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