I'm Just Being Honest
Aye me, this weekend has been so unproductive. Friday evening my heart and head sank rapidly down into my stomach. No, they sank further than that. They fell straight past my shoes and into hell and I was silent for something like three hours.
For three hours.
I stood in the hallway staring at the locked door for nearly the first hour. My paper would have to remain in my posession instead of in the mail slot, where it belonged, because I was late and the secretary had already locked up.
The next half hour I spent walking to Amelia's while my heart cooked my brain.
Amelia and Kate were chatty and winey and thought I looked so cute in green. I layed down in the hammock and stared at Amelia's gutter while they smoked and I let the twilight air slowly drop in degrees until my hands went numb.
The third hour of silence was spent laying across Amelia's bed listening to her blast Keep It Like A Secret from the living room.
And that's how I started my period this month. It's not always like that. Sometimes it's pain. Sometimes it's a burst of sexual energy. Sometimes it's constant crying.
This time it was a complete draining of desire of any sort. I wanted neither wine nor food nor conversation nor sleep nor cigarettes nor wakedness nor anything.
But by four o'clock in the morning I was happily hammered and chatty and back to life. Making progress on the young man I intend on giving kisses to on Monday.
But I only intend it when I'm drunk.
And so does Amelia.
So we make it a sport, because he's reciprocating flirting with both of us. And because he's leaving soon.
I have to be considerate, though, because he was fooling around with Aaron's roommate earlier this semester. It's no good to bring entire circles of friends into bed with you.
We played trivial pursuit and watched Family Guy.
Yesterday I studdied, then made asparagus soup and fed Amelia.
You see: Ashley and Heather were out of town this weekend so it was only me and Amelia, and we really really missed the girls. It felt so unnatural not having them here.
But by 10:00 Ashley was back, and she let me meet her boyfriend finally. I really like him a lot, and we played pool (I keep getting better and better).
Ashley said we should have pool at our house. And darts. And air-hockey. And constant getting-it-on. But the sex is only for the air hockey table.
Why?
Because it's slick and it hums. Pool table's can chaffe. And it's better than foosball.
Aaron's rroommaattee (I just decided to doulbe all the damn letters) and some others brought up the issue of the two of us, and asked me why I'd called him earlier that day.
I responded because I wanted to tell him the etymology of "juxtaposition". And to let him know random friendly phone calls are welcome.
They report him saying it didn't work because there was no "spark". He needs someone to make the first move. I refuse to do that (because I'm forward in every other way, so I've decided that's the one place where I deserve to be pursued). I made it very clear, in my drunkeness, that I admire Aaron completely, but he just doesn't know how to flirt.
There were drunk messages, and emails, and probably more I don't remember.
But I love that Ashley is back, and that her boyfriend is wonderful, and that my bartender gives me doubles for the price of singles.
Double of Jim Beam on the rocks for $4.50. Times three. Plus to Guinnesses.
Today phonology homework.
Tomorrow punk rock and making out with a Citadel graduate. I hate military. And I hate how he opens beer bottles with his class ring. And I hate how three friends of mine - including him - all have mohawks (but none of them know each other). And I hate his taste in music (TOOL, 311). And I hate his tough-mother-fucker attitude that opens a valve into wounded-victimized-puppy-boy and is only the tip of the iceburg of Issues he carries around (we all have baggage, but his is garbage-bag-baggage). I hate his self-imposed silence and refusal to interact.
But I like his smile. And I like intimidating him. And I like disrupting his ploy and knocking him off guard and then stroking his ego to put the ploy back into effect. And I like that he isn't going to be here for five years like the rest of us.
The night wound down with a pleasant chat with another Mike. We talked about NYC. He loved it, and I called it a slow-death.
I sent a message to Tylere and Asit that said "wish you were here". Tylere replied "me too". Asit replied "you too".
English is so cool. Now, I have to go optimalize it. But it's easier than maximizing it. heh.
