Every Burden Has a Version

Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than sleeping (but I can’t essentially sleep due to being an insomniac) in the bed that someone has given up for me because I’m the so-called visitor or guest. Frank was always tremendously bighearted. When we were children and teenagers, we would share the same bed. As children, no one thought anything of us sharing a single bed. Oh, how cute; two best friends of the opposite gender sharing beds. Bless their little souls, oh Lord. As teenagers, everyone had an opinion they had to contribute to us. Oh, two teenagers of the opposite sex in the same room sharing a bed are permitted by the parents? I hope they’re wearing protection. On the contrary, Frank and I saw nothing immoral with it no matter how much Christians threw holy water at us.

That takes me back to the movie When Harry Met Sally. Maybe I shouldn't clobber the movie so much since there have only been a few films that have tackled the friendship that turned to love so magnificently, but I just hate when people compare my friendship with Frank to it. It use to happen often; especially by our teachers at high school. Nevertheless, for some people the film raised an inquiry on whether men and woman can be companionable friends without having sex ruining it. As the camaraderie grows stronger, so does the attraction because it's not just substantial anymore. The more they know each other the more they're haggard towards one another and the love gets stronger. Hence, it's not about whether men and woman can have a flourishing platonic friendship, but about two people who were always fond of each other become friends and gradually apprehend their love. Anyway, 'A Lot Like Love' came close to the concept, but the movie should have been called A Lot Like Bullshit. Who gives a shit about Ashton Kutcher? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

It’s so paradoxical in some way that I evaluate my friendship with Frank thinking there is something I’m missing in view of the fact that everyone thinks we’re omitting one solution item that would take us to a whole new altitude: love with a physical, lustful desirability. It’s also outlandish that anytime I think of him, When Harry Met Sally comes to my mind. Uh, what the fuck? The movie was such a dire quixotic farce that just became a blockbuster hit because Meg Ryan faked an orgasm. Big whoop! I could do that.

I woke up early before anyone else. There’s a three hour time difference between California and New Jersey, but I was up at nine (which is extremely early for me even with an hour of sleep) and no one was awake. I just prepared myself for the day. I quickly took a shower and towel dried my blonde hair. I put on a pair of black skinny jeans, red Vans, and a NOFX shirt before heading down to the kitchen with my suitcase. I took out my suitcase full of tattooing apparatuses. I generally perform tattooing on myself where the tattoos won’t be seen because my clothing will guise them. I’m exceedingly self-conscious so it all works out for the best.

“Good morning, Violet,” Frank greeted me. “What you up to?”

“Practicing,” I answered. I started connecting a needle with a utensil. “Practice makes perfect.” I smiled.

“You know what tattoo I was thinking of?” Frank sat next to me on the floor, picking up the tools in my suitcase. He eyed the tattoos on my arms and fingers.

“What’s that?”

“Frankenstein monster,” he replied.

“Where would you want that? Do you even have any space for another tat?”

He chuckled. “On the inside of my right forearm would go perfectly.”

I glanced at his forearm at the open free space. “What a coincidence, Frank. I’m a tattoo artist! Imagine that.”

Frank fell backwards in amusement on the kitchen floor.

“I’m not sure if I should be insulted or not.” I lay next to Frank. His countenance was a dazzling candy red.

He breathed back his laughter. “I’m sorry. You know, sometimes I forget that you are somebody and you’re famous. I still view you as my best friend.”

“Just because I’m well known doesn't mean you should have a different outlook on me. I’m still Violet!" I rolled over on my stomach to look at Frank more clearly. "I just so happen to have more tattoos and my name on TV." I rolled over on my back. "And a drinking problem and a love for cats," I sighed.

Frank smiled before lightly punching me in the shoulder.

“I know that, V. Murk. I consider myself to be honored to have a celebrity as a friend.” Frank cackled and then rolled over on his stomach, bringing his arm across my abdomen.

“What have you been up to these past three years, Frankie?” I asked after a moment of silence.

“Not much,” he sighed. “Same old, same old shit honestly. I work a lot, write music, write some lyrics now and then, and stay home with Mikey. I am in a band, Violet."

"Oh?" I questioned.

"You'll have to see us perform. We have a small gig coming up, but I mean, it's not like we are that great and popular yet.," Frank said, eagerly.

I blinked. “I thought by this time you would be so high class as a musician that you would be touring the world and banging some sexy mamas. Then your baby mama would be suing you for not giving her half of her earnings from your last CD and the other baby mama will be suing you for not money, but weed for her pimp.” I held my lips tight to not break out with mirth. My ghetto accent was really coming along. Thanks, Los Angeles!

Frank snorted, “As if. I would do it for the opportunity of playing music in front of a thousand fans.”

“Oh, you rebel.” My eyes began to flutter.

“Do you sleep at all, Violet? You have gigantic dark circles under your eyes.”

“No, I’m never tired at night.”

“You must suffer from insomnia,” Frank stated.

“I’m not very good at maintaining sleep. I am positive I have Chronic Insomnia which lasts for years.”

“How do you know you have that form?”

“It’s caused by another disorder or it can be a primary disorder. It has several affects, but characteristically people that have this form of insomnia have increase attentiveness.”

Frank shifted his weight upwards to stare down at me while I stayed motionless on the kitchen floor.

“When did this start?” he questioned.

“Three years ago when the-you-know-what happened,” I gulped my guilt.

“How many times do I have to tell you it isn’t your fault?”

“There’s an empty whole inside of me, Frank, that’s eating away at me. I need to do something about it.”

“I’m not talking about this again.” Frank held out his forearm. “Come on, Miss Perfect, and get my tattoo done.” Frank winked and for the hundredth time, dismissed the subject.

Notes

I feel like if this was a Frerard story, I would have like a billion followers.