30.Nov.2003
come back my dream
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into my arms
The Saturday before last, my friend Nicole was in a car wreck that shattered her right tibia. After three days in the hospital and one leg surgery, she found herself in a locational quandary, by not having anywhere to stay where someone would be able to assist her while her rod-replaced tibia healed. That being said, she's currently sleeping in my guest bedroom.
To express her gratitude, she has graciously allowed me access to her deliciously endless supply of hydrocodone. At the close of the Thanksgiving weekend, I'm having a cocktail in a Waterford crystal glass while swimming with fifteen milligrams of Lortab, and I have to say, my iron-pumped muscles no longer ache.
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Not much has changed since my previous entry ten days ago. I'm updating solely to celebrate the final minutes of my favorite month. Issues on the maternal front have sought change but have ultimately been denied such. My mother's progress is akin to a molasses drip, and I've longed for a high-caliber digital camera, because I am sick of text and require different ways to spark the ocular senses.
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While I was shuffling through bills last night, Nicole hopped her way into the dining room to converse with me, a Marlboro cigarette dangling from her salacious mouth. She expressed she needed help showering, and I helped her into the bathroom.
You would have to meet Nicole to understand the allure of her. She is blunt, impossible, and flesh-starved. We are close despite not knowing one another very long. My sexual everything dissipates periodically, and this disappoints her.
I helped her out of her cotton night-clothes and tested the temperature of the water. I told her I was going to shower as soon as she finished. With her arms around my waist and one foot tentatively stepping onto the stark-colored shower tiles, she turned to face me and said, "You can always just shower with me."
Cingular Wireless and Capital One truly have nothing on buxom red-heads replete with soft demands and drugs.
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I have finished the A/E sonatas, and my minuscule track-list is complete. Unfortunately, I lack titles for its sin-classical theme. The joy of caring for my zealous patient lies primarily in that she never tires of me playing my untuned beauty of a piano. I made an appearance at Larsen Music here in Oklahoma City and befriended very quickly the manager of the store, who gave me immediate access to their seven-and-a-half foot Yamaha concert grand, which was reserved for performing artists only. He gave me the number of a tunist who lives in Norman. As yet another Christmas present to myself, I may give him a call.
I find myself more complete with music than I ever was immersed with various lovers who delighted in running the dramatic gamut of emotional entropy. Though my social status has been dwindling and I'm returning to my reclusive mannerisms, I feel very peaceful with this transition.
And, I cannot wait for March, as quixotically as I perceive this flirtatious junket to the York which never, ever really gets old. I miss traveling alone, though I abhor repeating the process, and I really want to take something back with me. It feels nice to give into my impulses with enough of a safety net behind my shrinking body. I have the best of both worlds.
Goodnight, November.
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time & machine