Sunday Sulking

March 2 2009.

Wednesday and Thursday, I laughed myself to sleep. When I woke up, my bed still smelled like boy. Beautiful, colossal, broad. Trains to the city going in and out. Can hipsters love? This is Sunday sulking, eyes glued to the screen- this cute weirdo (oh, Julia Nunes, give me your heart!) strumming a ukulele, and I’m paging through pictures of kittens in cups.

The weekend: Raining all the way to Poughkeepsie. BoyAdriel was belligerent, shouting on the shuttle until Bruiser’s palm smacked across his face. Dancing in strange small rooms full of dark, lips, glowing lights and beats. Holding hands, Douce stealing packs, and I can’t light anything in all this wind. Hickeys and number 50 in my black book. Came back to the crackhouse with chapped mouths and cigarettes, watched the two struggle over Westly (“Get off!” “I won’t!”) and tumble down the hill. Cooked us up a big pot of noodles, finished the stirfry sauce, watched the British boy eat Ramen with half a scissors, the blade ducking in and out.

Girl in the shower, it’s past quiet hours. The back of my throat feels like it has been raked. I ate bread and butter for supper in my little room of light, read Balzac snuggled up in bed, eating fruit pastilles.