboros  onto  coffee  table  in  exchange  for  her  lighter  .  he’s  already  comfortable  ,  too  LAZY  to  get  up  ,  return  to  his  bedroom  &  retrieve  his  zippo  .  igniting  ,  flame  kindles  &  loosely  hung  smoke  bobs  along  ,     ❝               so   ,   what'd  i  miss  ?     ❞  

 SHE WAS ENRAPTURED BY THE WORKS OF CRONENBERG  .     The   soft   fuzz   of   the   screen  ,     blue   halo   of   light   being   the   only   thing   illuminates   the   room   the   two   were   sat  in  ,     casting   soft   glows   upon   her   face  .      Crystalline   eyes   remain  wide   in   wonderment  ,     despite   how   many   times   she’d   watched   the   film  .      Head   turns   ever   so   slowly   as   she   notes   the   usage   of   her   lighter  ,     petals   curling   into   a   soft   grin  .     Between   that   and   the   unabashed   belching  ,      Jane   couldn’t   hinder   her   thoughts  :    he’s   such  a   guy  ,     it’s   stupid  .     The   internal   dialogue   was   fond   in   nature  ,     though  ,     as   she   really   couldn’t   imagine   Billy   any   other   way  .

 it took him a hot minute to fully register all that she had said, genuinely caught off guard by her honesty and what he would dismiss as quirkiness, but when she mentions the magazines he looks at her differently. ‘boyfriend’, this girl ( that looked completely and utterly like a groupie) called him. he’ll screw the cap back on his water bottle and swipe the condensation onto his faded trousers before meeting her half way in the friendly gesture, taking her smaller hand into his own. his soft ( did he even play guitar? ) fingertips remain tucked over her palm for a lingering, brain-processing second, studying her features. the round cheeks, green eyes and eye-makeup—she was that punk chick from the magazine their missing-in-action guitarist nicked the other day to have a laugh. donovan didn’t give a shit, too ‘mature’ for the likes of that nonsense…their drummer said he’d shag her, and micky agreed he’d do the same in a heartbeat. the two would have shared a boyish high five if they weren’t teetering on the edge of alcoholism and lamely cheers’ing over girls they’d sleep with. now that micky’s face-to-face with this alleged girlfriend of his, it’s a different story and he’s ought to be a bit less grotesque. that’s what you’d think. it’s a shame all he can come up with is ‘pussy’, drawn out as if clinging to the reins of those last couple brain cells the consistent marijuana usage hadn’t robbed him of. in reality he knew damn well what her band was called. he was just teasing her, playing up the facade of ‘i’m more famous than you, so i don’t pay attention to gossip mags’. he releases his grasp on her hand. pussy… “—head,” he was close with that one, but he wasn’t finished—he’ll correct himself with unjustified confidence and say, “the pussy-girls, or something of that nature.” she’d know he was joking by that cheeky grin stretching across his mouth, close-lipped and completely immature.

he’ll rake his fingers through the visor of his meticulously sectioned fringe ( long past due a hair cut ) peering over at her from behind his palm with a short, amused exhale. “no, it must be pussy-head—isn’t it.”

SHE WATCHES  ,    UTTERLY AMUSED  .      He   flips   through   about   a   billion   subtle   yet   different   expression   changes   in   a   singular   second  ,     and   she   feels   as   though   she’s   watching   information  float   back   into   his   head   in   real   time  .      There’s   a   gentle   arch   that   forms   in   her   eyebrow   as   he   rambles   on   about   pussy  ,     and   she   can’t   say   she’s   surprised  ,     lifting   the   rim   of   her   coffee   cup   to   her   lips   to   take   a   sip  ,     waiting    for   him   to   be   finished   with   the   punchline   of   his   joke  .

“   Well  ,     it   is   now  .      Excuse   me   while   I   go   and   legally   change   the   band’s   name   to    Pussy - Head  ,     and   write   that   all   over   our   merch  ,   ”       she   says  ,      words   monotonous   in   nature   to   mimic   seriousness  ,       as   the   lines   differentiating   such   from   her   normal   sarcasm   were   blurred   and   thin  .         “   You’re   from   that   one  band   that’s   name   is   basically   a    Beatles   rip - off  ,    right  ?   ”     and   she   bites   back  ,     but   it’s   clear   there’s   little   sincerity   to   support   such   a   lame   burn  .

              ❝ Pass the joint, man. ❞ He holds his hand out for it, although it really isn’t a good idea at this point. James hasn’t been sober since the fucking Napoleonic Wars and he doesn’t remember the last time he slept, but the best part is that he doesn’t care. He has no inkling of where on this godforsaken earth he is, or the fact that he’s on stage in thirty minutes. Actually, come to think of it, he doesn’t even know the name of the girl sitting opposite him on the couch, smoking his joint. Is it his joint? Doesn’t matter at this point, really. James is slumped over, looking like a goddamn sorry excuse for one of rock’s greatest frontmen. ❝ Hey— hey… do you know… do you know where we are??? ❞ 

 INKLINGS OF PITY FOR THE MAN BEGAN TO RISE  .     She’d   watched   his   eyes   glaze   over  ,     whites   glossy   as   he   slumped   back   against   the   couch   like   he   were   made   of   rubber  ;     Jane   didn’t   feel   it   was   her   place   to   comment   ——   they’d   only   known   each   other   for   a   day  ,      seeing   as   how   Cathead   wasn’t   really   anything   more   than   a   Washington - based   band   opening   up   for   them   in   Olympia  .     One   night   only  ,      and   they’d   slaughtered   their   thirty   minute   set  ,     adequately   pumping   up   the   crowd   for   the   big   headliners  .