So I'm in la-la space this week. Skipping over puddles, waving at the birds, call it what you want. The week before that, I had a feeling it was coming. It's one of those inevitabilities that you know is just over that hill crest, like you're ascending on a rollercoaster, but you're raising your hands in the air and saying fuck it let's go on this adventure. Like those times when you book your first flight alone. You feel nervous excitement, and a sensation that your life is going to be better for doing it.
But also this week, I feel drunk. Too drunk. And my alcohol consumption was to help other people, not myself. It's there to help other people feel better, happier, and have a bit of a chin wag, trying to open another's' perspective and let them know that the world isn't going to end. I just wish those people didn't have such a mighty strong alcohol tolerance. Because through helping them, I'm hurting me. But that's often the way it goes.
Really, well every bloody moment of my day & night, I'm daydreaming. I just want to be under her special blanky again, breathing foggy breath, and holding onto her for dear life while she teaches me a lesson in seduction and the art of keeping warm. Well, that's what I'm calling it. What else could it possibly be called? I want to eat her soup and bread, I want to be her ice cream, I want to be stuffed & stitched, filled with cotton, and fitted with a trunk. I want to be a large old steering wheel that takes ages and effort to turn. I want to be a pair of red rim glasses, feeling her eyes glance just over me. And all through this, I secretly, fleetingly, futilely flirt with thoughts of pinning her down and telling her "face-down!", warmly gripping her hair, and biting her shoulder. I want, I want, me me me. That's not like me at all. What happened to helping other people? Right now, I can't help but smile...
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