September 29, 2003
Blonde Bombshell
I love the word fuck. I love hearing people use it. I love the strength and anger and severity of it. I was delighted today to overhear a girl ranting about something and interjecting its usage. Too often have I been told such language is un-ladylike. All the more incentive to employ it, no?
I woke up in Mike's bed this morning, the sound of his alarm clock rousing the both of us. He rolled over for one more precious hour, but I was quick to shower and depart for my ten o'clock class. This weekend was wonderful, in a very simple, comfortable way. Saturday night we curled up in bed, drinking coffee and watching Sleepy Hollow. Johnny Depp looks entirely too clean; it was unnatural after multiple viewings of Pirates of the Caribbean. Despite my initial shock, I let myself become immersed in the mists of the film, as Mike's arms slipped around me and, without the slightest squeeze, tore sighs from my throat. Nothing, truly, makes me happier than the two of us sitting in bed in pajamas, doing nothing of importance. An out of body happiness. The room was full of it, blazing on the bedspread and making our coffee almost too sweet to drink.
I love blankets for modesty, candlelight for honesty, and your trying to lighten the conversation.
Sunday I spent with my father, grooming Spartacus and digging around in the basement for the relics of my childhood. The real boon turned out to be my Strawberry Shortcake figurines, which I spent a painstaking hour scrubbing clean. I filled the washer up with all of my baby dolls, and once in the dryer, you could hear their heads banging together in defiance of such treatment.
Next weekend I'm going to get in there and scrub all of their limbs and their round little heads, as plastic does not come very clean in the washer.
This Wednesday I am having my wisdom teeth pulled. I'm a little nervous about the anesthesia, but, oddly enough, I'm excited to have a day off to spend with Mike, disoriented or otherwise. I have this odd little fantasy in my head about true lucidity when they put me under, and, like, some supernatural being will speak to me or I will have this super fantastic dream about one of my past lives... but chances are I'll just black out and suddenly find myself in the reception room with a throbbing mouth and no recollection of how it came to be that way.
Either way, cool.
I've always been fascinated with the passage of time. I don't believe I waste any of it, though some would say I do. I'm just amazed at the fact that I cannot reclaim five minutes ago, that it is forever lost to the void of my memory. It does not matter how it was filled, only that it is gone.
You know, I really need to vacuum the rug in my dorm room. I can squint my eyes all day long and pretend that it is littered with confetti, but I know deep down inside that it's dirt.
astera at 8:49 p.m.