Dirty Mutha Fuss
A lazy aesthete in the hearts of many millions, whether they know it or not.
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Listen Sexy. I think you have thrown me into a not-unfamiliar HIGH/LOW zone. I think about what I know about you in a short time — surprisingly a lot — versus what haters say about you — surprisingly little. Even my partner can’t choke out an applicable hateristic comment and he does it to everyone as a point of pride. Everyone likes you. Aside from your erstwhile roommate.
Said roommate that uh, I had already slept with. This town! Small. Swear. It happens. I think.
(bitching, updating, griping, whirly-gigging from repressed giddiness after the jump)
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Mostly because I’ve been legit working (which unfortunately includes a lot of Twitter and Facebook — ADHD warning at red) and because Cocks Cable is digging up my street, you lovely articles have been put on the back burner. But as this is my pretty much only emo outlet ala Livejournal, a simple thought on TPB.
“Do you need to hear it?”
I remember once in high school my math teacher split with her husband, with whom I thought she was infatuated, and my friend (much closer with her) exclaimed to me at the time “He never said ‘I love you’ to her! Not once!”
Which, I thought smelled as a concept, on both levels. Never said I love you and made it through a wedding ceremony of most stripes? Never said I love you and strung along a gorgeous woman half his age? Uh.
But then again, the pondering:
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Mmph once boy and I are not so exquisitely, almost Platonically broke, I am getting an old prom gown and he a riding crop.
BECAUSE WE ARE ODD.
(Source: tulipanonero)
