I Bet Clark Kent Doesn't Get Hangovers
I fly, higher and higher until I can taste the sun as it raises above the clouds. It makes no sense, but that's what's so great about it. Dreams don't make sense. And I know I'm dreaming. I know because I can see the air and taste the sunlight and hear the trees below me singing their song. I know that I'm dreaming, and I pray that this will be the last dream, so I don't have to wake up.
Because, I know, as soon as I wake up I'll feel like my head is trying to split open. I'll find myself either about to vomit or lying in a drying puddle of vomit. The fatigue will fill my bones and the light will sting my sensitive red eyes. Maybe this will be the night that she finally shaved my head. The bitch would do something like that and why am I getting mad when I don't even know if she has?
Because I know that I'm going to regret last night. Just like the night before it and the one before that, going back in an infinite spiral to the night of my thirteenth birthday. That was when I went to my first party, smoked my first cigarette, drank my first beer, and unfortunately took that first little pill that let the beast free.
Six years later and I'm worse off than ever. Not financially, of course. She's not entirely unprofessional, and she does great work at gigs, but the after parties are brutal. I'm lucky enough to live in a nice apartment where they don't mind a bit of noise late at night. My days are spent sleeping or hanging out with my three closest friends. My nights are spent in a blackout haze of drugs and confusion.
Okay, maybe not all nights. In fact, I've been spending more and more nights in the warm embrace of Octavia Pie, one of my best friends and my current girlfriend. She's the one who I first told about DJ PON-3, the one who insisted that I go see a counselor. She's the one who makes sure I take my meds at the right time and refills my prescription when it needs it.
She tries not to be overbearing, which is why I have nights like last night. The pills make me conk out at around eight at night, leaving almost no time for DJ PON-3 to work. But sometimes, I don't take them just so I can get the extra bucks from a party. Those are the nights that my beast opens her cage and walks around inside my body.
My feelings on DJ PON-3 are... mixed. I've known her for most of my life. Since I was six years old, I aspired to be a musician of some sort, and so I made up an imaginary friend who took the form of a white pony with my red eyes and hair dyed blue to cover the silvery whiteness of albinism. Her name was DJ PON-3, and she was a bit more daring than me. My parents didn't realize there was anything wrong when my imaginary friend made me jump into the pool from our second story window. They didn't call a shrink or lock me in a padded cell.
After all, for the longest time she was all I had. She was the only person who was nice to me..The only one who didn't call me a freak and a loser and a weirdo. She was my only friend through my childhood, and that developed into serious emotional attachment when I became a teenager.
Back to the matter at hand now...
Slowly, I crack open my eyes. The first thing I notice is that my glasses are laying across the room. I'm used to this. I'd be nonfunctional without my special corrective lenses, and she is at least that considerate, even if her vision is damn near perfect. I start to stand, but a wave of nausea and pain rips through me and I find myself falling over backwards instead.
I land hard on my ass, feeling cold tile against bare flesh. Awesome, she took my pants off too. I assess the situation and see that they were merely moved around my knees. I'm not sore, so whoever she decided to hook up with last night either wasn't big or wasn't rough.
I adjust my jeans quickly, standing a bit slower this time. I stumble over to the blur that is my glasses and put them on quickly. No longer having to squint, I take an actual look around where I passed out. I'm in a kitchen, though whose I could not say. The clock on the wall says it's only about 5:30. Any sensible person is still asleep.
I sneak my way out of the house after making sure I have everything, and find myself in an unknown area, standing on the stairway of some apartment complex.
Going with a tried and true method, I stick my hand in my back right pocket. And there I find the note, the one that explains the night before. She's left one ever since the incident when I was sixteen and woke up in Trottingham with my wallet full of jelly beans.
Vivi--
I cringe at the name.
Vivi-
Hell of a party last night. Wound up in Canterlot. Train ticket in bra. Hooked up with Syke. Not a great lay. Sorry for the hangover, they had jello shots and you know how I get.
Also, Tavi texted like nine times. Might want to read those.
DJ PON-3
I groan softly. At least she'd had the foresight to buy a train ticket. I have no idea who Syke is though, not that I intend to find out. I pull my cell from my front pocket, nervous at the prospect of all those texts.
Flipping it open, I can't help but wince. A total of thirteen texts from Octavia, asking where I was and who I was with. I had apparently texted her back once, saying 'Vinyls out now, shell text tomorrow.'
I know I'm in for it. As soon as I see Tavi again, I'm going to be groveling for forgiveness yet again. Lately, she's been the only stable thing in my life, and I keep doing stupid shit like this. I need the money from the gig, but she'll give me that angry look and lecture me about control yet again. And of course, that's just going to add to the headache that I already have brewing.
You'd think a super alter-ego would be awesome. Like Superman and Clark Kent, y'know? By day just your average run-of-the-mill person, but by night you're some amazing person out for good and justice. Right? Nope. I get to be awkward shy Vinyl Scratch by day and super party animal DJ PON-3 by night, and then get to hate myself in the morning for the hangover.
Ugh... I bet Clark Kent doesn't get hangovers...