26.dec.2003
semi-caffeinated, post-Christmas waffling
--
gift tally
So, it was an entirely low-key Christmas celebration, as I'm not wont to party outrageously since I (possibly temporarily) quit drinking on All Saint's Day. As I enjoy making lists, I thought I would take this moment of sporadic diary updating to inform my loving masses exactly what the Insane Strumpet of the Visceral received this year:
~. One carton of Marlboro Lights 100s cigarettes (yes, it was a banner fucking year at the ole Bender place)
~. One navy-blue fleece blanket
~. A ridiculous assortment of chocolates to help me regain all of the lost weight
~. $60.
~. Edna O'Brien's I Hardly Knew You, 1978 hardcover edition *joy!*
~. j.g. ballard's Cocaine Nights
~. Depeche Mode Steve Malins (I'm a little late on getting around to this, I know)
~. The Gospel of Mary Magdalene x. Jean-Yves Leloup
~. The Arwen Evenstar sterling silver pendant/necklace (I know. I'm loved)
~. A black/silver-beaded choker in neat, swirly designs
~. A calendar of hot, young Italian priests of the Vatican (courtesy of my gal, Angela)
~. An Italian coffee mug and reflective sticker that states boldly and hotly ITALIA with the flag on either side of the text, courtesy of my figurative sister and ultra-sweet boss, the effervescent Becky. (I'm not kidding; this is very cool. I have to find something to paste this baby to. I've already had Irish Cream cocoa in the mug. I should also state I am profoundly attracted to those of the Italian heritage. I should also mention I have an absolute fucking fetish for all young and nubile things priest-like and sexually verboten.)
~. An assortment of candles, because I do not squelch my pyromania tendencies.
~. Three other things that have yet to arrive, and I have no idea what they are.
~. And, I'm sure you're all waiting for me to write something incredibly heart-warming and endearing such as my mother's return from the hospital. Well, I won't keep you waiting. The best gift anyone could give me is, in fact, her healing presence.
I've been busy cuddling the poor woman the past three days, and I've had no time to do anything outside of sickeningly domestic, house-wifey things, such as cooking an entire Christmas dinner, replete with honey-glazed turkey, alone and from scratch. Yes, you are allowed to bow down and lick my toes. No, I shan't be stopping you.
--
So, reflecting back on my Italian priest fetish, Jubal took it upon himself to tell me a while back that he, being predominantly Italian and long-haired, desired to adorn himself in priest-garb and trick the masses into thinking he's another incredibly hot Son of God. Upon taking text of this, I immediately curled up in fetal position and sobbed myself gleefully into a state of euphoric fantasy.
I am going to make a list of tasks he is required to perform while I'm sleeping in the same room with him in March, which includes but is certainly not limited to: breathing in my presence, looking ineffably delicious while wordlessly frowning at objects which don't exist in my presence, reading me to sleep, dressing up as a priest, purring into my ear, and lethargically and sexually referring to me by my first name. I will also be randomly touching him to ensure he is, in fact, an actual human being and not some licentious phantom ripped directly from my Catholic school-girl sex-dreams. I might even take photos of him so I'll have something to entertain me as I quietly and surreptitiously excite myself on the aeroplane ride back to Oklahoma City.
If this boy is Jesus, I am surely his Mary Magdalene, plein et simple.
--
I've been having ridiculous dreams about the extraordinarily beautiful Dave Gahan lately, which tugs on my more-than-a-decade-old heart-strings for him, as he's quite possibly the first man who's ever fully stopped my stereotypically frenetic thought-process.
I told Donna, my darling, that should she run into him before I get a chance to, she is allowed to tell him I think he's an idiot. She must also explain he's my favorite idiot of all time, I should be getting around to seeing him soon, and that gives him plenty of time to secure the restraining order.
She laughed and said, "He'll probably love that."
In a mushy, obsessive, and sacred e-mail I fired off to my second-favorite guy in all the world (Jubal), I elucidated my affinity for Mr. Gahan himself:
I am startlingly reminded of my pre-teens, spent with the lower half of my body wrapped around one speaker, and my head resting on another, his sharp, sensual voice cooing me to a state of half-consciousness.
He had a method of slithering his S-words between synth wailings during Violator and Songs of Faith and Devotion. I took a two-foot Sony speaker and pressed it into my breasts so that his Cockney timber - every last aching nuance - vibrated my sternum.
The first time I saw his face, I stopped everything I was doing and said in a clear, low voice, "Oh. My. God." My universe of constantly getting jabbed by peers, failing basic math, and constructing choppy bits of music that later turned into epic sonatas stopped entirely for four and a half minutes, and I was washed with this feeling of never having to say, "I don't know." to anything, warmed and numbed and eye-fluttering.
You know morphine? My favorite drug?
It feels just like that.
--
And it still does, to this very second.
I almost hate to admit Val Kilmer got to me first, though.
--
Happy Birthday, Nanny. I miss you so.
--
time & machine