The Eleventh of November, 2003
divide and conquer, my blue-skied traitor.
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miscellany
The majority of my Diaryland readers reside in Canada, Scotland, Australia, or, they attend Yale, as my stats have indicated. This is hardly substantial, but amusing, nonetheless.
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I quit smoking again, two years succeeding my first attempt, which obviously failed miserably as soon as I stepped a podgy, vein-covered, DKNY-adorned foot out of state. I'm fairly certain as soon as my illness dissipates, my taste buds will become sharper. This means I will enjoy the experience of licking mire from the boots of a ruthless Bluebeard who's been gamboling recklessly about a Chinese restaurant with much umami-dashed aplomb.
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On Sunday, I stubbornly left the house on a quest to find vinyl pants, which, acquiring said attire would sky-rocket me to my life-long wish of appearing to the public as a rockstar whore. The outfit is completed with a Mandarin collar blouse, egg-shelled and soft-colored, as well as various bits of strategically-placed Brighton jewelry.
Also, so that insecure politicians may visibly scoff at me, someone please purchase me the official bjork "enjoy cock" coke classic-inspired shirt. Since I have spent the better portion of the last decade dressing conservatively, barring of course a few squat-fueled moments of disdainful black velvet, I feel it's time for an outlandish change.
Eventually, I am going to release a clashing style of dress entitled Classy Trash, so I may become the human embodiment of the bipedal, virgin/whore dichotomy.
While at one of the many low-caliber malls in central Oklahoma City, I ran into Tony, who showed me a picture of his newborn son, Adam. We conversed lightly yet awkwardly, and I returned to him an item of body jewelry he left on my bedroom dresser a mere two weeks before this encounter. To say I was delighted and simultaneously disappointed by his recent fatherhood undermines the wash of nauseating emotions which stereotypically accompanied the moment.
He has the blackest, most zoetic eyes of anyone I've ever met, an absolute fucking charm to behold in person. Everyone who knows me understands I am verily weakened by dark-eyed things of testosterone-packed beauty. There's only one exception to the "dark-eyed boys, only" rule, and he's as gorgeously condescending as the lightless of them. Why any of this information matters to you, I have no idea.
Tony and I split ways with a lingering hug and an exchange of salutations and thank-yous, amidst a splitting cloud of sparrows overtaking the Penn Square Mall parking lot. He sauntered off and I thought better to light a cigarette.
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Today is Martinmas; I've always been partial to Saint Martin when I was a wee girlene attending Saint John's years ago, mainly for the irony of his Bishopry. In Germany, it's veritably celebrated via parades, whereas my recollections were laden with grave, Catholic reverences, despite the fact all Catholic reverences are undoubtedly grave.
To begin the celebration, I called my mother at Mercy hospital and played for her the newest of the A-dominated pieces, and she relished every untuned, emotional note of it.
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time & machine