Friday, June 15, 2007

Alright, everything in the universe is currently freaking my shit way the hell out, so the no touching rule is back in place: no touching except for hugs and thumb wrestling and friendly socks on the arm, until I feel differently about things. Everyone, out of my shopping cart. We are keeping space for the holy ghost between us; let's just play frisbee and listen to records this summer.

Last night I was in a room full of people who all knew each other except for one guy who didn't, and someone said, "hey, let's go around the room and introduce ourselves and say a fact," all nonchalant like this is what people actually do outside of ninth grade English class. My friends are all doers, really, so they started right up, but me, I panicked and fled the room as a reflex, without even giving it a second's thought. You want to know a fact? About me? No, I'm afraid I only deal in half-truths and innuendo. Cripes.

I've developed a habit lately of coming home too late and falling asleep in my clothes. Not, I don't think, because I am too drunk to change into pajamas--I'm really not, most of the time--but because I'd been having a really good time that night in those clothes, and I'm usually not quite ready to give that up. Which leads to a lot of uncomfortable mornings with a skirt wrapped around my neck, since I am such a restless sleeper, and it's something I need to stop. Eventually. I keep asking myself, self, just what are you doing, and self tends to answer back by drinking or getting all misty and watching cheesy movies or making out with someone in a corner, all of which is tons of fun, but maybe not quite healthy. So I'm going to take whatever comforts I can get.

And anyway, it's becoming summertime, and summertime is the time for falling in love with boys for twelve seconds from across the room, probably because of their awesome sunglasses or visible tattoos. Other miscellaneous reasons I have set my cap for boys in the past include: walked by just as Pete Doherty sang "I like the cut of your j-i-b"/vintage World's Fair t-shirt/unironic handlebar mustache/spoke Hebrew/talked enthusiastically about dinosaurs/looked good in pink/complimented my broken red loafers/looked like a Venetian waterboy/could juggle, but didn't/tattoo of an atom/played the drums while wearing glasses/dangerous crooked smile/excellent haircuts/always brought me oatmeal raisin cookies/was overprotective of his little sister.

I promise to try not to end up in jail or on a train headed east or in clown college any time soon, but last night I discovered that a whiskey soda with muddled strawberries in it tastes just exactly like the greatest thing ever, so I'm not making any promises. A girl can only do so much.

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