I’m Not A Cutter…
This falls into one of those ‘this will horribly embarrass me when other people find out about it’ files. So in the interests of good storytelling, I figured that I would circumvent any problems and tell the story myself. This is pretty much up there with maggots in my closet and mistaking spoiled milk consumption for morning sickness. We need to rewind a few days back to Oct.30th in Dresden, when we rolled into Groove Station to begin. Actually the story began the night before that, with a series of poorly delivered communications from BJB that bled into the next morning.
So with a grumpy foundation laid from the morning to our arrival in Dresden there was a bit of a gargoyle cloud hanging over the bus. After our show, and drinks were consumed and another series of poorly delivered communications reared it’s ugly head I was getting pretty annoyed. It culminated into myself yelling at the band, and them yelling back at me.
I should step back at this point I should mention to anyone considering joining a band to think about taking a communications course well before they even pick up an instrument. Trust me, that will go a long way. I’ll spare you the details of the drama, but I was stomping around, getting ready for bed, which included a shower.
Another good thing to remember is to not ever shave with cheap razors, especially when your drunk and angry. As we have been on the road for some time now, I don’t have access to all my usual skin care regimen, which neglects a lot of body exfoliation. So I had some pretty nasty ingrown hairs, that I hauled that cheap-o pink two-blade razor over with all the angry drunk strength I had at that moment, and in doing so managed to remove a impressive chunk of skin on the upper layer of my thighs and bikini area. You wouldn’t think that those little areas would bleed as good as they do, but I was making quite a mess, all over the place.
So imagine your in the band, you’ve just had to deal with a screaming banshee who stormed off to the bathroom and when she comes out she has blood on her, a pissed off look on her face and the bathroom has blood in it. What conclusion might you draw from that? Probably the same one the band did when they had to wipe up the mess. Unbeknownst to me in my drunk haze I took my sleeping pills and passed out, woke up the next morning and went for my run. It wasn’t until the band had a ‘talk’ with me and brought up the bathroom that I remembered my slash job on my legs the night before, which explained the chafing on my run and the phenomenal razor burn. I realized much too late that not only is using soap or shaving cream as an aid a good idea but also that the band thought I was a cutter. While I’ll be the first to agree with them on their other points, the cutting thing was also a good reminder to reign in the drinking, lest one gets a bad rep for being one of those uber-drama queens. I know it’s a bit of the Goth in me, but I’m more likely to take a knife to someone else rather than myself…
I’m pleased to report that since that night, and our ballistic Halloween make up the following night in Berlin things have improved, at least for myself. The only blood I get covered in is fake and the majority of arguing and fighting is confined to J-Brand bitching back and forth. It doesn’t do a lot for them, but it’s nice not to be involved and to sit back with popcorn and watch the action.
Cheers,
LMR
