21.Apr.2002
i love six feet under
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i think that i love you. i think that i do.
I'm exhausted.
This weekend was fantastic, stress released, tension rebuilt in its place, driving and reflection and pretty agony and release, and I'm pleased that it's not going to be as it was in the past. Accepted apology from an individual whose apologies were long over-due. It was like release.
I schooled a female on her promiscuity and gave her the Psych 101 textbook analysis on why she's a slut. We staged an intervention on her, endeavoring to change her behavior for the better before she became a useless vessel of sexually transmitted diseases, and then we tortured her with kissing. We are a decidedly evil bunch.
The boys drew mischief with their youth and I watched from a safe distance.
I met Dustin, originally from Southern California, an extremely intelligent individual who had nothing but extremely intelligent things to say. I asked Sam what time Dustin left, and he lifted his eye-brows suspiciously.
I learned my boyfriend can't fit regular-sized condoms. He has no problem with me randomly grabbing obscene places on his body and dragging him into a bathroom. Thursday night, I visited him at work spontaneously; he seemed abashed. I have photographs of him in various, embarrassing situations, much to my delight.
He waxed poetic on my breasts behind a crimson shower-curtain in the dark, the only light a scarlet taper candle placed safely and romantically within reach.
He sleeps in a ball on his left side, facing bookshelves.
I filled myself on hunger and drug-remnants and watched his mind catapult to clandestine destinations in his skull.
SlutBot 2000 spread herself nice and easy across Terry's couch with someone she had known for approximately 12 minutes, which namely tempted the intervention.
In the kitchen of Terry's new house, everything feels right. The midnight-blue linoleum makes sense to the pads of my feet, the fluorescent lighting above the sink illuminates the silver Delta tap, and the water floods, backed by forceful pressure. It makes scrubbing dishes at 5 in the morning, stoned under a Spring haze worthwhile with the Deftones' White Pony close upon its heels.
Six Feet Under starts in 12 minutes. I love how meshing surreality and reality without sounding exquisitely bland fares successful in my universe. I'm happy.
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time & machine