003: You Probably Think This Song Is About You
May 1, 2019 16:54:13 GMT -5
Post by Admin on May 1, 2019 16:54:13 GMT -5
LOCATION: Chicago, IL
DATE/TIME: February 5, 2019 || 06:17 PM CST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Reggie's looked a little drabber than she remembered, a little sadder when it wasn't completely packed with rowdy drunks, ready for a killer band to pack the house and rock out from the stage. She remembered the first time she was here – 2003 and a release party for the then-unknown Fall Out Boy's first EP. Remembering who she'd been with was less of a pleasant memory and she couldn't help but chuckle at the reminder of Kaden Kessler's tweet this morning.
She'd spent too much time lately dwelling on the past, fighting this desperate urge to right all the wrongs. Maybe part of it was the closer she got to what most considered "too old" for the wrestling business. Maybe it was the return to the ring in general – all that conditioning, all her lessons learned and the reminders she'd had drilled into her at Squires were doing more than helping her rebuild that muscle memory. It was stirring up all the nastiness, muddying the waters in the worst sort of way.
She hadn't expected to beat Noah Hanson. Houston had been right about that – she'd gotten lucky. Beyond the windows, it was cloudy, the temperature back to hovering around freezing in a way that made her miss both California and Florida while also bringing her chaotic mind back to those old Jackson memories.
Her first love, they'd tried to tear each other apart. They'd both been so damned vain, so wrapped up in their sick cycle of pain and revenge that it was only a matter of time before they imploded.
The tender set down a drink in front of her and she looked up in confusion, seeing the cloudy liquid with the lime wedge on the rim with no memory of having ordered it.
"Tom Collins, right?"
Greenish-gold eyes narrowed, considering him in the faded light filtering through the window. Salt at the temples. Crow's feet at the corners of his warm brown eyes. A face that some women might find pleasing, but his features were too perfect, too symmetrical. He looked soft and she couldn't remember a time she'd seen him before.
"…sorry?" She licked her lips, staring down at the glass again as though it contained poison. She hadn't consumed gin since those days she'd spent drinking underage in this very same bar. She remembered her mother had told her that Singapore Slings and Tom Collinses were like juice, so she'd always ordered them in those day. Of course, nobody had thought to card her when she was on the arm of wrestling legend Brad Jackson.
She must have looked completely stunned because the man leaned forward, chuckling softly, "you don't remember me, do you?"
The urge to laugh in his face was there, so damned strong but she shook her head instead, letting her dark hair fall over her face for a moment before she absently brushed it back. "I…" she hesitated and then something clicked. "It takes seventeen muscles to smile," she murmured, her eyes back in his direction although she was surreptitiously checking the clock over his shoulder, feeling her leg begin to jitter. She should have taken another Xanax before leaving the hotel, before setting out on his fool's errand.
His smile was positively radiant, "you do remember!"
She remembered a night when she was drunk, when he'd been trying to convince her that it was healthier to listen to books on tape than to read an actual book. Eyestrain, he'd told her at the time, would absolutely ruin her entire life before she turned forty – all this nonsense but she couldn't recall his actual name. She wondered if he was still listening to the narrated works of JK Rowling. "How've you been?"
He rushed to fill the silence and she didn't hear a single thing he said, picking up the glass and downing half of the liquid as soon as the straw touched her lips. She nodded when she heard the inflection, when he looked at her expectantly. "Right. Of course, you do." He seemed satisfied with her answer and she went back to counting the seconds.
Where is he? He should be here by now. He's always early.
She realized, as her eyes roamed over the interior, that her old head-shot from 2007 was still hanging on the wall, the Sharpie lines of her signature faded purple. Celebrity's an ugly thing as it ages, she thought.
"You staying tonight for the show? We have a great band tonight called-"
"I know," her gaze cut back to his only to skitter away again when the door opened. A rush of cold air came in along with laughter as two men pushed in dollies laden with equipment. The tender watched her tense, watched her try not to stare as the taller one with the shaggy hair started unloading the amps and guitar cases.
Hunter Donimari – he looked good, as though life was agreeing with him. She swallowed that clawing emptiness that always seemed to be with her these days, hastily draining the rest of her drink.
"You want another?"
"No." She said it softly, sliding off the stool on legs that felt mighty unsteady already. They carried her to the front easily enough and her hand was steady when she reached out to tap him on the shoulder. "Hey, uh…"
A wide smile crossed his face at the sound of her voice. Hunter looked up from his crouch where he was setting up his rig, letting out a joyful whoop before shooting to his feet. He caught her in a bear-hug, sweeping her right off her feet before she even had time to say his name, let alone think of something clever to say.
"It's you! You're here!" The grin bordered on goofy and he couldn't contain that derp-face as the words tumbled out. After a few moments, Hunter set her down on her feet. "Hi." He was still smiling, but now he was trying to recoup that lost cool, feigning suave.
She stared at the floor for a few seconds, willing her head to stop spinning – it wasn't the way he'd whirled her around. It was the memory of all those karaoke-and-booze-fueled nights spent in this very bar, in the company of this very man. Granted, they'd both been part of a group then, happy to let others be the center of attention. Now, though? Now they were both famous. "Hi," she looked up, a blush colouring her cheeks, "missed you too."
current mood:
current song: "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon
The wind is legitimately shrieking outside my window right now. I mention it only because it reminds me of the idiot chorus, the voices of condemnation that do love to populate our hallowed halls. Bob Grenier is the poster child for the knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers and he wears it like a zoot suit, shouting his misogynistic rhetoric from the rooftops.
He called me a whore. A bitch.
If I had a dollar for every one of those I'd heard over the years, I could have stayed retired indefinitely.
"Suck my dick and I'll put in a good word for you with the booker."
"I'll make you my bitch."
Worse, yet, are the ones who slide right up into your personal messages uninvited, compliments that shift to the same nonsense the moment that unwanted and unreciprocated attention gets spurned. I started in this damned business nineteen years ago. I've been through the worst kinds of hell – don't tell me I haven't paid my dues when I'm still finding glass from all those shattered ceilings in my gear bag years later (or maybe that was glitter courtesy of Amy Jo). Oh, but this isn't just some estrogen-fuelled rant about how my precious feels have been hurt. It's simply a statement of the reality: I don't care about the stupid shit coming from the mouths of 90% of the men in this business. I never have. I never will.
I've beaten men bigger than me. I've beaten men with more experience. I've beaten ones with bigger vocabularies and crazier ones too. I'm an equal opportunity bitch, remember?
I'm sure you'll assume this is just my 'superiority' complex rearing its ugly head and laugh it off. A childish girl once said: 'I'm not conceited, I'm convinced'. She had a valid point and it bears repeating now. I'm not crazy. I don't call myself that or put on airs – I don't think it's amusing to even throw that word around these days and it's not just because of all the snowflakes who need a safe space to exist, either. It's because this business draws a certain type of person – the driven, the neurotic, the perfectionist, the narcissist. We are all creatures of habit and being under those hot lights seems to magnify the worst in us. Lizard brain takes over. The men become apes. The woman become cold-blooded, feral. Those of us lucky enough to call ourselves actual wrestlers (rather than the fitness and lingerie models who moonlight in the ring and play that so-called 'football' the rest of the time), are driven to extremes. Claws out, backs against the wall without a friend in sight.
"Suck my dick and I'll go easy on you."
"Bitch."
"Slut."
"Cunt."
"Show us your tits."
Well, that last one doesn't come up as much. Not when they're giving it away for free on social media. You aren't crazy, Chris. That entire concept is – what an absolute shitshow.
But I digress. It's not about Billy or Bob or poor, unfortunate Chris. If I can step up on the ego soapbox for a second, I'd really like to talk about me. Am I allowed?
I feel a little like I'm burning the candle at both ends, existing on opposite coasts and racking up the flyer miles. I'll keep at it, though, because my horses don't deserve to be uprooted so satiate my lust for fame and violence. They don't deserve to be sold off to the highest bidder – we all make sacrifices. It's part of being a grown-up. Concessions.
This week, I'll make one. I want to kick Bob Grenier so hard that perhaps, maybe, I can dislodge his head from his ass. Probably not. I'll settle for Crazy Chris. I'll make him bleed for something as simple as a disparaging word.
That's who I am. I obsess. I smother. I drive myself to the point of exhaustion in pursuit of a single goal. You see, I'm needy and narcissistic and I require constant ego-stroking or I'll go off the deep end. Two lies and a truth. Are they still playing that ice-breaker game? We need that, don't we?
It's getting cold in here, after all.
Truth sits like that, doesn't it? Cold and hard in your guts, worn smooth like a diamond under pressure – or grown painful like an ulcer, I suppose?
I will be the next Paradigm Champion.
This next month, I want you to pay close attention. It's okay, boys. I've given you permission to stare. I want to feel your eyes on me as I lay waste to these faceless practice dummies. I'm coming for you, Ed. Keep my belt warm for me.
DATE/TIME: February 5, 2019 || 06:17 PM CST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Reggie's looked a little drabber than she remembered, a little sadder when it wasn't completely packed with rowdy drunks, ready for a killer band to pack the house and rock out from the stage. She remembered the first time she was here – 2003 and a release party for the then-unknown Fall Out Boy's first EP. Remembering who she'd been with was less of a pleasant memory and she couldn't help but chuckle at the reminder of Kaden Kessler's tweet this morning.
She'd spent too much time lately dwelling on the past, fighting this desperate urge to right all the wrongs. Maybe part of it was the closer she got to what most considered "too old" for the wrestling business. Maybe it was the return to the ring in general – all that conditioning, all her lessons learned and the reminders she'd had drilled into her at Squires were doing more than helping her rebuild that muscle memory. It was stirring up all the nastiness, muddying the waters in the worst sort of way.
She hadn't expected to beat Noah Hanson. Houston had been right about that – she'd gotten lucky. Beyond the windows, it was cloudy, the temperature back to hovering around freezing in a way that made her miss both California and Florida while also bringing her chaotic mind back to those old Jackson memories.
Her first love, they'd tried to tear each other apart. They'd both been so damned vain, so wrapped up in their sick cycle of pain and revenge that it was only a matter of time before they imploded.
The tender set down a drink in front of her and she looked up in confusion, seeing the cloudy liquid with the lime wedge on the rim with no memory of having ordered it.
"Tom Collins, right?"
Greenish-gold eyes narrowed, considering him in the faded light filtering through the window. Salt at the temples. Crow's feet at the corners of his warm brown eyes. A face that some women might find pleasing, but his features were too perfect, too symmetrical. He looked soft and she couldn't remember a time she'd seen him before.
"…sorry?" She licked her lips, staring down at the glass again as though it contained poison. She hadn't consumed gin since those days she'd spent drinking underage in this very same bar. She remembered her mother had told her that Singapore Slings and Tom Collinses were like juice, so she'd always ordered them in those day. Of course, nobody had thought to card her when she was on the arm of wrestling legend Brad Jackson.
She must have looked completely stunned because the man leaned forward, chuckling softly, "you don't remember me, do you?"
The urge to laugh in his face was there, so damned strong but she shook her head instead, letting her dark hair fall over her face for a moment before she absently brushed it back. "I…" she hesitated and then something clicked. "It takes seventeen muscles to smile," she murmured, her eyes back in his direction although she was surreptitiously checking the clock over his shoulder, feeling her leg begin to jitter. She should have taken another Xanax before leaving the hotel, before setting out on his fool's errand.
His smile was positively radiant, "you do remember!"
She remembered a night when she was drunk, when he'd been trying to convince her that it was healthier to listen to books on tape than to read an actual book. Eyestrain, he'd told her at the time, would absolutely ruin her entire life before she turned forty – all this nonsense but she couldn't recall his actual name. She wondered if he was still listening to the narrated works of JK Rowling. "How've you been?"
He rushed to fill the silence and she didn't hear a single thing he said, picking up the glass and downing half of the liquid as soon as the straw touched her lips. She nodded when she heard the inflection, when he looked at her expectantly. "Right. Of course, you do." He seemed satisfied with her answer and she went back to counting the seconds.
Where is he? He should be here by now. He's always early.
She realized, as her eyes roamed over the interior, that her old head-shot from 2007 was still hanging on the wall, the Sharpie lines of her signature faded purple. Celebrity's an ugly thing as it ages, she thought.
"You staying tonight for the show? We have a great band tonight called-"
"I know," her gaze cut back to his only to skitter away again when the door opened. A rush of cold air came in along with laughter as two men pushed in dollies laden with equipment. The tender watched her tense, watched her try not to stare as the taller one with the shaggy hair started unloading the amps and guitar cases.
Hunter Donimari – he looked good, as though life was agreeing with him. She swallowed that clawing emptiness that always seemed to be with her these days, hastily draining the rest of her drink.
"You want another?"
"No." She said it softly, sliding off the stool on legs that felt mighty unsteady already. They carried her to the front easily enough and her hand was steady when she reached out to tap him on the shoulder. "Hey, uh…"
A wide smile crossed his face at the sound of her voice. Hunter looked up from his crouch where he was setting up his rig, letting out a joyful whoop before shooting to his feet. He caught her in a bear-hug, sweeping her right off her feet before she even had time to say his name, let alone think of something clever to say.
"It's you! You're here!" The grin bordered on goofy and he couldn't contain that derp-face as the words tumbled out. After a few moments, Hunter set her down on her feet. "Hi." He was still smiling, but now he was trying to recoup that lost cool, feigning suave.
She stared at the floor for a few seconds, willing her head to stop spinning – it wasn't the way he'd whirled her around. It was the memory of all those karaoke-and-booze-fueled nights spent in this very bar, in the company of this very man. Granted, they'd both been part of a group then, happy to let others be the center of attention. Now, though? Now they were both famous. "Hi," she looked up, a blush colouring her cheeks, "missed you too."
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
February 8, 2019 || 12:57 AM
current mood:
current song: "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon
The wind is legitimately shrieking outside my window right now. I mention it only because it reminds me of the idiot chorus, the voices of condemnation that do love to populate our hallowed halls. Bob Grenier is the poster child for the knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers and he wears it like a zoot suit, shouting his misogynistic rhetoric from the rooftops.
He called me a whore. A bitch.
If I had a dollar for every one of those I'd heard over the years, I could have stayed retired indefinitely.
"Suck my dick and I'll put in a good word for you with the booker."
"I'll make you my bitch."
Worse, yet, are the ones who slide right up into your personal messages uninvited, compliments that shift to the same nonsense the moment that unwanted and unreciprocated attention gets spurned. I started in this damned business nineteen years ago. I've been through the worst kinds of hell – don't tell me I haven't paid my dues when I'm still finding glass from all those shattered ceilings in my gear bag years later (or maybe that was glitter courtesy of Amy Jo). Oh, but this isn't just some estrogen-fuelled rant about how my precious feels have been hurt. It's simply a statement of the reality: I don't care about the stupid shit coming from the mouths of 90% of the men in this business. I never have. I never will.
I've beaten men bigger than me. I've beaten men with more experience. I've beaten ones with bigger vocabularies and crazier ones too. I'm an equal opportunity bitch, remember?
I'm sure you'll assume this is just my 'superiority' complex rearing its ugly head and laugh it off. A childish girl once said: 'I'm not conceited, I'm convinced'. She had a valid point and it bears repeating now. I'm not crazy. I don't call myself that or put on airs – I don't think it's amusing to even throw that word around these days and it's not just because of all the snowflakes who need a safe space to exist, either. It's because this business draws a certain type of person – the driven, the neurotic, the perfectionist, the narcissist. We are all creatures of habit and being under those hot lights seems to magnify the worst in us. Lizard brain takes over. The men become apes. The woman become cold-blooded, feral. Those of us lucky enough to call ourselves actual wrestlers (rather than the fitness and lingerie models who moonlight in the ring and play that so-called 'football' the rest of the time), are driven to extremes. Claws out, backs against the wall without a friend in sight.
"Suck my dick and I'll go easy on you."
"Bitch."
"Slut."
"Cunt."
"Show us your tits."
Well, that last one doesn't come up as much. Not when they're giving it away for free on social media. You aren't crazy, Chris. That entire concept is – what an absolute shitshow.
But I digress. It's not about Billy or Bob or poor, unfortunate Chris. If I can step up on the ego soapbox for a second, I'd really like to talk about me. Am I allowed?
I feel a little like I'm burning the candle at both ends, existing on opposite coasts and racking up the flyer miles. I'll keep at it, though, because my horses don't deserve to be uprooted so satiate my lust for fame and violence. They don't deserve to be sold off to the highest bidder – we all make sacrifices. It's part of being a grown-up. Concessions.
This week, I'll make one. I want to kick Bob Grenier so hard that perhaps, maybe, I can dislodge his head from his ass. Probably not. I'll settle for Crazy Chris. I'll make him bleed for something as simple as a disparaging word.
That's who I am. I obsess. I smother. I drive myself to the point of exhaustion in pursuit of a single goal. You see, I'm needy and narcissistic and I require constant ego-stroking or I'll go off the deep end. Two lies and a truth. Are they still playing that ice-breaker game? We need that, don't we?
It's getting cold in here, after all.
Truth sits like that, doesn't it? Cold and hard in your guts, worn smooth like a diamond under pressure – or grown painful like an ulcer, I suppose?
I will be the next Paradigm Champion.
This next month, I want you to pay close attention. It's okay, boys. I've given you permission to stare. I want to feel your eyes on me as I lay waste to these faceless practice dummies. I'm coming for you, Ed. Keep my belt warm for me.
=^,,^=
