So here's the trouble.
My current plan is to go to sleep, wake up, and drive to New York, all daisy fresh and cheerful and whatnot. Perhaps I'll stop at some style of megastore and buy some new music, perhaps not.
The trouble is, though, that I'm not tired. Not remotely. There is a comfortable bed several feet from me, and I'd love to go over there and crash out on it, but the impulse to crash out is not yet existant. It refuses to well up in me and take dominance. I'm just here, awake, and, horrors! Feeling PRODUCTIVE, like I should go make sure every little thing is packed, so that I can jet out as soon as I wake up, which I'll never do if I never sleep.
This is a job for Valerian, I suppose, except that I'd hate to drive all that way burping up that terrible ass flavor.
Really, this is just a job for whining.
WHIIIIIIIIINE.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Thursday, December 22, 2005
It's mine, mine, gloriously mine!
My roommates have all left for their respective Christmas breaks, and for however many hours between the time when I get home tonight and when I wake up tomorrow and leave for my parent's house, the apartment is MINE.
And the anticipation is AMAZING.
I have these beautiful plans to make Tequila Sunrises and proceed to play Soul Calibur 2 until I'm uselessly incoherent, eating white rice and uncooked past in the meantime. Maybe I'll invite other people, maybe I'll just make a night of it on my lonesome, screaming incoherent obsceneties at Voldo as he smoothly breakdances his way across the screen.
Bliss.
In other news, I fabricated a walk of shame yesterday.
The hole in our ceiling has been more or less patched up. When I left the apartment, Sam was waiting for the painters to come and re-monotonize the ceiling colors. We gave them a bit of a start yesterday; neither of us had expected them to return until this afternoon, but they wanted to put down some preliminary coats before the real work began.
In spite of the hour, Sam had just woken up. Since his bedroom is a bit on the trashed side - all that couldn't be shoved into a desk was shoved onto the bunk bed - so he spent the evening (and most of the morning, and a section of the early afternoon) sleeping on the love-seat sized bean bag chair occupying our living room floor. He slept in his boxers, and I would occasionally wander in and out of the living room to find him recurled into a new form of fetal ball. Occasionally we would talk, but the conversations were usually cut short because he would fall back asleep. I wasn't looking too sheveled myself, since I didn't have any significant plans for the day that required me looking particularly presentable.
Understand, nothing about Sam's appearnace would strike a stranger as being inherently homosexual. He was just rousing when the painters arrived, and was still mostly unclothed when they knocked on the door. He stood to the right of the door, debating whether to put clothes on if it was just a friend stopping by (as the blog's title would imply, we live in a lingerie colony; full nudity isn't approved of in mixed company, but anything short of it doesn't raise any eyebrows), and I opened the door a crack, since I was on my way out to run some errands.
"Hello?" I asked.
"We're here for the roof," they replied.
"Ah," I said, then turned to my right. "Sam, put your pants on."
The maintenance men gave me a curious, nosy look, as we all waited and listened to the rustling of blue jeans. They guffawed and nudged each other, and I smiled blandly. They looked at my semi-disheveled hair and smiled broadly. (How little they know. In reality, my sex hair is much less coherent.)
"Okaaaay," Sam said, and I opened the door and let them all in, and waved goodbye as I left, running my fingers through my hair.
(This story was much funnier in my head.)
And the anticipation is AMAZING.
I have these beautiful plans to make Tequila Sunrises and proceed to play Soul Calibur 2 until I'm uselessly incoherent, eating white rice and uncooked past in the meantime. Maybe I'll invite other people, maybe I'll just make a night of it on my lonesome, screaming incoherent obsceneties at Voldo as he smoothly breakdances his way across the screen.
Bliss.
In other news, I fabricated a walk of shame yesterday.
The hole in our ceiling has been more or less patched up. When I left the apartment, Sam was waiting for the painters to come and re-monotonize the ceiling colors. We gave them a bit of a start yesterday; neither of us had expected them to return until this afternoon, but they wanted to put down some preliminary coats before the real work began.
In spite of the hour, Sam had just woken up. Since his bedroom is a bit on the trashed side - all that couldn't be shoved into a desk was shoved onto the bunk bed - so he spent the evening (and most of the morning, and a section of the early afternoon) sleeping on the love-seat sized bean bag chair occupying our living room floor. He slept in his boxers, and I would occasionally wander in and out of the living room to find him recurled into a new form of fetal ball. Occasionally we would talk, but the conversations were usually cut short because he would fall back asleep. I wasn't looking too sheveled myself, since I didn't have any significant plans for the day that required me looking particularly presentable.
Understand, nothing about Sam's appearnace would strike a stranger as being inherently homosexual. He was just rousing when the painters arrived, and was still mostly unclothed when they knocked on the door. He stood to the right of the door, debating whether to put clothes on if it was just a friend stopping by (as the blog's title would imply, we live in a lingerie colony; full nudity isn't approved of in mixed company, but anything short of it doesn't raise any eyebrows), and I opened the door a crack, since I was on my way out to run some errands.
"Hello?" I asked.
"We're here for the roof," they replied.
"Ah," I said, then turned to my right. "Sam, put your pants on."
The maintenance men gave me a curious, nosy look, as we all waited and listened to the rustling of blue jeans. They guffawed and nudged each other, and I smiled blandly. They looked at my semi-disheveled hair and smiled broadly. (How little they know. In reality, my sex hair is much less coherent.)
"Okaaaay," Sam said, and I opened the door and let them all in, and waved goodbye as I left, running my fingers through my hair.
(This story was much funnier in my head.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)