New Year's Resolutions

Make sweet swirly lurv to a brown girl.

That is all.

Christmas Swag

- one blue long-sleeve shirt

- one white sheer long-sleeve shirt

- one black winter coat

- one blue undershirt

- one blue Betsey Johnson necklace

- one pair of dark blue skinny pants

Me like, me like.

Baby It's Cold Outside

Skip trip to Sugar mountain for Christmas weekend, but all I really want to do is curl up in a cabin somewhere in North Georgia with two men, one of whom I haven't even met yet.

I can dream.

He...

- laces our fingers together as he rocks back and forth

- kisses away the words in my mouth mid-stream

- cradles the back of my neck with his hand

- sucks the skin on the crook of my neck

- pins me under him to tickle my sides

- grabs fistfuls of my hair to inhale

- hooks my legs on his arms

- flips me over

- and fucks

- so well

- so, so

- fuck

- me

Reckless

Impromptu midnight meetup at a nearby town for an unspecified amount of time during which possible sexy things could happen even though I have only ever interacted with you via the internet?

Hokay, sure.

BE BACK LATER BIATCHES.

----------------------------------------------------

Thank the goddess I finally got laid.

Sure, it's another white boy (didn't I say I would try to hook up with someone more Colorful?!), but Lord have mercy can he bone. And he's bi too. Come on, there's always an exception, amirite? And there were piercings. And laughs. And sighs. And groans.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH I NEED TO SEE HIM ONE MORE TIME BEFORE THE PARENTS RETURN FROM THEIR TRIP--

Flip a Coin

You're not worth it, Mr. Ginger-Haired Boy from Class. Not a bit. You're not worth my time, my self-respect, my integrity, my principles--nothing but my shame and self-loathing. Fortunately, I have been trying my damned-nest to improve on both fronts since I transferred schools. There have been several close calls, one of which had the us shirtless in your room, but my self-control prevailed every time. How could I ever sleep with someone who doesn't respect women? Who calls breasts "titties" and makes rape jokes disguised as dick-sucking jokes? I was bored and desperate and horny and lonely. Now I realize that it is much better to be all those things than to sleep with you for a single night.

So go ahead and send me booty call after booty call. I will only save those messages to laugh at them later.

I am so over you.

Life-Changing Moment

How to eat pussy like a champ

A Day in The Life of

Every morning I wake up, I stretch my legs. I yawn. Raise my arms above my head, twist and pop. Crack my neck. I remember that I'm starting another day, another week, another year, as me:

Not white.

Not male.

Not straight.

I take inventory of the privileges I do have and count my blessings.

Walking out of the house isn't the hardest part. Sometimes, there's nothing hard about my day at all. I make my errands, drive around town, and interact with people. I may even go an entire week without having to fake a smile or hold in my words.

That isn't always the case though.

All it takes is a look, a word, a transparent thought--and I remember why I would rather stay inside my room in front of the laptop. Or the words and looks and thoughts subtly build at the back of my mind instead over a period of time, mutating into something ugly and crystallized that chafes on my knee-jerk defenses until I can't ignore it. I must call it out.

For the most part, I keep silent to keep the peace to keep my mental health intact.

What do you see first when you look at me? I'm a girl. And I'm not white. Without being aware of it, your mind neatly files me away under "Asian," so that if you refer to me later in my absence to someone else, what you say doesn't come out as, "I met this girl the other day." It's "I met this Asian girl the other day." I am labeled and packaged for your convenience. I am different. I am Other. I have been Othered all my life, and I let this unchanging fact roll over my shoulders.

It's just another day, in the life of.

Something New

You and I, apart

Our patience is a virtue

So not now--someday

Finals I Will Defeat You

I started writing when I was in middle school. A friend had shown me something she had written, a short fanfiction piece based in the Harry Potter universe, and I was hooked. Initially, I stayed in the world of fanfiction, bending established canon of various works such as Harry Potter and the Outlander series according to my own whims and predilections. I could make these characters do whatever—say whatever—I want. It was the agency and control I wielded in this imaginary world of mine that appealed to me so much. Eventually, by high school, I was applying this to original fiction.

I write in conjunction to my amateur artwork. Every time I start a new piece, I first sketch the character in my notebooks. I give her a sharp nose, a thin mouth, curly hair—anyone can tell when I have a new idea because suddenly my character is everywhere: on the backs of receipts, old homework assignments, discarded envelopes, you name it. I create shadows of her friends and family, mold her personality in the lines of her shoulders, and hint at her tragic past in scribbled asides. When I finally sit down in front of the computer, she already has an entire history before I type a single word.

The moment my narrative comes to life is in the first line of dialogue, a personal belief that reveals me as a writer more suited to crafting screenplays and short stories. I have no fondness for developing long, twisting plotlines or sending socio-political messages. I will even go further to add that my work is more like a series of character studies with generous doses of romance and eroticism. Magnifying glass in hand, I hold my people in close examination, teasing apart layers of motivation and feelings and tensions to find underlying truths about them.

As a result, I excel in dialogue and understated scenes, but lack in most other areas of writing. I registered for this workshop in the hopes that I would improve in introspection and theme-making—the “heavy stuff,” as I call it. After a few months of intensive practice, I can thankfully say that my writing has made progress. I am no longer as fearful or apprehensive as I once was about approaching serious subject matter with an equally serious hand, and nor have I lost any of the skills I had to begin with. Best of all, I was given the privilege of reading (and learning from) other people’s work.

A quick glance at my final portfolio shows that I tend to focus on the sexual and romantic. It is a celebration of human connection in relation to the horizontal tango from a woman’s perspective. While nowhere near original, my work manages to be unique in that my voice—a young, bisexual woman of color—is a voice not often heard in the literary world. Perhaps one day, I can inspire others like myself to do the same because our point of view is just as valuable, and enlightening.

Softshock

I decided to watch a Youtube video tonight about Singaporean firefighters because I'm horny and I missed you. I clicked on the first one I saw: fan-made, but with nice production values.

You were in it.

Halfway through the video, you appeared on the screen out of nowhere, and I jumped several feet in my chair. You weren't supposed to be in it. You don't hear me complaining though.

Obviously, this brought a lot of things to the forefront.

*****

Your song, by the way, is "Softshock" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I listened to their It's Blitz! album during my week there, but this song reminds me of you the most. I should have spent more time writing about that whole experience, but similar to so many other hot-button people in my life (Old Geezer, Ex, Karen, Cat, etc.), I needed time for all of the feelings and thoughts to sit. Age. Mature. Complete. I think I'm ready now, or as ready as I'll ever be.

No white girl would look at you twice here. Let's get that out of the way first. You're not a tall, white man with money or a muscular, black man with a big penis. You're short, skinny, and wear glasses. In other words, just right for me. You go unnoticed so people like me can snatch you away. You're dorky and awkward around women, masking your insecurities with bravado and cockiness. I don't mind. It's endearing because I see right through it.

You changed the game forever. I mean, I knew someone would eventually come round to shake up my preconceived notions on romance and sex, but I didn't think it would happen so soon. But there you were, perched on the edge of that beach chair with a beer in hand and a smirk on your face while I described--with hand gestures--merely one of my many sexual fantasies. We had only met hours before, but I was telling you all of this anyway. Like we had known each other for the longest time.

The connection was instant, electrifying, and suddenly everything felt new and familiar. (Was it normal to experience such a heady rush?) I brushed my fingers over the muscles on your arm, giddy and restless with excitement. (Were we going too fast?) You grinned back, eyes lingering on my dress straps. (What if I was making a mistake?) The day dragged on until I finally led you back to my room at night, with my laptop screen as a stand-in for romantic candlelight. (fuck it, let's see where this goes.) And for the record, it wasn't perfect; nothing is. But it was so damn close.

Those five days existed in a pocket of time outside the life I've returned to. On some days, I don't believe they were ever real. On others, I know better. They either passed too slowly or too quickly, depending on what we were doing at the moment. I don't even remember who else I interacted with. Just you. We had more in common that I realized, or dare to hope. You saw my weirdness in all its naked glory and chose to stay. Whatever I proposed, your only answer was "yes." How could I not have grown fond of you? How could I not?

If only there had been more time to see what we could have evolved into. When I conjure up the image of us tangled in my sheets, sticky and sated, laughing at each other, the memory tastes sweet, dissolving like sugar on the tip of my tongue to savor and hold in my mouth until there is only the ghost-taste left as a nostalgic reminder. I recall the piggyback ride you gave me as we ran down an empty street at midnight. I remember the weight of you and smile to myself.

You made me believe. You made me doubt. You tumbled into my life and just as swiftly winked out. A softshock to my soft side.

Update

Well I made a B in business class.

WHAT ABOUT MY OTHER SHIT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH--

Van Hunt - Seconds of Pleasure

I Haven't Eaten Dinner Yet

So many things due so many things due so many things due and i still have a post due here too oh god what do i do now and my grades are coming in by the 7th uh oh what if i fuck up again no that cant happen because i will be keeeeeeeled

Yeah. Finals are always fun.

Shouldn't I Be Doing Homework Instead?

I won't. I can't. I DON'T. Wait what am I *really* talking about here?

FUCK.

Simmer

The earliest memory I have of my dad is when I was three years old. I know that I was three because I am sitting on the chocolate-colored rug that only existed in my old house, before the fire. He’s pointing the video camera at me and this baby blue, larger-than-life teddy bear that towers over my squat, chubby frame. He’s talking too, but nothing audible comes out; the entire scene plays out in silence inside my head. Smiling, he waves and gestures for me to hug my new gift, which I eventually do after much coaxing. Once the Kodak moment is captured, he sets the camera down and picks me up, engulfing me in his big dad-arms that smell like food and smoke because he has just gotten off from working at the restaurant. I bury my face in his chest and inhale.

The latest memory I have of my dad is the January morning I left to return to Middlebury. We’ve been sitting in his truck for over an hour, driving to the airport in no particular hurry. We’re also in the middle of a lull because he has just finished shouting (or in his mind, lecturing) at me for my lack of drive and motivation at school while I have put on the earphones to my iPod to block out the words, wondering why I had let mom convince me last night to ask him to take me instead. You hardly talk to him anymore, she said, spend some time with him. He’s missed you. Don’t you miss him? I had pretended not to hear her question, and now it’s reverberating inside the walls of my mind, refusing to go away. I sneak a glance. Having fallen silent, his eyes stay on the road, so I finally close mine after wiping the last of my tears away.

~*~*~*~*

Someday, I will write you. It's just taking a long time.

Drive

For once, I have a post title that isn't vague and silly. It's about my CAAAAAARRRR. My gorgeous blue caaaaaaaaar that I get to drive all the time nooooooow, and I'm in luuuurv. I'm going to marry my car. I've already named it. She is Priscilla.

GO ON JUDGE ME I DON'T CAAAAARE.

Also, driving stick shift again is such a relief. I feel more like myself on the road, vrooming around in a mini-racecar.

SOMEBODY RACE ME.

Boardwalk Mess

- AAH LUCKY AND GILLIAN BACK ON I KNEW IIIIIIT WHOOOO LOOK AT THEIR WALL SEX SO HOT

- WAAANNH NO RICHARD AND ANGELA WHERE DID THEY GO OH I KNOW THEY'RE OFF HAVING WALL SEX TOO BUT WHY'S IT GOTTA BE OFFSCREEN SHOW ME

- YES YES YES YES OWEN AND MARGARET YES actually I would have preferred if their sex scene was implied *offscreen*--when she went upstairs and said, "You can bring the bag up" that's where the episode should have ended. More tasteful for them that way. Ahem. Tasteful? >_>

- WAIT WHAT ABOUT CHALKY WHITE? BRING HIM BAAAAACK

- YEAH LUCY'S FINALLY GONE

- Van Alden why you so boring snoooooooore--zzzzz

Yeah that's pretty much it.

Forever 21

a brief commentary on last night's festivities:

- best friend y u no tell me you liked me fresh year we could have hooked uuuuup and then had a horrible breakup a few weeks later

- mystery girl y u dance with me in all your gorgeousness and then leeeeave. YOU OWE ME A BIRTHDAY MAKEOUT

- Y WERE YOU SICK. she wanted your pants and i could have taken the couch.

- oh god my homework why didn't I finish it all OOPS

- FUCK I FORGOT TO TAKE PICTURES OF THE HOT MESS-NESS FUUUUUUCKITY

~*~*~*~*~*

In other news, I'm 21.

M. M.

Dammit I never know what to say to you. And I feel like I'm always failing some secret test of yours and that it doesn't surprise you at all.

GIVE ME THE ANSWERS.

Suddenly Sexy Irish

Confessional

I want to slam you against the wall, jerk your head back to expose that creamy swath of neck, and leave a bite-mark trail that winds around and around your chest. I want to pull your hair because it hurts so good for you and kiss the underside of your tiny, shell-like ears. I'll tie you up with the bedsheets that I've ripped and blindfold you for good measure. Turn the lights off. Blow hot air in skinny streams down your pale stomach and around your throbbing cock. I will lick and suck and nip. Bruise your lips and make you bleed. Swallow every moan you groan, rake my nails down your back.

You'll let me desecrate you.

Bits

Bits taken from Creative Nonfiction:


I never wanted to lose my virginity in a loving, stable relationship with a boyfriend. And no, I didn’t want to lose it after marriage. In fact, I threw away my maidenhead with a boy I barely knew one night over Spring Break in the later semester of my junior year, on the living room floor of a friend’s house between three and six in the morning. I wasn’t completely sober either. When I tell my friends this (or anyone who wishes to know), the expression on their faces is a hybrid of incredulity and pity, as if I had been tricked into that situation and taken advantage of like all good girls who unfortunately find themselves mixed up with the wrong people.

Don’t let this quiet, wholesome girl façade fool you. That night happened exactly the way I had planned it to. The boy was a friend of a friend, a 22 year-old biochemistry major I knew for all of five hours, and the entire encounter—while playful and breathless—had a current of cool detachment running underneath our movements. It didn’t hurt—that surprised me, I’ll admit that much—but we kissed each other with glazed eyes that did not truly meet until the end of the fact. The next day, he gave me a perfunctory hug, and we parted on neutral-friendly terms. My one-night stand replaced the movie ideal of a high school prom night deflowering on scented sheets to a soft rock soundtrack.

I never treated my virginity as a gift. It wasn’t a trophy, a prize to be won, or a pot of gold at the end of the sexy rainbow. It was a thorn in my side for twenty years, a personal nuisance that made me vicariously live through the details of other friends’ tales as they gestured obscenely and giggled behind their hands while I could only cock my head to the side and wonder. I had read all about sex; I was obsessed with the horizontal tango: books, stories, videos, pictures, online erotica—by the age of eighteen, I was a sex aficionado in all but practice. I wanted to be the female Casanova, bedding beautiful people by day and/or night, but my “purity”—and the misogynistic myth surrounding it—stood in the way of my wet dreams.

On the drive home, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles shone white. I was finally free.

Business Time

I need to get laid.

Stat.

When My Own Words Fail Me

I didn't know how to voice how I feel about my orientation (and my views on love and sex) so I found an excerpt from open of my favorite books instead:

"I enjoyed beauty in all its forms, fair and dark, curved and hard, spiced or pleasing. I should sample all of the delights of the world. And there were so many. It almost staggered me sometimes, how many forms of beauty there were. I saw it in the broad shoulders of a guardsman, in the handsome dark face of a young doctor from Elephantine, in the lissome movement of a eunuch dancer, in the knowing gravity of Masters of Sciences from the Museum old enough to be my grandsires. Each, in their turn, looked aside at me, and I felt their eyes following me.

There were women too who caught my eye. I saw it in the quiet girls with a way of moving that suggested depths of sensuality they had not yet plumbed, or the way some women tossed their heads, beads on the ends of their braids clicking against the smooth honey of their necks.

With all of this beauty put before [me], how could one not sample a little of each?"

Yes, No, Maybe So

I want to.

No, I don't want to.

I want to.

No, I don't want to.

I want to.

No no no no nononono--

YES. Fucking YES.

How about both? How about I fuck you and not fuck you? Can that happen? Sure, it can: I'll explain it away with theoretical physics.

PROBLEM SOLVED.

Ugh, not really.

I NEED SOMEONE BETTER. LIKE A WHOLE LOT.

That Which Has No Life

More upcoming Dragon Age 2 playthroughs:

1. James, Sarcastic Blood Mage, friendmance with Anders

2. Robin, Aggressive Sword & Shield Warrior, rivalmance with Merrill

3. Noah, Diplomatic Archer Rogue, friendmance with Fenris

This time, all dudes. Projected starting point? January 2012.

AW YEEEAAHH----

P.S. Justin Bates, your girlfriend looks very boring. You should've given Micaela a chance.

Too Old For Teenage Ennui

Utopos

It's been a year or so since I've seriously thought about you. I'm not sure why you decided to show up in my dream last night. Some highlights then:

- we got cockblocked a few times by my female roommates

- I still don't know if the setting was supposed to be alternative universe!Midd college or unknown!grad school

- there was shower fucking. with no door. in front of the roommates while they ignored the sexy spectacle. idefk

- my dorm room/suite/apartment looked fabulous. Like a Manhattan apartment in the '60s. i want to live there someday.

- there was talking, and not just obligatory-small-talk-before-sex talking either. we were talking, and there were smiles and hand-holding and...feelings? it was all very reuniony-after-a-long-time. pretty sure this is how I want to write my thomas/elizabeth short story XD

Dammit, Old Man. Are you some kind of warning? Are you trying to tell me something? "Don't fuck Diane Lane, fuck someone amazing like me"?

I'm trying to resist, man. It's hard.

He's Diane Lane and I'm Olivier Martinez

You have a girlfriend. You have a girlfriend. You have a girlfriend. You don't have a child, but still. Girlfriend. You're Diane Lane.

And I'm the super suave (HAR), super smooth (HAR), super handsome (FUCK YEAH) foreigner (LOOK I'M ASIAN) who leads you down the road to temptation.

Weeeell, in the movie your wife murders me with a snowglobe that she had given you as a gift and then you gave to ME as a gift--hahahahaha. Then you try to turn her in.

Hmm maybe Unfaithful isn't quiet my life yet.

JUST WAIT THOUGH 8D

Walt Disney Confessions

The Existence of Paradoxes

My parents will never accept the part of me that loves both women and men.

My parents will never take the things I say seriously.

My parents will never acknowledge the fact that I'll turn 21 in November and become a fully fledged adult with legitimate opinions and life views.

~~~~~

My parents are my support system and my rock.

Tumbling Down

Why why do I keep spending all my time on Tumblr why XD

Midterm week coming up, and I've got:

- 5 page food narrative
- ??? page essay of place
- 2 sets of chapter questions
- 3 prompts
- the usual reading
- questions for american literature

WIORGFSCKDBJDHNDFGFHGJLIN

Eye of The Tiger

Exercising Regimen THAT I MUST STICK TO GODDAMMIT NO MATTER WHAT GAAAAH

10 diamond push-ups per day (5 in the morning, 5 at night)

stretches, once per day

25-30 sit-ups per day (dispersed throughout the day)

Later TBA or when my piece-of-shit body can handle more exercises 8D

Must maintain regimen until I lose 5 pounds. The 5 pounds. They must go. Bye-bye.

Off/On

He likes buttsex. And he's short, as in ridiculously short. Two-inches-from-my-height kind of short. And his hair. It's pale fire orange--flattering in some lights, completely unattractive in others. His shoulders are too narrow. He slouches. His neck is short and thick. I think he's small down there too from what I could tell in his sweatpants-outline. He makes sexist jokes, and I can't tell if he's actually joking or not. HE'S TOO SKINNY, AND IT'S NOT EVEN DEFINED MUSCLE-SKINNY. Unacceptable. I can do so much better. I deserve so much better.

His eyes are really blue. Blue is my favorite color. His voice is nice to listen to. Sometimes he smells pleasant. I've never been with a redhead before. He's right here, and my other boys are way over there. He's smart when he isn't being an ass. Hannah the Legs has told me he's good in bed. I'm extremely horny. I have no other options within a 100-mile radius of me. He has his smart moments. Proximity, basically. Minimal requirements, essentially. A secret desire to get back at my parents? Okay, now I'm just grabbing at straws.

Delicious tension. That's it. It's the tension. It's my favorite toy in the world.

Crack-Pipe

Yeah apparently I've been smoking it because the two dreams I've had for the past two nights could only be induced by liberally smoking from the crack pipe. I'm talking drags that last forever, luxurious inhales that the mouth holds closed for several long seconds before releasing cracky smoke into the air. Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm smoking the crack pipe.

Dream 1: I'm with my mother, on a plane, on our way to a foreign land. Probably somewhere Asian. We land on somewhere Asianesque. There is frolicking. Then there are terrorists, and we are running from them. We don't run fast enough so they catch up to us, bind our hands and feet, and move us to an area under a major highway. Mother watches one of them masked men push me to my knees. My eyes stare at the ground. He puts a gun to my head and pulls the trigger. Instead of waking up, I stay dream-dead and rise up from my body as a ghost, observing the scene below as my mother screams and screams. ...the fuck brought THAT on?

Dream 2 (which is even worse in my opinion): I'm with Bieber-bitch, and his hand is way, way in there. I'm bouncing up and down, sorta-kinda enjoying the pumping while he stays fully clothed, which makes sense because I've never seen him naked, and I don't think I want to because the outlines of his shirts hint at a slim but nevertheless pudgy stomach pouch. Ick. Anyway, next thing I know, the dick is out and it's gi-fucking-normous, like I don't even know the fuck it's doing in my dream. He should be making a name for himself as a porn star, that's how big it was. Eventually, he comes on my stomach (SIGH), and I wipe that shit up. THEN THEN THEN his girlfriend shows up, and we try to lie only to that backfire on us surprise surprise, and she comes after me, and now we're running through a strip mall with multiple floors, but there isn't a chase song in the background which is rather disappointing because if I'm going to get pursued through a strip mall with multiple malls I want a soundtrack for it at the very least.

I remember more stuff happening, but the details have slipped my mind forever. I think it's better that way too.

God. And those are only the dreams. People, I haven't been a good, upstanding human being with morals lately. I mean even more so than usual.

Too Little, Too Late

You're gay, and I never knew. I had a chance, and I never knew. You never knew that I am too. So many missed opportunities. So many missed everythings.

I thought we had grown apart over the years as your interests veered left and mine right. To my surprise, we have more in common than the both of us had considered.

Congratulations. I...need a drink.

Creative Nonfiction

The bass vibrating from the house nearly masks the timid knock on the door. Seconds later, a girl wielding a riding crop cracks the door open and peeks through. I pull at the edges of the vest that I’ve borrowed from a friend and wave awkwardly. “I, um, got an email. Here for the party.”

Throwing the door open, her eyes lazily trail up and down my ensemble (among other places.) I sigh with relief at remembering to wear black as per the invitation’s instructions. She breaks out into a grin and moves from the doorway. “Come on in and get yourself a drink.” As I shuffle past, she helpfully adds, “By the way, the toys stay in the house. Sorry, but you can’t take them home.”

It’s dim and dark, but I can discern the outlines of my fellow students in small groups off to the corners. Murmuring or laughing raucously, they clink their glasses, the flash of black leather winking at me from their clothes. I exhale slowly. I am here, at this party, on the last weekend of the school year before exams start next Monday. I am here, and I am not going back to my room to sit in front of my laptop and play games. A girl saunters by in fishnets and boots that climb up to her thighs. This is the strangest party I have ever been invited to.

Immediately, I gravitate to the open bar and request a gin and tonic. The bartender—wearing his studded black collar like an exquisite piece of jewelry—whips my drink together in no time at all and hands it to me with a flourish. I clutch the red cup to my chest, a port in the storm in the midst of these people I don’t know, but wish to know, but with whom I cannot strike up a conversation on a whim. I check my phone for the time. 11:45pm. Have I arrived too early? Did I really think Cat would be here tonight?

I had even made a feeble attempt to confirm her weekend plans. Earlier that week on the last day of class, I had approached her on our way out and asked point-black if she had received The Email, the Secret Invitation to the Secret Exclusive Underground BDSM Party. I had tripped over the last few words of my question and felt the curious stares of our classmates on my back as they passed me at this pivotal moment. She, of course, had simply laughed (when is she ever not laughing) and touched my arm.

“Definitely. You’ll see me there.”

I had blinked a few times before her reply had truly sunken in, and a ridiculous grin spread across my face. “Awesome,” I managed without sounding breathless. “I’m going too.”

She winked. “Coming out are we?”

I wasn’t sure if she was aware of the loaded question that she had just asked me. Throat locked, I could only smile. “I guess so.”

Something New

Tall and lanky. Hmmm tall and lanky. I have to look up at him because the top of my head only reaches his shoulder. He's lean, whipcord and spare, and I wanted to jump him. Damn, why didn't I jump him. Who knows when I'll get to see him next.

In My Dreams

It was everything I wanted.

Plus I got 9 hours of sleep afterwards and woke up at noon.

Can Labor Day weekend just not end, ever?

Time Goes By (Slowly Slowly)

DRAGON*CON IN TWO DAYS HNNNGH

$100 BUDGET HAS BEEN SET

FRIEND-GIFTS HAVE BEEN ASSIGNED (DANA, DANE, BRITTANY, INDRA)

BUDDY SYSTEM HAS BEEN ESABLISHED (HURR LOOK AT THAT CLEVER TYPO I JUST MADE THAT PLAYS WITH MY NAME)

BROTHER IS OUT OF THE WAY

PARENTS ARE GONE FOR THE WEEKEND

ALL SYSTEMS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO--

I'm Back

“Can I kiss you?”

I blink once, twice, then one more time at Catarina Campbell’s wide, toothy smile looking up at me. Her tiny hands shift impatiently on my hips, and we move to the side to let someone wiggle by. Outside the space between us, the DJ is still spinning the tables, and the crush of partygoers hasn’t budged from the dance floor. Two girls to my right accidentally slosh their drinks on each other. How could no one have heard her? She fairly shouted it into my ear. Suddenly, I want to go around the room, shaking people’s shoulders, Did you hear that? Did you hear what she just asked me?

Instead, I spot a door on the other end of the room and look back at her. She watches me, waiting. Has she always been waiting and I simply never knew or stopped to consider? I swallow. “Can we go somewhere else?”

Catarina winks and nods, unaware of the warring factions inside my head, and takes my hand as she weaves us in and out of the crowd, dodging drinks and people. We pass a couple on the couch, a couple against the wall, friends chatting at the open bar. Not one of them has noticed us and said something, or barred the door, or pinched me. I’m not dreaming this time. My heart zooms up to my throat and lodges itself there for the remainder of the evening.

The door opens onto a screen porch overlooking the back yard, but there’s nothing to see but the top of her dark head that bobs up and down as she laughs and pulls me to a single wicker chair in the corner. My limbs are loose and limber and flail everywhere when I flop down on the chair. Eyes widen as she looms above me, grinning, and swings a brown leg over my own pair to make herself comfortable on my lap. She weighs nothing, but I feel every press of skin and clothing against me. My mouth has sealed itself shut, but I don’t need it because I imagine that my face is saying everything that needs to be said.

Hands cupping my face, she murmurs something I can’t quite catch because my ears have stopped working. The techno-trance filters through the walls in a muffled series of thump thump thumps, matching the rhythm in my chest. What am I stalling for? My breaths start to come out shallow and quick. This is a joke. She doesn’t want me, just another warm body. This is going to end like all the other parties and late nights, like all the other times where I’ve danced with her and talked to her and brushed my fingers over the bare patch of skin above her pants that her shirt didn’t cover, and ultimately crawled back to my dorm room alone because I couldn’t bring myself to go one step further and—

Catarina leans forward and kisses my inner monologue away.

Connaisseur

A woman is more than her breasts and ass. She has beautiful hair, curly or straight or kinky or short or long or all of the above. There's her carefully crafted nose and perfectly formed lips with even, white teeth or slightly crooked teeth with a small gap in the middle. There are her eyes: heavy-lidded, wide, sooty-lashed, slanted, sleepy. Her chin that juts out or recedes back into her face. The alluring collarbone. Her delicate, solid wrists. The elegantly tapered, cutely shortened fingers on her smooth, callused hands. The rising, falling planes of her stomach that dips down, down below. Her shoulder blades. The dimple in the small of her back. The wide swath of skin sliding over her hips and thighs to bunch and scrunch into the darkened swirls of her knees. Her sturdy, weak ankles. Toes. Little, waggling, long, prehensile toes.

How dare you look at her and filter out all these delectable features? How dare you blot out those other equally important treasures until all that's left in your mind are a pair of fucking breasts and an ass and vagina? What kind of philistine are you?

People like you don't deserve to have a woman give you the time of day.

Fabulosity

Lady Marmalade, Verse 1

Mia mia mia mia mia mia

Mia with her cafe au lait skin

Mie with her tightly coiled curls

Mia with her long rounded nose

Mia with her small dark eyes

Mia with arms and legs and hands and breasts and feet and and and

Ooooh boy I've got a new one this semester.

Same

God, these people. And I have to listen to their drivel for another year.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Spinaround

Take me back. I want to go back.

Accelerated Reader

On my to-read list:

- Invisible Man

- A Game of Thrones (and maybe the rest of the series gasp)

- Room

- Annie on my Mind

- The Well of Loneliness

Cycling

So school starts again in exactly one week.

Fuck.

It's The Heat

I had a sex dream. You were in it. I was on top, reverse-cowgirling like my life depended on it, and just as I was thisclose to getting my happy ending, my mother opens the door.

I...really don't know how to interpret sex dream #23943456.

Also, I would rather it be someone else than you. We've already established that there's zero chemistry between us in real life. What's the deal, mang?

Callbacks

So the past 3 dreams have included the ex, which is both surprising and unsurprising, because his regular appearances in my night-wanderings mean that I'm yearning for the past--times were easier, simpler, under my control, blah lah. But it's still surprising because it's him of all people that represents the whole Nostalgia angle. Why him? It's not as if our time together was life-altering and full of randy couple nonsense.

This reminds me, I need to keep up with my written dream journal. Or maybe I just have too many of these things to keep up with.

Afterthought

I never registered for fall semester classes.

Hmm.

This poses a slight problem.

DON'T STOP TIL YOU GET ENOUGH

Can I Just Keep Playing DA2 Instead?

This year I can't make any mistakes. No slip-ups. No impulsive bed-jumpings. No bouts of self-pity and pseudo-loneliness. This year I've got everything to lose.

Grass Looks Green Over Here

What the hell am I doing in Kentucky?

Wake-Up Slap

I miss you.

Meanwhile, Back at The Ranch

1. True Blood - season 4

2. Breaking Bad - season 4

3. Weeds - season 7

~~~

Work work worky work

~~~

1. HP Deathly Hallows Part 2

2. Captain America

3. Cowboys & Aliens

~~~

Kid Cudi Concert, July 21st?

~~~

Dragon*Con, Sept 4-6 <-- pipe dream

~~~

work work worky work

~~~

Dana, Brittany, Dane/Shauna, other people who don't matter as much but are still interesting to hang out with

~~~

Dragon Age 2 Legacy DLC + 4 complete playthroughs

Mass Effect 1+2 Rachel Adept playthrough...?

~~~

work work worky work

~~~

Deciding my future = looking up grad schools (singapore? australia?), emailing Shorter professors about my nonexistent classes, listening to parents' endless lectures

~~~

Dragon Age kink meme fills = too many to count

~~~

my thomas/elizabeth short story <-- I will conquer you, biatch

~*~*~*

Until next time, everyone.

No More Timeouts

Round 2 - Cancelled

Heading to Singapore on Thursday. Be back on Monday.

Can anyone say sexy reunion?

FFFFF YEEEEAAAAHH---------------

~~~~~~~

Why do my parents fucking pull that kind of shit on me? I really don't understand. If your final answer has always been no, please tell me at the beginning, not when my flight is two days away.

Okay, I still had that magical week. I'm going to take a deep breath, and calm down.

Heady Like Wine

I like the contrast between our skin. The slim, lean look of him. How my fingers thread through his wiry, dark hair. The way he struts. The smooth expanse of his back. The soapy, clean scent of his neck. His thighs. Tasting myself in his mouth. The glasses perched on his nose. The light trail of hair leading down from his bellybutton. His guilty, crooked smile. The ropes of tight muscles in his arms. The deep baritone of his voice. The speed with which we connect on several levels at once. The image of my ankles hooked around his back. Whispering to him in the dark. His breath on my face. Tracing patterns on his stomach. My head resting on his chest.

The nights we had.

Willfully Blind

I suppose deep down all I really want is true intimacy, but I'm frightened of the vulnerability it would bring so I purposefully engage in careful, detached hookups that don't lead to anywhere dangerous and expose my heart to external (and internal) elements.

Yeah, I'm just a young, foolish girl.

But damn, I came close this week. I was dancing on the edge.

New York Minute(ish)

- ipad 2 for the relatives???

- one of them's picking me up at the airport right?!

- NTU BROCHURES/INFO/HARASS THE OFFICE OF ADMISSIONS

- moar sex ('cause I got laid AGAIN last night YEEEAHH--)

- eat one more time at the lucky boneless chicken restaurant thing

- buy one-day bus/train pass

- airport: via bus/train or taxi!?

- call mother dearest (SIGH) at a reasonable hour (like 8/9pm GAG)

- PACK

- Buy something Singaporey?

Priorities: I Has Them

I need to buy condoms because I could have gotten laid AGAIN last night, but no. No condoms. This shall be fixed.

The Rich and The Poor

I still haven't visited the schools yet. AARRGGHH--

I partied from thurs night to sunday morning. I am sleepy right now.

I made friends with a bunch of malay boys at the Rebel club. We hung out the next day. It was fun. I almost slept with one of them.

I watched Green Lantern and X-Men: First Class. First one was redeemed only by Peter Saarsgard and Mark Strong. The latter made me nerd-come.

I went to Club Zouk and danced until 4:30am. While there, I made friends with Danish boys. Then I slept with one of them.

UNTIL NEXT TIME.

Kaboom

Fuck this traveling-and-making-plans shit.

Fuck this untrust I've gone and traded for my good-girl-cred.

Fuck it fuck it fuck it.

Raiders of the Lost Anime

Anime Loot So Far:

- Strawberry Panic (complete)

- Mushishi (complete)

- Canaan (complete)

- Samurai Champloo (complete)


MOAR I SAY MOAR

DADADADADA--

1. 2HWarrior Thomas Hawke in a rivalmance with Anders

2. SHMage Teagan Hawke in a rivalmance with Isabela

3. DWRogue Rachel Hawke in a sudden!rivalmance with Merrill

4. FMage Helen Hawke in a rivalmance with Fenris

I am sensing a theme here in my DA2 playthroughs. Hmm, what could it be...

8D

60 Seconds

That's the average length of time it takes for me to cook up some words to post onto this blog.

That's rather sad.

What is this, Twitter?

Someday, blog, someday I'll make beautiful, thoughtful words again.

Selamat Datang

I think that means welcome. Uh. I think.

Spotted

In Indonesia for an indefinite period of time. Updates will be sporadic at best. Going to try my hardest to make 10-post quota. Wish me LUUUUUUCK--

Ground Up

I'm better than this.

A Modest Proposal

How does one convince a stubborn old fool of anything, I wonder? Especially using the ever-so-persuasive skills I have at my disposal--not.

La Dee Da

I wonder if I can make the ten-post quota per month before the 'rents find me out. Perhaps I must tell them tonight.

Counting

Will it be today?

What Now.

A
C
D
F

Why Do I Try to Keep Coming Up With Titles?

Let me stay. Please.

Acceptance

Mother's Day is on Sunday. I wonder if that's when shit will go down. Possibly sooner. Maybe I can put off my move-out day 'til after the weekend.

HAH.

Fight or Flight

rushrushrushrushrushrushrush

Chasing Grace

No mercy here.

Day #3

Tears.

Roar of Thunder, Hear--

Help.

No Stonewalling Here

It looks like I won't making any more posts here once May shows up. Unless my parents are still willing to house me.

Hah.

Completely, Undoubtedly, Irrevocably

Fucked.

Just Add Water

Parents out of town.

Brother sleeping over at a friend's house.

It's Friday night.

I invite 3 friends over for social drinking and general shit-talking.

Two of them are an established couple. The other one is not.

After much drinking and smoking, the couple leaves.

Cue sexytime. Only not.

So very, very not.

I could recount the experience in its fully-detailed entirety, but I won't. It was that bad XD Jesus, was it bad. I confirmed that 1) it takes me a ridiculously long time for me to be ready, 2) I have a very strong gag reflex, and 3) maybe I just like girls more. Maybe, just maybe.

Oh, and I had to clean up vomit. I'm still trying to figure out the best way to remove the stain from my bedroom carpet. Thank the Deities I'm not a puker.

Sigh. A spectacular night of Fail. Just add water.

We Shall Overcome

6 papers.

Not Waving, But Drowning

Will I forever be a passive observer of my own life?

Ninja'd

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Ambition

I want to be a smut writer. I want to be the internet celebrity of smut!fanfiction. I want to have cult followings on ffnet, lj kink!memes, fictionalley, and every other fanfiction site in between. Eventually, I'll progress to original works, and they will filled with female character studies and hot lezzy action. Ok fine, I'll throw in a dash of het-smex too, if only to appease my more conventional readers. I have so many ideas in my head that aren't fit for public consumption, and I have to find a way to let them all out or I'll implode from the sheer perversity of them.

I want to make money off of this. Is this possible? I don't want to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a businessman, or a professor. I just want to write sexytimes with sexy people in sexy situations.

I can't believe it took me this long to reach this startling realization/revelation.

Tidal

Why do I keep doing this?

Why Did I Avoid Her For So Long

Heat, Lack of

The reason why I can't describe my encounters with anything more positive than "fine/nice/pleasant" is because I want emotion behind the physicality.

The reason why I can't get myself off in front of someone is because I don't feel anything more genuine than lust for him/her.

The reason why I can't write good, soakworthy smut is because I've never been in an actual, functioning relationship where the affection is mutual, and the love lasts longer than 36 hours.

But I'm terrified of emotional intimacy.

Where's a compromise when you need one?

Overdue

It's odd. Last May I couldn't stop writing about my one-night encounter with Ben--I still can't stop writing about it. Karen continues to haunt my dreams and my Microsoft Word documents with moments we will never have. I write all these short essays ruminating on my physical experiences with these people, but when I finally, finally--after months and years of wondering waiting agonizing--lose my virginity and have sex for the first time, I can hardly put together two semi-poetic sentences. What can I say? It was remarkable and unremarkable, anticlimactic and yet everything I had hoped for. Maybe, this one time, I am at a loss for words because there is too much to say--or nowhere near enough.

He was essentially a stranger. A friend of a friend I know next to nothing about. He didn't know anything about me either besides the usual information exchanged in introductions: age, school, and vices. The menage a trois I had engaged in the night before made me bold, and I decided that he was the one I would sleep with. Please know that I didn't choose him and expect flowers or a relationship afterwards. I doubted he would take me to previously unexplored sexual heights either. But before you think that I had slept with him simply because he was there, let me explain. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and tight jeans that showed off his ass, made video game references, and awkwardly danced behind me with his hands on my hips to Cee-Lo's debut album.

In short, he was a nice guy, but not so nice that he felt reluctant to bed a virgin stranger. He was patient and took his time to make me comfortable and ready, but also went along with my kinkier requests that left red trails down my back and my own ass feeling slightly numb the next day. The best part was that he still respected me in the morning and didn't treat me any differently. I had known for a long time that my first wouldn't be with a boyfriend or close friend--that would have brought a level of emotional intimacy I was determined to avoid associating with my first brush with sex. I just didn't imagine that an opportunity as perfect as that one would present itself so neatly. When we parted ways, it didn't bother me that I will probably never see him again.

The sex itself was fine. He filled me with a dull fullness that ached pleasantly and managed to last for an adequate period of time before spending himself into a Trojan. As usual, I did not get my happy ending despite his many attempts to do so, and I finished the job after he had fallen asleep. I suppose now that I've had complete sexual relations with a man, I should know once and for all which way I swing, but I've come no closer to discovering the answer than I was before. As a general rule, the first horizontal tango only gets better from here which means I will have to experiment further to gather more conclusive results. However, I will say this: in the threesome, when I let my hand slip past Shauna's belly and touched her there, it was unbearably soft, and I wish my fingers had lingered there longer.

Three Isn't Too Crowded

I am sitting on the couch, a blanket draped over my lap, when Danish appears in the doorway.

“Shauna and I are going to bed now,” he drawls.

I nod. “Yah sure whatever, see you tomorrow.”

He shifts from side to side until he seems to steel himself. “You’re welcome to join us in the bedroom. It’s an invitation.”

“What,” I blurt out. It takes another few seconds for me to fully process the meaning behind his words. “You mean—?“

“Yes, a threesome,” he plows through, “we thought it would be in everyone’s best interests to participate in such an activity.”

“Ah,” I respond stupidly. “I, uh. Yeah. I have to think about this. So a little time. To think about this.”

He walks away, and I am still seated on the couch, touching my face to gouge how drunk I am. Still very buzzed, and I know I am just now entering the tail-end of my high, but sober for the most part. I definitely did not expect this after leaving the party we were just at an hour ago. This is the fourth time I’ve been propositioned for a ménage a trois. I’ve said no all those other times. I’m tired of saying no. Can I pull it off tonight? I have to make sure somehow.

I spot Shauna walking into the bathroom, and I follow her.

“Was this threesome thing your idea?”

She laughs. “Yeah it was, actually. I’ve never been with a girl so I want to try. Danish and I have been talking about it for a bit, and you were the best candidate.”
Bug-eyed, I shake my head. Then look at her. “I have to make sure I am physically down for this.”

I cross the room and kiss her, my hands massaging the sides of her neck while she runs her fingers down my back. The realization that I can do this arrives when I slip my tongue inside her mouth, and she reacts with an enthusiastic murmur. We pull away. She takes my hand and leads me to the bed room. We commence a threesome with her boyfriend. They are both my high school friends. Whom I just had a threesome with. On my first night of Spring Break vacation. At the age of 20.

There was a rabbit vibrator involved that at one point trailed its way across my chest, dipping down my stomach to skirt the edges of my nether regions. There was one voyeur (read: yours always) who observed a couple in the throes of coitus and touched herself. There was frequent Y-dining sessions, manual stimulation, two happy endings, and one non-orgasmic Asian girl left at the end of it all. Resigned to my perpetual, self-named case of “Performance Anxiety,” I get myself off while the both of them sleep.

The next morning we all wake up at 11am and stare at each other before collapsing in a fit of self-satisfied giggles. The three of us just had our first threesome. And it was fun.

My Life is Entourage

Saturday: attend party, almost get ass but fail

Sunday: get pulled into a 3some, get ass

Monday: smoke, go out for pizza, pick up someone, sleep with that someone and get ass

Tuesday: smoke and rest

Wednesday: smoke, rest, do homework

Thursday: smoke, drink, and another possible 3some with new people?

Friday: return home

Rush? What Rush?

March 14, 2011. A day that will forever live in sexy infamy. More to come at the end of the week.

Nerdgasm > Orgasm

I bought the game yesterday. Let the good times roll.

Wish Fulfillment

So last night was my longest dream to date--well, I can't really measure how many minutes or hours it lasted, but I could definitely feel the length. It was also the first dream to feature the cast of Community, specifically Jeff, Annie, Britta, and Troy. I title this post "Wish Fulfillment" because the dream was exactly that. I was in it. I was a major player. There was plot. And dramas. And hookups/breakups/makeups.

- Britta was my college roommate, and Jeff/Annie visited often

- Troy was a peripheral character here, which makes me sad

- I was not part of their Spanish study group, but I was privy to much of what went on amongst the members

- I saw Britta/Jeff hook up in my dorm room

- I made out with Jeff in Britta's bed

- which directly led to Jeff realizing that I was not meant for him, but Annie

- my dream culminates in a Jeff/Annie kiss

- I think dream-me was bummed out about Jeff not picking me in the dream (in real life, I would be getting with Troy, durr)

- Abed, Shirley, and Pierce all made extremely brief appearances at the beginning, and then they disappeared

- Britta was not pleased with the Jeff/Annie and Jeff/dream-me dalliances

~~~

You see? The Jeff/Annie shipper is strongly ingrained in me that I can't even have sexytime with Jeff in my dreams. The show needs to throw them together in the end or I will raise unholy hell. Ahem, only on this blog of course.

This Explains My Recent Spate of Nightmares

Check, Check, aaand...Check

HOW TO KNOW IF SOMEONE IS HITTING ON YOU

1. If in a group setting, does the person tend to focus on talking to you?

2. Does the person ask you many questions about yourself?

3. Does the person constantly find reasons to touch you?

4. Does the person make a lot of eye contact with you?

5. Does the person make many jokes or efforts to be funny?

And there you have it--my foolproof checklist. No longer will I be ridiculed for my obliviousness! No longer will I miss opportunities to sharpen my game and wit! No longer will I be forced to write these posts where I lament yet another fish that swam away! NO MORE!!!

Expect one this month >_>

Darren Criss

So uh, yeah. Darren.

- curly hair
- dark-colored curly hair
- full lips
- dark eyes
- slim, but not skinny
- nice hands

For some reason, The Deity Upstairs has seen fit to create a person with nearly every single thing that can make me drop trou. This...is not fair >_>

5 Years Later And You Still Slay Me, BB

Maybe It's Drug Residue

Last night it was:

- warped college campus returns again
- Hannah F. and her posse of sausage friends appear this time around
- I wanted to join them for a rousing game of paper poker (using House of China's markers and coins/bills that Jesica so nicely lent)
- they were going to play at this candy shop called Sweet Block--"you know, the one behind Chloe's"
- Eric Stoner of all people was in it
- I had to back out of my driveway in a blue pickup
- I almost hit someone with blue pickup (who did I almost hit?!)
- Right as I got out of the driveway with Eric in the car with me (wtfuggers) I wake up

Dude, it's been weeks since I smoked. What gives? XD

120 Minutes

The elevator door slides open to reveal carpeted hallways that do not manage to absorb the ruckus Elizabeth is convinced they are making—or rather, the noise she is making. She has had more to drink, but Thom clearly cannot handle her alcohol as well as she leans on the wall, shoulders slumped and eyes half-closed. Stifling an inappropriate giggle, Elizabeth leads her by the hand in search of Thom’s hotel room. She imagines someone listening through the peephole of each door they pass, a silent Greek chorus to her night that seems to grow more absurd by the hour.

Her breathing comes out unnaturally loud (but that is only the alcohol talking), and Elizabeth can feel her fingers getting damply entangled in Thom’s own warm hand. The hallway appears to stretch out endlessly, with no one awake but them, and she starts to wonder if they will still be walking around this floor come morning when Thom blurts out, “Here.”

Room 520. There is a sad-looking art deco lamp hanging over the door and a nondescript nightstand with a vase of flowers placed between 520 and 521. Elizabeth lets go of a breath she has been holding. “Do you have the key?”

Thom makes a small “o” with her mouth and digs her hands into her pockets. Laughing—too loudly, Elizabeth thinks, panicking—she pulls out lint, pennies, paper scraps, and no key. She looks at Elizabeth and lets out another throaty chuckle. “I swear I have it, gimme a minute…”

“Maybe you left it at the bar.”

“No,” Thom replies, raising her voice, then just as quickly reverting to a whisper. “I didn’t.”

Elizabeth wants to slap herself for giggling again. “Look, how about you wait here, and I can go downstairs and look for it—“

“Got it!” she exclaims, yanking the elusive card key from a coat pocket. “I told you I—“

Elizabeth claps a hand over Thom’s mouth. “Keep your voice down!”

Thom quietly laughs through her fingers and says in a muffled voice, “Relax, we’re not disturbing anyone.”

She looks around suspiciously. “You never know.”

“You’re just being silly now.”

“Pfft, says the drunker one.”

Thomas merely raises an eyebrow, and Elizabeth belatedly realizes where her hand still is. “Ahaha, whoops.” She takes her hand away, noticing the way her fingertips graze her classmate’s generous bottom lip. Thom’s steady gaze is fixed on Elizabeth for the entire sequence, simultaneously calming her and unnerving her. “Can you just open the door now?”

Thom blinks. “Of course.” She slides the key, waits for the green light, and pops the door open. A rush of cool air flies past them, and Elizabeth discerns the dim outlines of a single bed, the TV, a writing desk, and other standard hotel furniture.

“It looks better with the lights on,” Thom remarks dryly, and Elizabeth almost jumps. “Thanks for walking me.”

“No problem,” she replies easily. “You would have fallen asleep in the bushes or something—“

“In or out, Elizabeth.”

Sapphoria

Working Title: In Town (why can I never come up with good titles)

Time: the not-so-distant future

Setting: The Holiday Inn Express in Rome, Ga

Main Characters: Elizabeth, Thomas(ina)

Plot Summary: In town for her high school reunion, Elizabeth finds herself waking up one morning in bed next to her former classmate Thomas.

Projected Length: Short Story. 20 pages?

Let's get to it, bitches.

Are You Kinseying Me?

So if I pretend that the implications behind this realization I came to this month would not ever come to fruition, then I would be brave enough to admit that I prefer women over men. Or rather, I prefer what I've experienced with them so far.

Whenever I kiss men, it's pleasant enough. I'm not one to complain about soft lips. I'm not saying that kissing men feels like a chore; there can be something sexy about contrasting body types pressed against each other--my curves and their angles, all that jazz. I just don't think I could accurately describe how much more wonderful it is to have a girl in your lap with one of her hands tangled in your hair and the other thumbing the the neckline of your shirt. There's such an abundance of sheer softness that you don't do know what to do with it so you let it fall around you, tumble on you, caress you.

When she leans forward to silence your nervous small-talk and strokes the bare skin on your shoulders, there's no way you could possibly compare that to some tall, muscular thing cornering you against the wall with his breath in your face. You can giggle and tell her you've watched her all semester long in class, and she can say the exact same thing in the exact same way. You're raring to get her naked, but you'd also be perfectly happy just to tug at the hem of her skirt and nuzzle her collarbone without expecting things to take a turn for the decidedly sexier. Kissing her (touching her) feels so different and yet so familiar.

Or how about when the girl you've watchedwantedwaited on for so damn long finally finally takes your hand and pulls you to her for a dance, her eyes not quite settled on you because even she doesn't know yet if she's sure. Her breasts are pressed against you, and her hands are on your hips, and your heart's in your throat, and you're convinced you've never felt so on edge, so on the precipice of something fucking enormous and life-altering that you could scream. Sure, you've had your eye on men before, and sometimes a certain few wanted you back. They stare at you from across a crowded room, and five seconds later, you're swapping spit with them on the couch. Did it ever feel like this? Did it ever feel as satisfying, as overwhelming, as when she looked at you, questioning, wondering, suspecting?

Did it come even remotely close?

Stateless

Maybe I've failed so many of my classes is because I just want to stay in college forever and never grow up. Or that I'm a perfectionist and I think all of my written work is utter crap--either do it right or don't do it at all. Perhaps my self-destructive, self-sabotaging tendencies have finally reared their ugly claws and are dragging me down into a disastrous spiral.

Whatever the cause is, I beat them back this past fall semester. Barely. But I beat them. It's only a baby step, but I'm climbing out of the dark hole.

I won't let my insecurities prevent me from living an actual life.

Spin Cycle

Am I doomed to repeat my mistakes?

No Titles

I don't know. I just don't know.

Gay as a Goosey

What Ever Could I Be Talking About This Time?

getoutgetoutgetoutgetout of my heeeaaad >_<

No more dreams about you, please. No more Me Sessions with you in it, please. No more scribblings of you, please. No more no more no more--

Relevant to My Interests

This.

Also this.

Dream #3498048653

- I'm at school again--but which school? Picture this: Middlebury exterior with Rockmart High interior. Weird, I know.

- I'm with a group of friends and family, mostly family. What the hell is cousin Andrew doing here?

- And why am I following them? Why are they even at the school? Oh yeah, some kind of event. Event, event, event...

- Now the scene changes--what's this? We're at an amusement park of some kind. There are teacup rides and a ferris wheel and rollercoasters. Ooh, lookit, a swinging ship.

- I'm lost, crap. I'm lost at an amusement park. Somebody help meeeeeee T_T

~~~

I was under the weather yesterday. Fever chills without the actual fever. Perhaps this faux-illness explains the extra dose of loopy in my dream last night.

Frenemies (But Not Really)

I don't want to listen to your stories. I don't want to hear about your latest sexual exploits or who you've been eyeing or who's been eyeing you. I don't want to know about all the fun you've been having. Just don't tell me anything.

I don't want ti have anything to do with your exciting college life and your exciting college hijinks. All this listening does is to remind me of what I've lost.

Maybe I Should Re-Purpose This Blog

After all, most of my posts that are over 50 words nowadays describe the crazy-ass dreams I have. Unfortunately I don't get to this site in time to accurately recap every single one so I've been posting here actually only comprises about 60% of my REM activities. Wacky, I know. And thus, once again, a recap/mash-up of *2* dreams:

- Daniel is there again. Stop fucking showing up Daniel. No, Subconscious-Esa, Dan and I are not going to get back together, EVER. Stop it.

- I'm having my palm and cards read. At this beachfront house-looking thing. Who the hell are all these people? Do I even know them in real life?

- Dad? What the frack--okay that's it. No more staying up late for you, Esa.

Stay tuned for more @_@

3:32 PM

Someday I'll write all about this four-year period known as College and not these semi-cryptic, wangsty, vague updates on my life that are 1-3 sentences in length.

I wonder when I can.

Silly Rabbit

Tricks are for kids, and Middlebury is for people who turn in things on time.

I'll stop fooling myself. I'll stay home for another semester.

Nothing New

24/7

It's gotten worse since the beginning of winter break. You occupy every free second I have to myself, and all it takes is the thought of your fingers on the back of my neck (or any of the other million things you did to me that night) before I fight to keep my hand from wandering south. You make an appearance (brief or not) in at least half of my dreams now. Whether or not this constant lust for you is healthy no longer matters. I gave up trying to forget you a long time ago.

This won't be a long post. How much more could I elaborate on the night we spent in my room? How much more could I describe the ways in which you drew sigh after sigh--shudder after shudder--from me? I think about all these tiny details, and I instantly lose myself in carnal reverie until someone or something snaps me out of it. No one should ever know how much I have regretted not going all the way with you. No one could ever know how vividly you made me felt throughout the entire experience.

I don't know if I'll see you again. But I'll remember.

Resolutions

Resolutions are silly. I stopped making them in high school. The only things I have that even remotely relate to Resolutions would be:

- my continued routine of 25 sit-ups a day (with additional stretching exercises and sit-ups)

- the slow, agonizing process of learning to cook

- occasionally looking at all of my unfinished fanfics and original works in my laptop

- sexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsex and have I mentioned SEX?

- and of course the unspoken end-goal that has only recently arisen in these past six months

So you see, I don't have New Year's Resolutions. I have Ongoing Resolutions From New Years' (Long) Past. There's no point right now in adding more so I'll just leave this already-difficult list at that.

I have no idea what will happen this year, but I'm glad as fuck 2010 is over--despite the intense highs (in every sense of the word) I had in that year.