0fu (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} 0fu) wrote,@ 2004-04-15 16:20:00 |
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meh
eyes open, cavernous ceiling, stone, almost to forever. i've been poisoned: nerve ending feedback in my fingertips, a convincing argument to lament my mortal inefficiency.
shut up. suck it up. establish the fundiments. who am i? where are my clothes? the first question-rhetoric, as such thoughts lend themselves to a peaceful, loping existence, i remain content to lay here, let things come of their own accord, no need to vault for cover, all is well. (i am awake, aparently...i wasn't before)
clothes..hm- requires effort, a search strategy, (toes nestled in blanket, apparently shrugged; ceiling-fan-goosebump-shivers) as i muse the implications of such, the ominous architectures of my awakening gratefully fade to white faux-stucko americana: standard apartmental ceiling, safe, sane, expected. (soft sheets, floral scents, estrocentric art below my field of view, this is a girls place). wait, hold on to it, just another moment (mmmmmm. awash in vapor trials of estrogen). but such was never meant to endure beyond the fleeting. (i don't remember falling asleep.) the peculiarities of my situation begin to bear some semblance of order (shit) just as the door used to separate this room as functional living component opens. (shit.) no use feigning sleep, i wouldn't be here if she was stupid. (bed bounces with her weight, a definitive gesture, intended to jostle, shit) all signs decree this experiment is ending, badly.
'you were talking some kinda myan gibberish in your sleep.' almost monotone: her affect of dissinterest.
"did you record it?" (the ceiling fan has become, suddenly, hypnotic)
'no means'
the smell of the organic strawberries from the fridge, no doubt tastefully arrayed on expensive glass dinnerware.
(*whoop* *whoop* *whoop*, like a puppy)
i'm supposed to look at her now, in time to watch the glans-shaped fruit pass wet (oh so slightly bruised) lips, the cringe at the ensuing emasculating snip from a perfect insisor. dangerous iconography that, perhaps the clothes dilema merits further research.
(*whoop* *whoop* i can almost see the individual blades)
best to see where things stand, her shifting weight decrees that things need to get rolling, let the healing begin!
..."i sense some...unresolution."
clang of glass plate on dresser, she pads to the window, free from my personal bubble: apparently this was not the thing to say.
'you...hmgph...' (quick gestures decree a nicotene addiction)'...you.....' (shes been thinking about this) '...a Carrot'
(...)
"i made absolutely certain the business end was smooth" (d'oh,... play it off, this could work)
she turns to look at her bed, my shameful nakedness, the eight inch (approximate) carrot infused puddle slowly affixing the flannel undersheet to the matress.
'you...fucked me... with... a carrot'
the blinds come up reveiling grey urbania
d'oh, computer time almost up... save and exit
eyes open, cavernous ceiling, stone, almost to forever. i've been poisoned: nerve ending feedback in my fingertips, a convincing argument to lament my mortal inefficiency.
shut up. suck it up. establish the fundiments. who am i? where are my clothes? the first question-rhetoric, as such thoughts lend themselves to a peaceful, loping existence, i remain content to lay here, let things come of their own accord, no need to vault for cover, all is well. (i am awake, aparently...i wasn't before)
clothes..hm- requires effort, a search strategy, (toes nestled in blanket, apparently shrugged; ceiling-fan-goosebump-shivers) as i muse the implications of such, the ominous architectures of my awakening gratefully fade to white faux-stucko americana: standard apartmental ceiling, safe, sane, expected. (soft sheets, floral scents, estrocentric art below my field of view, this is a girls place). wait, hold on to it, just another moment (mmmmmm. awash in vapor trials of estrogen). but such was never meant to endure beyond the fleeting. (i don't remember falling asleep.) the peculiarities of my situation begin to bear some semblance of order (shit) just as the door used to separate this room as functional living component opens. (shit.) no use feigning sleep, i wouldn't be here if she was stupid. (bed bounces with her weight, a definitive gesture, intended to jostle, shit) all signs decree this experiment is ending, badly.
'you were talking some kinda myan gibberish in your sleep.' almost monotone: her affect of dissinterest.
"did you record it?" (the ceiling fan has become, suddenly, hypnotic)
'no means'
the smell of the organic strawberries from the fridge, no doubt tastefully arrayed on expensive glass dinnerware.
(*whoop* *whoop* *whoop*, like a puppy)
i'm supposed to look at her now, in time to watch the glans-shaped fruit pass wet (oh so slightly bruised) lips, the cringe at the ensuing emasculating snip from a perfect insisor. dangerous iconography that, perhaps the clothes dilema merits further research.
(*whoop* *whoop* i can almost see the individual blades)
best to see where things stand, her shifting weight decrees that things need to get rolling, let the healing begin!
..."i sense some...unresolution."
clang of glass plate on dresser, she pads to the window, free from my personal bubble: apparently this was not the thing to say.
'you...hmgph...' (quick gestures decree a nicotene addiction)'...you.....' (shes been thinking about this) '...a Carrot'
(...)
"i made absolutely certain the business end was smooth" (d'oh,... play it off, this could work)
she turns to look at her bed, my shameful nakedness, the eight inch (approximate) carrot infused puddle slowly affixing the flannel undersheet to the matress.
'you...fucked me... with... a carrot'
the blinds come up reveiling grey urbania
d'oh, computer time almost up... save and exit
