08.Feb.2002

tired. subjectless.

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so what the fuck is with you?

Tonight, in essence, was weird. Jay dropped by with Michael to visit Giz, who was staying with me. I realize these names mean absolutely nothing to you, but the thought counts. I ended up cooking dinner for Giz and Michael while Jay sat on the computer, randomly clicking the mouse across various websites depicting heavy artillery. The kitchen windows steamed. He kept on his jacket. The cycle continues.

After dinner, the guys crowded around the computer while I randomly played the piano. Giz approached me and applauded. I realized that Giz and I are married sans sex; we both agreed to this after listing several examples. He is sleeping peacefully in my bed upstairs, I am staring at my fingernails as I type and break quasi-poetic bilge as a fury against my jaw.

I wrote an e-mail describing the events of last weekend to a close friend of mine, who, after a short period of reading, decided it was beautiful and it must be shared with others.

I'm tired.

I worry about Ben and his situation; hopefully, murderlessly, it will become sorted. I am waiting for him to obliterate people; in a perversely satisfying manner, it will be fabulous.

I'm going to bed.

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time & machine