Reminder

Never forget.

(thanks to grow-a-brain for the link)

Mini dialogo

Ella: "Dormir contigo me hace no querer dormir sin ti"
Yo: "em.... *cough* *cough*"

Despues de una larga pausa sin respuesta alguna

Ella:"Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z"
Yo: "Hasta la proxima"

And I don't know...

And I don't know how much longer I can harp on about being lonely before all my bone marrow turns to silt or concrete and I forget what social interaction ever really felt like. I don't know how much harder I can hanker for some company before I start speaking in strange tongues and terse riddles and entertaining thoughts of a v. watery suicide. And the only thing I can think to do is sell all of my pop records and bolt for somewhere. Save just enough money for a desposit on some east-facing bedsit where I might swing my legs out over the sash windows whenever the weather is mild, and tack tongue-and-groove up all over the lowermost half of the bathroom. And I'm so enchanted by this idea of sweet city living that I keep buying things and squirreling them away in boxes under my bed; a new Tord Boontje light fitting, a set of six old sideplates, a sort of ceramic chopping board with little strawberries on it. And I am so hellbent on this idea of making a run for it that I can think of absolutely nothing else but big sturdy mixing bowls and madeleine pans and milk jugs and enamelled colanders and fancy glasses and rolltop bureaus and duckdown cushions and winter quilts and those wires that stretch from either end of a fire escape and on which you air all your smalls and delicates. I want to make friends! I want to cook for company! I want to meet a girl and have syrupy clinches with her in amongst the pots in the pantry! I want parquet throughout and to rely entirely on my stereo and to keep a bottle of creme de cassis alongside the vintage scrabble board and go from strength to strength to strength. I want comrades! Likeminded folk! I want us all to amass there after hours and bellow things out into microphones. I want to share secrets while stashed under the coathooks and forever be frequenting all the local borough fleamarkets. I want to have books spilling out from near enough everywhere, and to always have a bunch of stock or snapdragons or dahlias or sweetpeas or spiraea or camelias on either the sideboard or the nightstand.

Time

There is a time for writing, and for sitting. For being patient. To find a mate, yourself, your true place in society: any kind of commitment or dedication that is not divulged from the depths of inner self-worship; the need to be wholly yourself in your own imaginative circular being. Tracing it, you meet point a. A is infinite, and b is a question. So you question it. Society does not need you if you do not want it, and who wants society lest they acknowledge themselves a part of that society? so you go to work every single day, you wake up, you work and turn to your own god, whoever that god may be (and god, god-there are many), love him;her, pretend to be in their likeness, for what better way is there to approach life without first being the benefactor of life? I have lived many days in this likeness, painting my own face on the face of others, only loving myself, selfishly. Selfishly I have made my way through this world, hatching from a long-sitting egg. it is now about settling down and being yourself, being your own true self, and knowing who you want to be. Some find it and some do not, some dig it from the ground and others are watching it as a kite, flying-high, kite-flying it high, and others, others are waiting, and making the most of what they can in their downtime. And that ring is a quest, if I've ever seen one, and that quest is Great. It is the most important, and I have heard it preached to me like I have heard the first wakening call of light, raising just above the ground, welcoming me into a beautiful world: I hear it still. And then I want to marry, perhaps, for a multitude of reasons, if only for self-preservation, and that self-worship is real. It is a real factor in what is being said and done, if only to my own benefit. Who could I be without myself, or within the bounty of other. would they pour over into me a water from its spring graciously greeting the descending waterfall with its heavy plummeting rain-hard-steal Giving, giving like the first time you decided to love(that sharing of faith becoming a dividing factor in who you are, and how you chose to be--if you ever got that far).

Girly me....

I hate writing about the good because then I feel so girlie, so silly, so trivial and so vapid. If I were to say, "I miss her" even though she's merely inside the house, while I am in the other room, does that not make what I say, or the meaning behind it, so much less? Isn't it better to write about fire and brimstone and death and destruction, decayal, denial, illness, hopelessness? as though the good, the happy things, are so much less. Simply because they are, as in, they exist as they are, in a sort of lowered state, lowered meaning closer to the whole, closer to god, closer to being unable to be deconstructed. This isn't making sense. No one really pauses to ask themselves, "why do I feel happy right now?" but we do pause to ask, "why am I so sad? and how can I remedy this?" happiness does not require reflection. It just requires breath, acceptance. So, no, I'm not going to write about the good moments; I'm not going to try to bastardize them by pitifully attempting to reproduce them on the page. See how limp all of this is? how empty? how could it compare? you cannot word laughter. You cannot word a smile. Show, don't tell - isn't that what we're supposed to do as writers? but how can you show a smile on the page? how can you show something so concrete? even with things like chairs, doors - the only thing you can do is tell, really. "There is a door. It is painted pale green; the paint is chipping and the knob is rusting." I'm not showing; I'm telling. The only things that can be shown are the un-showable. Mental states and thoughts - the only way to reify such things is to write them; by giving them words they become concrete, they are shown.

Happiness differs from sadness in such a way. Happiness is a smile, or the slight turn of the lip during a smug smirk, or how the hand holds a cigarette. Even something slightly less solid - perhaps an unexpected word, dropped casually in conversation as though it is nothing special, though both knowing it is special. ((Words, afterall, weaken the knees. Tell me we're symbiotic and see if I don't melt.)) Happiness is the sound of a voice cracking under the pressure of too much whiskey and too many cigarettes. It is windchimes and warm winds and train whistles carried through the midnight air from downtown. It's running to the tracks to see the caboose pass. It's bike-rides at 7am when the morning smells of pen-ink and oranges and everything is still slightly damp from the pre-dawn drenching. It's anais on the road and JC on the radio, windows always down. It's cooking dinner, eating on the couch, watching law & order: criminal intent and making half-jokes about how if they ever put Vincent D'Onofrio's character in glasses it would be over.

But sadness, sadness is different because it's not so concrete, unless you choose to make it so - a cut, a cry, a fit. The sadness permeates all. It is like the tao - it is, it isn't, it's there but un-graspable. It's present, but you can't hold it, can't smell it. You can say, it's my feeling worthless, it's my body, it's my stupidity, but that's not the sadness, that's only desperate manifestations of it. In a way it is akin to how protestants see the wine and the wafer as representations of Jesus' blood and body, while the catholics see them as Jesus himself. The consumption of a metaphor versus the consumption of a corporeality.

Am wondering: is this good enough? Is this what you wanted?

A resounding no no no.

Sex

I have the sex drive of a typical teenage male.
Right now: I am not having sex.
To add insult to injury- the people next door... are.
Fuck everyone.

Wrapped

if there was ever to be one person to tame me, it would be her with her jarringly quiet ways. one who could clip my wings, one who could cage me. if there was ever to be one person to shut me up, bow my head... have me apologize to anyone. if there was ever one person with the ability to make me compromise, comply, listen, and submit myself... it would be her. if there was ever to be one person i would desperately wait to the ends of the earth for... if there was ever to be one person that could never hurt me but make me feel still-lake-calm, it would be her. if there was ever to be one person to have me completely, my entirety, my soul, my trust, my being, it would be her. the idea, the entity, the compassion... my entire life would be turned upside down... my entire life already has...

Let us go, you and I

I'm not too sure how to begin this. Honestly, I'm not sure what beginnings and endings are anymore, or if it is a cyclic revival. There is a city with 'streets of insidious intent' growing and dying with every breath I take, and I don't know how to fill, nor whether to empty. It's like the moment you decide not to immerse yourself in living but rather in life, how do you make the transition without stumbling?

All I know is [and it bereaves me to be learning and relearning the same thoughts and people all the time] all I know is -- it seems that the more I let the rain fall, the more the floods want to tear me down. I don't like the deceptive feeling of invincibility; to my constraint, it's a mere decoration on Achilles' feet.

Do paths cross because feet guided them, or do we all walk with our eyes on the gravel?I was counting the earthworms after a rainstorm, these tiny creatures crawling away from home when the opportunity comes only to find out that they were better off, there's nothing to quench your thirst when you're not where you want to be. And when I saw the sky beneath my feet I wondered if we were meant to live backwards all this time.I'm still wondering.

Aide said to me, "It's not because a song has an ending that you can't enjoy it while it plays" and I was reminded of all the songs I write on my hands and my walls and my heart, the same songs that fill my lungs with stormy water from the Atlantic when I wanted was to be pacific -- and I think she's wrong.I want those songs to end now.

And the point of this charade is....

This house has no coffee maker. I wanted to go on a caffeine binge last night but there is no coffee or a coffee maker.
And our mistakes help make us who we are. Well, at least the way that we handle our mistakes. And the way that we file our mistakes. There are those who say, "I did this, had a really bad turn-out, and I will never do it again." But then there are those who arrange their mistakes in a favorite-to-least-favorite fashion. I like that second filing system, and that is how I arrange mine. Perhaps touching a hot stove is in my list of least favorite mistakes, but that does not necessarily mean that I won't do it again.
Look, the point is, no one is perfect. Sometimes it only takes something bad to happen once for us to be taught our lesson. Other times, it takes longer. Nothing is black and white, nothing is absolute, allow people to learn and develop at their own pace. An iron fist does not help anyone, and I wish that everyone would stop trying to exercise control over their peers. I'm sure that sometimes it is out of love, but rarely does it help. A nudge in the right direction is good, but for one to propel themselves in that direction.. Well, it must be of their own will.
And while we are all struggling to survive, mistakes can shed new lights on things. One doesn't learn until he/she fucks up -- that is how I see it. I know that I have been told about so many degrees of hurt, but I was never able to speak about such feelings myself until I had experienced them. Get out there and find out. Experience things for yourselves. Don't live through others -- live through yourself, because who else do you have to live for?

It is what it is

"I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me." -A lonely place

A good night's sleep is non-existant. Sleep, I've forgotten what you feel like. I wore make-up this morning to work, after months and months of not. I wish that I could refuse to make the same mistake twice, a strong forceful gesture. Instead I tiptoe and hope that everything will work itself out to my advantage. I'm a fucking joke and it's written all over this journal. I'm exhausted but the above flowers made me smile. I have no idea how long I stood there. Looking. Thinking. It must've been a few minutes before I realized what I was actually feeling at that particular moment.
Okay, I thought. Here you are. You are here. And you move forward because that's the way it works; that's the only place you can go. You keep going until it stops hurting, or until you find new things to hurt you worse, I guess. And that is the human condition, all of us lurching along in our own private miseries, because that's the way it is. Because, I guess, God didn't give us any choice. You grow up, I remembered Tonantzin telling me. You learn.
When I like something, I like it all the way. I can't help it, it's just the way I am. I have tried (and failed) so many times to alter this part of my personality, and I cant. When I'm in, I'm all in, and thats all there is to it. So if I like you a lot and I call you too much or try too hard or look at you weird when we are together, I am sorry. Well for clarification: I am only sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. I'm not sorry for genuinely liking you a whole lot. That part shouldn't make anyone uncomfortable. It should be flattering if someone thinks you're really special.
I went to Aldo and bought 3 tags from their Youth Aids campaign. I had bought them for Meli, Miriam and one for myself but I felt bad and ended up giving Miriam's to Meli's gf whom I'm not too fond of anymore. I shall buy Miriam one when she comes back.
I miss those duvalin kisses I would get. I'm sorry Ms Bic Runga but you are spending all night with me.

Where are your muthafuckin' manners?

You can add "chewing with your mouth open or talking with your mouth full" to my long list of pet peeves. I took my guy friend out to dinner since he helped me a lot when I moved. It took a lot for me to not get up and leave. I wanted to run out of there during us eating salad.

*Elbows on table the whole time (no biggie but you should know better)
*Napkin never made it anywhere close to his face
*Chewing with his mouth open
*Talking with a mouthfull of steak (my jaw dropped when I saw chewed up bloody meat)
*Mashed potatoes all over his chin
*Kept staring at everyone around us

Not only that, he reaches for MY water to taste it because his tastes "funny". I slapped his hand so hard that it scared him. NOBODY that eats like an animal is gonna touch my drinks or food. I don't think I ever want to be seen at a restaurant with this fool! It's no wonder he can't get a fuckin' date! He wants ME to set him up with my friends. After last night, it's a definite "hell no" every time he asks me to set him up.

I'm so glad we went to Outback Steakhouse and not my favorite restaurant Maggiano's. I don't think I would've been able to show my face in there if I had taken him there.

Oh little heart of mine

"I left as empty as I came."



I watch her and I can't stop but feel warm inside. I'm falling in love or lust or something. Don't ask me with whom or what. I haven't got a clue. Just that I'm falling and I'm falling much to quickly and the ground doesn't look so soft.
These days, all I'm doing is just not trying to get my hopes up.

All my flowers are weeping in the shadows, screaming for attention but too silent to be heard by the ears we have covered with headphones, pouring out vibrations we'll never understand. Words sometimes can degrade an emotion so greatly, I feel ashamed for the effort made. And all I crave right now is for someone to knock on my door, fill this empty space with laughter that we don't comprehend. Can we just pretend for a moment that our love is pure and undamageable? Hearing the tea kettle whistle melodies quietly into the air, we are everything. We are e v e r y t h i n g.

Oh, little heart of mine! Show me that you can still BE!

I am currently on passive aggressive mode.

I've been trying for so long to put my body into words, you know. I have been calling for leeches in my sleep to articulate the cells, the dichotomy of my blood count. I have been contacting the pentagon. I need codebreakers. I am sure there are messages scrawled underneath my skin. I am convinced that my pores form patterns. I have been writing until my hands fall asleep, hoping I can distance myself and find the answer. I have been waiting. You have known all along, haven't you. You are reading the bones in my spine. You tap out messages to my arteries in morse code. I am neither awake nor asleep. I am done looking. I watch you, pupils dilated. I am learning more about your skin every time you whisper. I have heard stories of men who lose their memory. Who wake up in empty buildings, relearning the way the sun sets in the sky. I count the stars every night to assure myself I will not forget. I wake up alone; but these things don't matter like they used to.

We sat around high tables, smoking cigarettes as people lingered and moved on around us. There's a girl sitting accross the bar staring at us. He asks me "do you know her?" and I reply "I can't see shit right now" as I take a sip of my cherry vodka sour. I look at her and she smiles at me. I can't, for the life of me, see or remember who she is. I immediately regret leaving my glasses on the dashboard. I take another sip of my drink and give up at the fact that I just do not remember her. My glasses will get out of the car with me wherever I go. I stand 4 feet behind her and I still can't remember her. Than I realize that my glasses are not the problem. It is my memory or should I say "lack of" it. I need to learn to remember names.

Round and round

We were laying in bed, her head on my chest and than she says "te quiero mucho". I hug her tight and say nothing. After a couple of seconds of silence which seemed like an eternity, she says "don't confuse "te quiero" with "te amo". I nod my head and say "I understand" and than I say "Me too". I have no idea why I did not say anything for those few seconds. I wanted the confussion.
I draw a heart with my name in it in blue ink on her ass. She does not wash that part of her ass for a couple of days and that brings a huge smile to my face. She makes me want to make cheesy love songs cds.

.

One day, in between the comings and the goings, the wild circles and the curvey straight lines. Sometime, in between the carousel rounds that you make in my life, without the benefit of cotton candy or caramel corn or corn on the cob and elephant ears and sweets that make one's teeth hurt and stomach do loopety loops on the roller coasters. After the ups and downs and the side to sides, the back and forths and the dirt in the air that just tastes like it should, the heat from the day that rests on shoulders and arms, the sweat that is between fingers as they clasp hands and hold on, because that's just how we are taught. To hold on. To be safe.
One day after the fun, after the excitement, after the everything while we hold hands and our fingers get slippery with sweat from holding too hard and you taste the dirt on my lips, and I taste the uncertainty on yours and you give me that look...

Would you take just a moment, just a few seconds, to explain to me why everything with you has to be so fleeting when it would be so easy for us to just hold on tighter, to keep it close, to make it stay?

Why?
Why can't I ever make you stay?

.

Booze, sushi bar, boobs and short skirts - what better way to spend your night?
After 10 drinks and the best sushi, we decide to go to Barroco. It's 9:30 and everything on lower greenville is dead. We walk to "The Cave" and sit on the couch at one of the daskest corners. I straddle her and kiss her. She bites my lip as I give her a kiss. Why do kisses taste/feel so much better when you've been drinking? Drunk kissing is so much better than sex sometimes. My hand rests on her crotch and we come to the mutual conclusion that, perhaps, we should be heading home and to a bed or floor. Kissing is just so much better at times. You can't fake a kiss.

.

There is no room for modesty when you are a liar.

Yes or no? stay or go?

I apologize for the involuntary abscense these few days. B-day weekend was nothing but fun! Friends, booze, b-day cake - it was all just nice!
Getting up this morning, after a 3 day weekend, was quite difficult. At some point in the night, I took my long sleeve shirt off and slept in just pants. I don't remember taking it off, I wonder if she did it?

There are no ugly questions except those dressed in condescention.
Rose-colored lips. Say it say it say it. I'm feeling panicked and packed with hidden words, double meanings, the weight of the unspoken. And what it simply comes down to does not suffice, does not put away the urgency and sickness and fear. I could love you! I don't need permission. I don't need a higher purpose. I don't need a green light anymore; reassurance that by jumping headfirst into this I won't find just how shallow the bottom is. I just need your hand. How can I begin to tell you of the softer side of the words we cannot speak; what I mean by warmth, what I mean by happiness, what I mean by this jigsaw of past events from a period which could potentially repeat itself. I could recite every direct indication: I love you, I'm in love with you, I want you, I need you, I miss you, I'm yours. Don't leave. Don't push me away. Promise me we're in this together. Promise me when I wake up tomorrow it won't fuck over. Promise me we won't go to bed at night angry at each other. Promise to tell me when you're feeling sad, when you're angry, when you want space – open up to me, let me help you, let me be there for you, let me show you this spoken love I toss around so that somewhere down the track you won't have to ask me whether or not when we were together did I ever love you. You should already know.
One week. Sad day sunday will be.

I need you so much closer. There have been so many ideas chasing each other around in my head lately that I'm afraid to vocalize or put in writing. I vow to you because you got to me. Masterfully.

What do I ask of you? To be with me. Nothing more, nothing less (yet). Do I want less of it? no. Do I want more of it? maybe but that is still in the works. I have been overthinking the idea of "interaction". The reasons for why it doesn't seem to work well with me. Conclusion: I have nothing to say of the matter at the moment. I'm tired of lists. Pros and cons. Perhaps I should just take a risk. What is there to loose? e v e r y t h i n g!

"Someone that you don't even know exists loves you."


By summer I'll have shrugged you off, just itchy wool against my shoulders. I'll like the long hair I see reflected in store shop windows and tea spoons and when I sit my tresses will gather over my shoulders. For now I'm still bitter, the rain hasn't helped but when I stand with my toes facing east, all looks green, so lush I think it must be my shaky imagination.

Border Film Project

Border Film Project

Quitter

Mixed emotions. So many of my faces she owns. Including the last one she will see as she gets on that ride back home. Many will go with her and some will stay behind with me. Will they ever pop out again... for someone else? I'm not sure.


You are the Susie to my Calvin.

When you quit something, like smoking or drinking or cussing. Or people. The only way to do it is cold turkey. None of that less and less each day bullcrap. You've got to make a complete 180 degree turn.Otherwise you'll keep smoking. You'll drink again. You'll swear. So that's what I'm doing with you. Dropping you, cold turkey. No more of this letting go fifty percent. No more thinking of you. No more you.

I think I will quit drinking a l c o h o l for a while.

.....

You sleep straight on your back, snaking your arms around listlessly --
searching for my body that you treat as a landscape.

As hills, as valleys, as plateaus.


I cannot convey the extent of my sadness. Even if I could adequately explain to another person the things that I felt with her - calm, confidence, joy - even if I could get this across to another person, it would only be the beginning. Then I'd have to explain what it is like to have had all this, even if only by chance, and then to have lost it. I feel incompetent. My legs are numb and won't move - my words are nothing but silent. I see myself sitting there saying nothing as she slips away.

I think she could be really good for me.
But than again, she already isn't. Suddenly, sitting from afar is not enough anymore. Sly as ever, the mind plays monotone games.

You are my complimetary angle. I need to make something with my hands, something I can touch and cup.

Death leaves a lust in your joints. A sick and perfect spider. Don't you know such a thing? You must not touch it, but you will and you know you will the instant you know you mustn't.

It's what tired is. Tired is death too. A curling finger beckoning come home. Come here.

Like a good fuck and nothing you rub against satisfies your urgency. Like a momentary slam or gasp, to yell no against something, put your word up stiff like a wall.

If you want to know what I want, I'll tell you because it's easy. Because I haven't got the time to wait around until you figure it out.

Women kiss better than girls

Women kiss better than girls. I first realized this when I turned 21 and dated a few 18 year olds. The kisses were wet and sloppy and they felt like they were lost. Than I met an older woman at a bar. Her name was Layla and she wore suits to work. She was 27 when I was 21. She was drinking a martini across from me as I sat on the table drinking my smirnoff. My friend got up to go to the restroom and that's when Layla made her move. She asked if she could join me on my drink as she slipped a tequila sunrise my way. We made small talk which turned into laughs after a huge tab. We both have forgotten about our friends at this point. Within an hour, she's sitting so close to me that I can smell that perfumed oil she uses behind her ears. And than she kisses me. Heaven. Her kisses were never lost or sloppy. Her hand is running up and down, from the space of skin between my eyebrow and hairline to the curve of my jaw.

Women kiss better than girls, I think with a dreamy, drunk smile as I draw away. Women kiss so much better than girls.

My lips were going numb but I did not give a shit, I did not want her to stop. I loved sitting next to her. She's wearing this black skirt suit with high heels and sitting next to her, me in jeans, biker jacket and doc martens. I remember turning into jello everytime she'd hold my hand and lean over to kiss me. Those few months were fantastic. I can't help but wonder where she is right now. I'd like to call her but, since I've never been good at keeping numbers to stay in touch, I haven't got the slightest idea how to locate her.

Women kiss better than girls, I think to myself every time I have a tequila sunrise. Women kiss so much better than girls.

Now, at 29 years old, I am that woman.

New light

A new sun lights up my balcony and I wish to ride high along with the birds that pass by. Sometimes they stop and stare but realize that I've got nothing to give so they fly away. Someone pointed out that I've been (relatively) quiet lately. I suppose I have. Part of it is that I've been sick for a few days. Her absence is making me sick. Or perhaps I'm making myself sick. Either way, the point is that I'm sick. I've got a cough that followed a runny nose and I can't sleep unless I'm heavily medicated. This cold I caught somewhere is screwing up my appetite (food, sex, love) and is making me cranky. I definitely feel abandoned. The way this journal and my waking life inform one another reminds me most frequently of the ongoing composition of a very elaborate pantoum. The problem is, I've always been far too obscure and esoteric to be in any way understood and I notice that as I grow older. I am less and less eloquent in person and more and more apparently reckless in appearance (but yet maintaining my ever obvious sense of vanity).

I'm having trouble with spending time alone. I find myself filling every minute of my time with random people and activities. I began this morning making a phone call apologizing to someone that I (unintentionally) hurt her feelings. I have no idea where my manners went but I did something without thinking and it resulted in her getting hurt. After a long apology and explanation, we are going to the movies tomorrow.

Yesterday I drank too much. She brought a bottle of malibu rum and we made tequila sunrises until wee hours of the night. We fell asleep on the couch watching the movie channels. We recorded ourselves singing songs like "Sway" by Bic Runga (whom I'm totally in love with) and "Que Bello" by Kaira. Maybe one day I will post a link to our own version of Karaoke night.

I can't hide that I rely on you, like yellow does on blue. I want/need/love/ you, endlessly.

I mourn slightly because she's in Mexico. I love her shoulders because they are swimmer's shoulders.

There's a dream I've had for so long materializing in front of me now.


I've been feeling like a fish out of water, out of water in that I've been taking time out to sit on the showerstall floor, under the water, atleast three times a week. No soap or anything, just sitting and thumbing my fingers together and humming, because it's so enjoyable to splash. It makes me want a lomo fisheye camera, and a pool with 70's decorative tile border and strange, overly-green water.

What I like to imagine, I like to imagine, I like to imagine what my life would be like if I were a beautiful, fun girl, and I met Angelina Jolie at a movie premier, somehow, and she fell so in love with me. But then, Vin Diesel would fall in love with me, too, and they would argue and bicker about me, while I play it neutral and remain friends with them both. Of course, I'd have a british accent, just so I could be alone with Vin Diesel, and tell him what a terrible girl (in that wonderful accent) I am for having feelings for him, and he would take me into his massive, strong arms and tell me it's okay, because he feels the same.

Yes, those are the things I think about when I sit in the water.

Nonsense

I could never be an elitist.

Today has been a peculiar day in its quietness and simplicity. My hair is messy and my face gives the impression that I need a shower. I've got work to do and all I can think about is that my hair needs a major update. And I fall in love so easily. The index finger on my right hand hurts because I've been constantly biting my nails. Yes, I am emotionally catatonic.

And there is nothing I'd rather do than spend all day in the sack with you

F N

Frank Neidhardt