| [ |
mood |
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 drunk |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Led Zepplin - Thank You |
] |
Dontcha know it, but all I really want right now's a cheap apartment. All I want in it's pretty fucking easy, too. A Smith-Corona Wordsmith on a desk with a pile of papers, an easel in the corner with some tubs of acrylic paint and some canvases, a bigass pile of books in the corner.
The kitchen'll have a small stove, a fridge, and the cheapest microwave I can get my hands on. As much cheap booze as I can get my hands on, whatever's on sale so I can drink. And Drugs-With-A-Capital-D? If they're free. And they should be.
There'll be a couch, too, and a bed with squeaky springs and a bigass teddy bear. His name's gonna' be Frank. Like that rabbit in Donnie Darko, except he's not gonna' be a rabbit. He's gonna' be a bear. A stuffed bear. A teddy bear.
The walls're gonna' be peeling, the lights flickering on and off, the windows probably barred. The bathroom'll run rusty water, probably, and have a tiny little bathtub so I can sit around there drunk or stoned and writing, reading, smoking, drinking... whatever the fuck doesn't involve electrical appliances.
No, you're right. I don't want to die.
Not yet, at least.
That's all I want, right now.
That, and my boyfriend.
Sex in showers is good. Very good.
Neat freak is also very good.
My boyfriend's messy as hell.
My bedroom's messy, but in a strange way. Everything's exactly where I want it to be. Personally, I'm a weird type of neat freak. I prefer the appearance of messiness, but I need to know where absolutely everything is, and what position it's in. Precisely. I'll move a book, for example, until it looks right.
Hell, sometimes I'll even mess things up in my room for half an hour, only to mess things up again in another five minutes for another half hour, so that everything looks perfect to me.
My bookshelves, for example, have about a thousand books on them. Ask me where any book on the shelf in, and I'll point directly to it. It's all messy, in random piles scattered over the shelves in the corner of my room, but I know where everything is.
I want the apartment to be empty, other than that. No televisions, no computers. Go to a coffee shop or friend's place if I want to get online. No distractions, that way. Just my Smith Corona on my desk, my easel in the corner, my bed and couch, my fridge and microwave and small stove. My bigass fucking teddy bear.
I sort of want to live alone, have an apartment to myself, but I know my friends would hate it. They'd tell me that I'm all alone, that I need to have someone there because otherwise I'll "retreat" into my head. Apparently, according to everyone, I'm a very social person.
I think that it's a crock of shit, though.
Really, I'm scared shitless of social interaction. I hate it, I loathe it, I abhor it. But hell with it, it's always been my way, so whenever I'm scared shitless of something or another, I do it.
Fuck conquering my fears.
It's a rush, and it keeps my mind of being scared shitless, strange as it sounds.
Y'see, I got this picture in my head of this place. Just... streets, apartments, shit like that. The characters there're more real to me, and the places there, than the randomass people I see walking around Hong Kong.
This last while, I haven't seen shit. I haven't seen shit since my friend saw and described the places in my head while on a cough syrup trip. I used to be sleep deprived enough to see these places, only these places, and be totally removed from this bullshit we call reality.
Just fucking trippy. Freaked me the hell out.
This is why she doesn't do cough syrup anymore, really. Because she kept seeing parts of the world inside my head.
Hmm. I'm probably only talking like this, now, 'cause I've had half a bottle of wine. Cabernet Sauvignon, one of my preferred types of wine, from Chile, one of my least favourite places.
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calm
cranky
sleepy
horny
blah
lonely
hyper
scared