27.Mar.2003
i'll break your silence on my way into you
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blue skies
Altercation riposte:
"I find it funny someone who suffers from your rather unfortunate romantic disposition has the balls to decline a woman who deigns to shower you with attention."
Feel free to borrow this during an argument.
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My nights are replete with Benson and Hedges 100s and various film scores. The cigarettes are beginning to turn my esophagus into a desert, despite the 160 ounces of water I lovingly consume on a daily basis.
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Gizmotron (It just dawned on me a great number of these names mean nothing to you.) asked me today if I've come into contact with Jay. Since I elatedly forgot he existed, I was momentarily despondent his existence is, in fact, a horrid reality.
I ran my thumb-nail against my bottom row of teeth and responded meekly, "No ..."
"Oh," he said.
"I don't want to ask why."
"Oh, I was simply curious."
"Very well; do keep your curiosity to yourself."
--
I witnessed a rather sensual moment between two strangers the other night while my veins swam with - of all things - Budweiser. A rather banal Industrialite and a promiscuous, pixie-haired girl (in Oklahoma? How normal!) experienced eye-sex in my presence. It was the way she dissolved into a deceptively demure smile, her pixie head dropped to the side, her lower lip clenched in her teeth, that beckoned his retinal flames. I mentally paused the moment; I opened another bottle with my teeth and immersed myself with half-inebriated text messages, launching the cap across the room.
Amon, the Industrialite, and I fled to a convenience store for cigarettes on three separate occasions. We commiserated in the bathroom while the girl made a round about the room. We traded romance-tragedies and split our nicotine in half. He, in some semblance of ill-formed, alpha-male tendencies, decided, for the evening, I was his emotional crutch.
I smoked one cigarette after the next, frustrated my cell-phone does not come equipped with predictive text.
Amon proclaimed to his cronies in the room, "Doesn't she look like Brenda?"
"What?" I asked.
"The way she talks, the way she holds her cigarette, hell, even her build, she is just like Brenda."
I equate the name "Brenda" to all things negative, thanks to Six Feet Under.
"Who in the hell is Brenda?" I asked.
"My ex-girlfriend."
"Sounds like a personal problem," I murmured.
As the night progressed, I found myself outside, perched on the curb, watching the train tracks, eyes transfixed on the East. Beth, aforementioned, promiscuous female, came up beside me and ran her teeth against my neck. I, with intoxicated muscles, tilted my head to the side, where her tongue introduced itself to the corners of my mouth. In the distance, the train screamed.
As the morning came, we piled into a cab to the International House of Pancakes where I devoured a salad. I don't think it takes a genius to issue this discovery:
People, when you are filled to the brim with beer and attempt to sober yourself up with salad, you are undoubtedly committing intestinal suicide.
You have been warned.
I fell asleep on a series of blankets that belonged to Dee's mother, as we were "house sitting". I dreamed dehydratedly, my subconscious laden with images of carbonated sugar. When I awoke, my cell was vibrating in my left hand. I associated with Dee for an hour before walking 18 blocks back to this house. In case you haven't surmised, I have no car.
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My father had cataract removal surgery yesterday; he's doing relatively well. In an e-mail to Jubal, I mentioned my father's blatantly endearing intimation that he's a rock star and a pirate.
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I left my rings at Dee's. They do not belong to me, however, they belong to my brother, the walking Tool song, and Jesse, the orphan.
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I am listening to music that unleashes images of a fleshful empyrean. It is carefully entitled The Sex Trance.
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I would rather be under every influence imaginable and smothered against your neck than blinking back impending illness that succeeds horribly in hindering me in every physical fashion.
I want to rub your feet and feed you fettuccini, though not simultaneously.
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I'm a simple girl, really.
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time & machine