Yeah. So, Leah and Amy and James and I went to the Rocky Horror Live Show tonight... Like this:
Somehow we never really expect big rainstorms here after winter's over. And somehow every year we get one or two. Funny how that works; you'd think we'd come to expect it. Anyway. Today was one of those big spring rainstorms; it was fantastic. And then in the evening it even thundered and lightninged (which why the hell does spellcheck recognize 'lightninged' as a word?) and downpoured.
Somewhere at my school there is a radio that is always on and I swear it's always playing the same song. Something about I wish nothing but the best - for you-uuuuuuuu-uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu...... It's incredibly annoying, and now apparently it's audible even from my room when the window's open.
That said, the point of this journal. There was one. I've forgotten what it was.
Is a man obligated, by the laws of manhood, to challenge another man to a duel if said other man insults the first man's lover?
'Cause some redneck called my alleged roommate Zephyr a 'hippie pinko faggot' because she told him that he shouldn't be shooting prairie dogs for no reason, and Zephyr's boyfriend refuses to challenge the redneck to a duel. He does her laundry for her, and all sorts of domestic stuff like that, but he won't defend his lady's honor when someone calls her a hippie pinko faggot. Leah and I naturally gave him no end of grief for this, and still he refuses.
Huh. Wonder how many times that title's been used for someone's first post. 'Cept this isn't my first post. And I'm confused in the opposite direction.
I have, of late, been disconcertingly attracted to people of the male variety, and lost much of the interest I once had in females. Some time ago I made this diagrammatic representation of sexuality, and plotted myself on it somewhere inwards of the seven-o'clock position:
It's tempting to just give in to the happiness I've been in recently. Just enjoy smiling all the time and thinking about nothing in particular, and everything being fun and pleasant and not just content but actually happy. A state I used to think was unsustainable. Just give in and enjoy it.
But sometimes I remember when it wasn't like this and I had thoughts and feelings and they weren't all good but they existed. When I cared. When I was afraid or angsty or sad.
I've forgotten how to be sad.
It probably doesn't actually count as my first kiss, especially if I don't count the one when I was in kindergarten, which I don't, and this wasn't too different - well, it was different, but it doesn't meet the actual-kiss criteria any better.
Oma's hands are skeletal. The skin almost completely transparent, the flesh atrophied down to almost nothing. Tendons and metacarpals visible, bone-yellow, with deep trenches between them. Vessels, deep purple-gray, so many that those smallest must be arterioles - so that's what an arteriole looks like.
But the bones, that's what captivated me. A living skeleton, articulated for movement, still waving and gripping and dancing under its own strength - but strength from where, with no muscles left?
The little whiteboard outside Leah's and my dorm room had been showing "El Skipito" - some children's-book character who thinks he's a Chihuahua but is really a Siamese cat - with a Santa hat, since just before Christmas break, which was a whole quarter ago now. Now it says:
fell out of the sky
and whisked us away to Mars
in a steampunk Tardis
Because we are ninja spies.
HAVE FUN WITH YOUR FINALS.
The horrible thing - the scary thing -
is that it's not even in a gay way.
Have been a bit giggly all day despite its being Friday, my worst day schedulewise.
Probably has something to do with staying up late last night watching Horrible Histories with Leah and giggling endlessly. Partly because it's funny and mostly because Mat Baynton.
Sometimes it's fun to be a girl. Only girls get to stay up late into the night giggling.
Quite a good distraction from the whole Jenna thing, and whatever else needs distracting from, like the brilliantly depressing downer that is A Streetcar Named Desire, which Leah and I went to see last night...
So... Jude emailed me back today.
I had emailed him a few days ago, trying not to lose contact. It'd been a long time since we'd communicated at all, and I'd been thinking of him. The bracelet he made for me elevenish months ago finally fell off, reminding me that I really had to write to him and not just think about it.
So, er... where to start....
Dammit. I can't even kiss someone on the cheek or the forehead without being really bad at it. I didn't even know it was possible to be bad at forehead-kissing. I'm such a loser.
Hahaha. Pretty fun anyway. Everyone putting lipstick marks on everyone else - oh yeah, I'm horrible at lipstick, too, apparently. Not such a bad Valentine's Day for someone so perpetually and frustratingly unsnogged.
It doesn't feel stupid or wrong thinking about it, but writing it kind of does. I know doing any of it would. Tremendously. 'Cause that's not the character I've written myself into being.
Lying spooned around a girl with short fuzzy hair and a soft, round ass, careful not to move and wake her, my hand between her breasts and her earlobe touching my lips...
Snogging the guy from statistics class, or someone similarly attractive but even more a stranger....