But she’s been good. She hasn’t called him, hasn’t texted him, hasn’t emailed or facebooked him. In true masochistic tendency, all she’s done is pined-fucking-away after his photos and thought about what already happened, and then thought about the infinite number of possible futures, all remote, and all crazy.
Why hello there. I’ve missed you.
And Atlas Shrugged is sitting on the corner of my bookshelf, taunting me. Read me. I am a classic. I am scholarly. Stop it with the Harry Potter nonsense. It’s almost as bad as those sparkly vampires. Whose iridescent skin glitters like diamonds beneath the sunlight. what god-awful writing. And she fancies herself a writer.
Well… I do to. Fancy ME a writer, not her.
I’m getting sleepy. and old. and in an effort to combat old age, i have decided to paint my nails a matte-ish purple lavender for the wedding. It adds an element of whimsy, don’t you think? not to the wedding – it’s not my wedding and i certain do not hope to detract from the bride and groom’s special day. But to an otherwise boring, i’ve-seen-you-wear-that-before-on-facebook dress. Although I do love the floucy skirt. And the pockets. I LOVE pockets.
If I really like you, I may ask if I can live in your pocket for a while.