Falling Further
08-28-2010, 12:34 AM
I don't feel like writing, playing(video games), playing(musical instruments), watching television, listening to the sounds of people drowning out the whispers of the night in cacophonous snoring all around me, so I'm blasting this French song I heard on the radio and hunted down like a rabid hunting dog through my headphones (Je Veux by Zaz), while I throw my fistful of mental diarrhea into the annals of cyberspace.
My shoulders are sunburned right now. That's the only part of my skin that I can feel rubbing against my open-necked polo shirt, and hopefully that's the only segment of epithelial cells that I've managed to irreparably destroy through repeated, unnoticed exposure to an unforgiving beach sun. It burned, but it burned so good. After all, I was at a beach where clothing was optional.
God bless you European women with your perfectly tanned breasts, even if some of them were too wrinkled or droopy to warrant my nervous, most likely obvious, covert attempts to stare at them. What can I say? I'm a man. A man with a desperately poor sexual history. And you know, half of those glances were worth the mad beating of my heart as I overpowered my good nature and shame with a heavy club of libido. God bless you European women.
I just finished a book that guaranteed that I won't be able to sleep for a good, long time. "the perks of being a wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky for the curious. I won't go into details because I hate to be the bearer of spoiled stories, but if you have an afternoon to blow at Borders or Barnes and Nobles or (Insert book store where you can read newly released books without having the employees frown disappointingly at you [or not if you're a bibliovoyeur, you know, the ones who get off on watching people watch them read ... ew]), I strongly recommend it (even to you BVs, or bervs, in-between those furtive glances where your eyes brush reassuringly past the frustrated face of the store owner).
I was sitting shotgun in bumper to bumper traffic, and after moving 15 feet in 15 minutes, the backseat door of a car a few spots ahead of me pops open, and out pops a little Latina girl, her toddler shaped and sized body barely covered by a rose pink bikini with bright yellow straps. After standing outside in the scorching heat for a moment, she gazed back into the car, and seemed to recover the courage (or perhaps the instruction) to squat, pull down her bikini bottom to her knees, expose her pale pink bottom standing starkly against the dark brown color of the rest of her skin, and proceed to urinate on the hot asphalt between her color coordinated yellow flip flops.
I maintained enough discipline to remain neutral about the entire ordeal, knowing that any response to the event other than slight embarrassment would be considered in bad taste, and possibly even criminal. Is this how I react to everything? Maintaining neutrality until I've determined it's okay for me to display my initial outburst? If so, I'm far much more of an automaton than I've given myself credit for.
... bored. Off to watch the latest episode of the Jersey Shore. Ron doesn't deserve you Sammi!
My shoulders are sunburned right now. That's the only part of my skin that I can feel rubbing against my open-necked polo shirt, and hopefully that's the only segment of epithelial cells that I've managed to irreparably destroy through repeated, unnoticed exposure to an unforgiving beach sun. It burned, but it burned so good. After all, I was at a beach where clothing was optional.
God bless you European women with your perfectly tanned breasts, even if some of them were too wrinkled or droopy to warrant my nervous, most likely obvious, covert attempts to stare at them. What can I say? I'm a man. A man with a desperately poor sexual history. And you know, half of those glances were worth the mad beating of my heart as I overpowered my good nature and shame with a heavy club of libido. God bless you European women.
I just finished a book that guaranteed that I won't be able to sleep for a good, long time. "the perks of being a wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky for the curious. I won't go into details because I hate to be the bearer of spoiled stories, but if you have an afternoon to blow at Borders or Barnes and Nobles or (Insert book store where you can read newly released books without having the employees frown disappointingly at you [or not if you're a bibliovoyeur, you know, the ones who get off on watching people watch them read ... ew]), I strongly recommend it (even to you BVs, or bervs, in-between those furtive glances where your eyes brush reassuringly past the frustrated face of the store owner).
I was sitting shotgun in bumper to bumper traffic, and after moving 15 feet in 15 minutes, the backseat door of a car a few spots ahead of me pops open, and out pops a little Latina girl, her toddler shaped and sized body barely covered by a rose pink bikini with bright yellow straps. After standing outside in the scorching heat for a moment, she gazed back into the car, and seemed to recover the courage (or perhaps the instruction) to squat, pull down her bikini bottom to her knees, expose her pale pink bottom standing starkly against the dark brown color of the rest of her skin, and proceed to urinate on the hot asphalt between her color coordinated yellow flip flops.
I maintained enough discipline to remain neutral about the entire ordeal, knowing that any response to the event other than slight embarrassment would be considered in bad taste, and possibly even criminal. Is this how I react to everything? Maintaining neutrality until I've determined it's okay for me to display my initial outburst? If so, I'm far much more of an automaton than I've given myself credit for.
... bored. Off to watch the latest episode of the Jersey Shore. Ron doesn't deserve you Sammi!