excerpts sort of... 03-09-06 9:39 p.m.
I haven't finished processing today, but it feels good. Even after being drenched in a rainstorm and crossed in love, today feels refreshing. I played Zelda all the way home, because I felt like walking in the rain, and then it turned into a torrential downpour capable of annihilating small dogs and large cats. There were waterfalls, cars throwing up spray four feet high, baby rivers, and massive puddles. I definitely needed a leaf in order to catch the winds to jump the worst of them.
Home was a whirlwind of drying, changing, eating, and a metamorphosis into a creature more rain-appropriate -- skirts, tights, tall ankle boots, and cute jackets. Then it was time to celebrate Hungarian independence, eat food, and inevitably: Monsieur H.Toker was there. Playing the accordion. Announcing to Joel and I his first gig as a male stripper (tonight! at 12a.m.!) because of his ennui and lack of desire to lower himself musically to accompany music school students.
Joel stepped away to get some dessert. Monsieur H.Toker's voice was crisp, and pained, as he bitterly inquired, "So, are you dating him? Or about to?" He must find me unchanged from the thoughtless briseuse des coeurs that I was at 18. (Is that functional in French?) I replied in a rush of coquetry-filled words, relaxed, confident.
Sins of the past: it's been five years. Five years. We only dated three or four months. One would think, I don't know, that maybe the world had rebooted since then and that all was forgiven and forgotten. Evidently, that is not the case.
...
PS Love to my roomie, Cody. He diagrammed "men" as a set on the hall-way wall for me last night, explaining why it would be easy for a clever girl like me to progress by becoming a trophy wife. Intelligent men, he gestured, were up here, indicating the wall about 5 inches above our heads. Geeks, he noted, were in a strata above that. The rest, he said, the rest are stupid. A sweeping circular gesture encompasses the entirety of the lower portion of the wall.
Home was a whirlwind of drying, changing, eating, and a metamorphosis into a creature more rain-appropriate -- skirts, tights, tall ankle boots, and cute jackets. Then it was time to celebrate Hungarian independence, eat food, and inevitably: Monsieur H.Toker was there. Playing the accordion. Announcing to Joel and I his first gig as a male stripper (tonight! at 12a.m.!) because of his ennui and lack of desire to lower himself musically to accompany music school students.
Joel stepped away to get some dessert. Monsieur H.Toker's voice was crisp, and pained, as he bitterly inquired, "So, are you dating him? Or about to?" He must find me unchanged from the thoughtless briseuse des coeurs that I was at 18. (Is that functional in French?) I replied in a rush of coquetry-filled words, relaxed, confident.
Sins of the past: it's been five years. Five years. We only dated three or four months. One would think, I don't know, that maybe the world had rebooted since then and that all was forgiven and forgotten. Evidently, that is not the case.
...
PS Love to my roomie, Cody. He diagrammed "men" as a set on the hall-way wall for me last night, explaining why it would be easy for a clever girl like me to progress by becoming a trophy wife. Intelligent men, he gestured, were up here, indicating the wall about 5 inches above our heads. Geeks, he noted, were in a strata above that. The rest, he said, the rest are stupid. A sweeping circular gesture encompasses the entirety of the lower portion of the wall.
posted by Kari Stevenson @ 5:42 AM
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