11.Jan.2004
an evening with el diablo
--
i don't need apologies anymore.
Well, if there's one thing for which I was ever good, it was always certainly supplying what others sought.
--
Breaking down the digestive particles of this weekend, I found myself inebriated and in the company of dear cronies, which, honestly, is the best place to be when all of your secrets begin gushing out of your mouth at four in the morning.
In the midst of this, I stared through a fluorescent throb of light at Eric's face, calmed, composed and reclusive as he is, and I extended my right arm out to him. He took my hand and questioned my intentions. I pulled him down onto the floor, lightly spun him around, and laid my face upon his scapulae, arms encircling tightly his taut stomach. We remained in this position for half an hour.
--
I have no tact. Whilst dining at Bennigan's, this faux-Irish restaurant, I noticed my cousin was visibly disconcerted by the bovine guffaw of a woman seated at a table catty-corner to ours. After about an hour of this, I finally said, "Peter, dearest, it's none of your business this woman's laugh sounds like two cows copulating beneath a paper mill."
--
Sex is never merely sex to me.
You'd think after how many years of sex I've been having, I would comprehend this.
Running memories around in my head on the old, infamous cerebrum-spin-cycle, I deleted Dustin's cell-phone number from my electronic phone book, while Anna urged me to finally, victoriously, "get off the front porch".
We drove around Oklahoma City aimlessly (a much-loved pastime of mine ... you know, to be driven) to an album she deemed appropriate to the quasi-liberation that comes with ceremoniously erasing people from your life, despite the fact that (a) sociology's a cycle, (b) these people never actually flee your life (d-land stats are a glimmering case-in-point), and (c) there's still a part of you that doesn't really want them to go.
I liked this melodic angst in guitars so much that I turned my head to her and said, "I really like this."
"Really?" she asked.
"So much that I should probably buy this," I said.
"Really?!" she asked.
"Well, yeah, really."
"Good, we're going to Best Buy."
And, we did.
I was so moved by the disconnections of the Fender feedback that I rapidly whipped out my MasterCard and threw its platinum, instant money-making glory onto the fuck-you-royal-blue cashier counter at an Iranian guy aptly named "David", who rung up our Mountain Dews, Paper Monsters and Wonder What's Next? at a mere $29.73.
Before this, I was distracted by Casio keyboards and quietly bid accolade to the horrific schizophrenia of the late Wesley Willis, and, momentarily absorbed with the motor retardation of my left hand (which, by the way, I damaged to the 9th Circle of Ungainly Hell by falling down my stairs Friday evening, this spill commencing before I drank, mind you), I somehow managed to set the keyboard on "Cheap, Baby-Shit Green Hotel Carpet" presets and proceeded to jocundly butcher one of my sonatas, telling Anna, "How to turn your sonata into porn music, volume one."
--
There's something missing from this entry.
Ah, yes, I know.
So, Jubal called last night and I purred submissively within the first twelve seconds of our word-joust, lavishing him with school-girl affections and bringing him up to date on Ravie Slave's Pointlessly Entertaining Romps Around OKC(tm), assiduously inserting my bruised and battered tirades regarding previous, literal romps with others around other cities that are more entertaining.
And, it dawned on me. Perhaps it could have been Friday night's discourse with Eric, or, perhaps it could have been Sunday afternoon's discourse with Anna, or, perhaps it could have been every day's discourse with anyone on the planet, however, I've decided I have the mentality of a chaste Japanese virgin and the sexual appetite of a reproachable whore. This does not bode well in a package that stands to an imposing height of five-two-and-three-misguided-quarters in black blazers and vinyl pants.
Yes, I was remeasured. Yes, I'm shrinking.
--
I broke my jewel choker on my knees, staring up the soft, unfocused body of a boy with nicotine.
"And what are you going to do for this cigarette?" he posed dominantly.
I stretched my tongue toward the foreign slit of his belly button and licked down the length of the pencil-thick thatch of hair that found its end on his pubic bone. The cigarette immediately became mine. I have, of course, known this boy for years. I could have easily just answered, "I'll buy you a cherry coke." There is no enjoyment in a response like that.
--
I love Dave Gahan live. What an elated, 41-year-old power-house. He can shimmy his five-foot-five musical catharses all over my hunter-green carpet. I've been snogging the thought of this for years.
His solo album fucking ignites me. God, I love this bastard. So. Much.
--
I rearranged my bedroom so that it suits who I'm becoming. The book worm in me is appeased with both of my bookshelves and the corner I devoted solely to the literary addictions that have trailed along my imagination, the fairy tales, the science fiction, the poetry, the biographies, the rock-and-roll volumes, guitars and pianos and iambic tetrameter eruptions, to the very prose-battered core of me. Late at nights, I light the 32 candles along my mantle and dresser and write meaningfully convoluted phrases all over my chest and forearms.
--
While sharing a cigarette with a waiter at Denny's, I talked about anticlimactic concerts at the Ford Center and that yes, I did, in fact, play basketball in school. When he snuffed his Marlboro Light and returned to the various tables on our floor, Anna turned to me and said, "Michelle, I've never met anyone like you before."
"I want everyone to say that to me," I responded, pressing my nose against her shoulder affectionately.
When I returned to Eric's later that night, she called me and inquired vehemently, "What's your website address?"
"I just have a diary," I answered.
"Okay, so, what's your diary website address?"
"Oh, Jesus," I said, though, after a brief period of reluctance, I willingly handed over the URL.
Hi, Anna. I love you.
--
time & machine