so apparently i suck ass at quitting. fucking addictive personality. *puts down bong, lights cigarette, chews nails, puts on another pot of coffee* but....i did cancel my account so until that excludes the possibilty....i'm probably gonna be around.
i also dont have a computer for a minute..anybody want to contribute to the 'julie can't afford a new AC adaptor fund'? i'm thinking of setting up a paypal account...
okay and here's my latest greatest attempt to wax literate about my mundane life goings on...
i collapse onto his still shuddering torso - bare cheek to bare chest. my stomach muscles and jaw are hot-achey from laughing so hard. he covers his face with a pillow to muffle his girlish giggles, smother out the involuntary bursts of sound that escape his lips.
we both fight to catch our breath, we heave sighs and unclench the muscles that are knotted from the effort of hysterics. there is a moment where we are weak-limbed, panting and silent. surges of endorphins make the moment swim by hazily, like the calm after a shared orgasm.
in the semi-dark, in the just me and him places, behind front doors and bedroom doors and away from camera lenses and strangers faces - he is smarter than i am, funnier than you are and much handsomer than he thinks he is.
i wish everyone could see who he is in bed at night - the way he rolls around and shakes his shoulders when he laughs so hard (at his own jokes) that he doesn't actually make any noise at all. i wish everyone could but i'm glad nobody else gets to.
just these two pillows, side by side, underneath the window that is covered by night sky. the ocean leaks it's wave noises over our heads and we lie, side by side, facing each other. i forget that my nicotine laced breath should be turned away and he forgets that he is painfully shy.
a month to the day, of nights just like this one, are stacked up under this bed.
"why do they call it a pineapple, its neither pine nor apple", he wonders randomly and pointlessly.
"they should call it an applecone", he decides.
i crack up. but, then, that was the point.
"or like 'fruity shard of death'", he continues.
my stomach hurts all over again. he convulses under me, overwhelmed by his own hilarity. or by the fact that he is hilarious to me, at least.
these are the nights, under starry skies, that are too perfect to be real but far too pretty to be lies.
they are the times when "you're fuckin' beautiful" escapes his throat. and angry scars ask "us too? even us? even though...?" (interrupting my even, tan skin with their transcription of the teary-eyed stories of the time when cancer came to stay for awhile )
the boy renames exotic fruits to his liking and he doesn't have to answer questions never asked by my imperfect flesh.
his tears join mine when the too honest answer to 'what happened?' isn't a nostalgic tale of years ago playground mishap but of fresh and screaming terror, of cancer too young and weakness i feel too old for.
this was the time he traced my scars with his fingertips and with his tongue. this was the time he convinced me i was beautiful.
i also dont have a computer for a minute..anybody want to contribute to the 'julie can't afford a new AC adaptor fund'? i'm thinking of setting up a paypal account...
okay and here's my latest greatest attempt to wax literate about my mundane life goings on...
i collapse onto his still shuddering torso - bare cheek to bare chest. my stomach muscles and jaw are hot-achey from laughing so hard. he covers his face with a pillow to muffle his girlish giggles, smother out the involuntary bursts of sound that escape his lips.
we both fight to catch our breath, we heave sighs and unclench the muscles that are knotted from the effort of hysterics. there is a moment where we are weak-limbed, panting and silent. surges of endorphins make the moment swim by hazily, like the calm after a shared orgasm.
in the semi-dark, in the just me and him places, behind front doors and bedroom doors and away from camera lenses and strangers faces - he is smarter than i am, funnier than you are and much handsomer than he thinks he is.
i wish everyone could see who he is in bed at night - the way he rolls around and shakes his shoulders when he laughs so hard (at his own jokes) that he doesn't actually make any noise at all. i wish everyone could but i'm glad nobody else gets to.
just these two pillows, side by side, underneath the window that is covered by night sky. the ocean leaks it's wave noises over our heads and we lie, side by side, facing each other. i forget that my nicotine laced breath should be turned away and he forgets that he is painfully shy.
a month to the day, of nights just like this one, are stacked up under this bed.
"why do they call it a pineapple, its neither pine nor apple", he wonders randomly and pointlessly.
"they should call it an applecone", he decides.
i crack up. but, then, that was the point.
"or like 'fruity shard of death'", he continues.
my stomach hurts all over again. he convulses under me, overwhelmed by his own hilarity. or by the fact that he is hilarious to me, at least.
these are the nights, under starry skies, that are too perfect to be real but far too pretty to be lies.
they are the times when "you're fuckin' beautiful" escapes his throat. and angry scars ask "us too? even us? even though...?" (interrupting my even, tan skin with their transcription of the teary-eyed stories of the time when cancer came to stay for awhile )
the boy renames exotic fruits to his liking and he doesn't have to answer questions never asked by my imperfect flesh.
his tears join mine when the too honest answer to 'what happened?' isn't a nostalgic tale of years ago playground mishap but of fresh and screaming terror, of cancer too young and weakness i feel too old for.
this was the time he traced my scars with his fingertips and with his tongue. this was the time he convinced me i was beautiful.
VIEW 25 of 34 COMMENTS
it stands well as it is
but you could probably flesh it out to some kick ass short story if you wanted
much to build on
lovely characters
writing what we know usually works the best
hope all is well