Spit in my mouth. Spit in my mouth. Oh yes. Oh yes.

[jacktellslies]

The thunder is going and not stopping like the sky is moving, grinding against the streets. There is no rain.

Michelle has agreed to meet us at our house tomorrow in the afternoon. We'll take her out to a nice restaurant for lunch, and come back here for Wednesday night, which will never fail to happen, ever. Do you mind the perpetual updates on this game? I feel like a scientist. Observation changes things, yes?

I know what I want my body to be. The nails at my hips will blossom, little military medals where they don't belong, or where they do. I want the tree growing up my side, a little crow trapped or glowing within. I want more of a cathedral on my other arm, and soon. I want to go to the museum now, to find my favourite parts, the shrines, the cloisters, the saints. I am going too fast, but things will be so cheap now, while I have friends. All of my decisions are made for me in this manner.

Stephen Hawking is, obviously, adorable. He also has three kids. If you know the technicalities of how this occurred, please, please inform me. Debbie and I suspect that it had something to do with massaging his prostate. In honour of this, we salute one another at work, raising a single index finger into the air and gazing at one another. I am not sure if her expression is meant to convey sadness, discomfort, or intense desire. Frankly, I'm not sure which mine is meant to show, either. We like genius a lot. It is nice to have someone to share this with again. I am changing the name of my journal to Dear Debbie, I love our friendship.

Comments

[earlofgrey.livejournal.com]

An ex an I used to joke about drinking tea after sex, instead of smoking. It is tea time with Stephen Hawking and Patrick Stewart right now.