Had it been in a film or part of a wannabe-playwright's manuscript, the scene would probably have called for an ash-filled ashtray, on the table next to her. And oh, with the tiniest hints of smoke sussing out from her last cigarette.
I picture this because I think the look of it all would be cool, not the smoking, thank you. But because this is real life, and this is mine, there isn't an ashtray anywhere in sight.
And then I picture the girl. You know, she's probably wearing Factory Girl kinda shades, she's probably waif-like. She's probably in stilettos that make her too tall for her own good and they're in god-awful red. I mean, I like red, but her red is just too, over-bearing. And that dress of hers. Which white tiger did she skin alive? For heaven's sake, someone one tell her animal prints are passe.
But as you can see, this could only be true in the case of an advert in a fashion magazine or an upcoming photojourno's portfolio. Not in my life. No chance in hell I'd meet a Sienna Miller in Factory Girl look-a-like.
And then what?
And then Edna Turnblad steps into my room, pulls me up and forces me to join the ensemble which miraculously appears out of nowhere and in sync, we sing:
"Cause the world keeps spinning round and round,
And my heart's keeping time to the speed of sound.
I was lost till I heard the drums then I found my way,
Cause you can't stop the beat!" and more of course... but I shan't bore you with the lyrics.
Now this I fancy happening more so than the former.
And then my parents would probably go into a frenzy trying to chase all these crazy cross-dressing kids out of my place. But after a while, they laugh and come on, everyone loves a friend in drag. So, they allow the kids to stay and we continue with our singing, the whole bloody repetoire of Hairspray.
And then I shall stop here.
As you can see, what you have just read is the result of a recuperating patient's musings. =)