The Get-Go [Ashton Irwin]

07: (We've Gotta) Get Outta Here

    Good morning, snowflake. xx

    The text comes in right after I wake up, sending my phone into a vibrating frenzy on my right bedside table. I can't help the contented sigh that brushes past my smile as I text him back. G'morning, sweetheart ;P

    That's one thing I love about when the boys are touring in the States; Ash and I are usually on a pretty similar sleep schedule, and his 'good morning' texts aren't answered with my 'good night' ones. They're in Florida right now, Orlando, to be exact. Tomorrow's Miami, and then they're off to Texas, Nevada, and then they end in Cali, where they're supposed to be staying while they write some new music for a few weeks.

    As he's prone to do, he links me to a song on YouTube that he really likes. According to him, it's to expand my musical horizons, but according to me, my musical horizons are pretty much the same as his, and this is just an excuse for him to send me 80's rock or pop punk love songs every morning.

    This morning, though, it's not 'Hey Thanks' by The Wonder Years, or 'Can't Fight This Feeling' by REO Speedwagon, or anything even in the subset of a love song. It's the F-777 Dance Remix of 'He's A Pirate'. You know, the theme song from Pirates of the Caribbean? Yeah. That's the one.

    What a loser.

    But I mean, it's kind of really catchy, too, and somehow, I found myself bouncing on my bed, trying to turn cartwheels in my bedroom, and just generally acting like a two-year-old after ice cream cake.

    "Speaking of ice cream…" I mutter to myself, earbuds still in, though the song is definitely over. There's a fresh carton of Coffee Crisp ice cream in the freezer downstairs, and it's got my name written on it, literally. When I was fifteen, I was fairly overweight, so my mom told me that if I wanted junk food, I'd have to buy it for myself. I've slimmed down a lot since then, with maybe a little bit of extra weight around my hips and boobs, but I still have to buy my own munchies. Putting my name on them ensures that Mom remembers which stuff is mine, after the great Everlasting Gobstopper incident of 2012. I don't want to talk about it.

 

    Normally, ice cream for breakfast is not my MO, but I'm feeling on top of the world after that song, and decide that a rushed bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios chased down by some Caffé Verona from Starbucks on the way to school just isn't going to cut it. Since I don't want to be terribly unhealthy, I grab a handful of dried mango afterwards, and run back up the stairs to the loft, and my bedroom.

    My room is actually supposed to be the Master bedroom – and it was, originally. But my mom let me stay in her room until I was four, my own little loft bed in the corner, where she could check on me when I had nightmares, and could be sure no-one could hurt me. Then, I turned five, and decided I wanted my own room, which wouldn't have been a problem, because the condo had two bedrooms anyways, except for the fact that Mom was still paranoid about something happening to me, and the second bedroom happened to be on the main floor.

    Still, I insisted that I wanted my own room, so she packed all of her stuff into boxes, and it all got moved to the slightly smaller downstairs bedroom, in the hallway just off the kitchen, right next to her little at-home office. All because she somehow figured that if someone somehow managed to break-in, that somehow, a couple of flights of glass-sided stairs and a mezzanine would be the difference between me living or dying.

    Being the relative hermit that I am, I just really liked having my own space. And I still do, even though Mom's not around as much as she used to be.