Tuesday March 29 2011

Waking up at 6 p.m.

Breakfast: English Muffin with Peanut Butter. Orange Juice. Zinc, Vitamin D.

Business.

Liquidating the house—organizing the attic—moving all my old keepsakes and things to make room for a few people moving up there.

Lunch: Grilled Cheese with Tomato. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Honey Green Tea.

James stops by. Sitting on the couch sifting through an art history book—Josiah puts on Blink 182’s Dude Ranch album (he’s really stoked about it: “All these songs are classic!”)

Mab and Jordan stop by—sharing wine with Aladdin on the TV.

Eating Strawberry Yogurt.

Showering—the queen calls me for a ride from Poon’s (her friend turned 21 and hired a party bus for the night). I’m here to serve. She’s slap silly drunk. I’ve got her in the passenger seat—listening to her stories—bar narratives about this guy and that girl and that drink and that place.

Passing the corner of Birdneck and VB Blvd…

Her: “Is Channelo’s open?!! I want pizza!”

We pull up and she discovers her credit card is missing—of course it’s the end of the world now—yelling and crying and demanding.

Her: “Where is my card?! Where is my…WHERE IS MY CAAAARD?!”

I try to be as patient as a sober boyfriend can be, but she’s thoroughly upset and her mood has reached maximum height. Attempting to ignore the parts where she lashes out on the person she cares about the most. I call the bank and we cancel the card. I grab the pizza and we jet back to my place despite all the insistent I want to go home!’s and I want my car now!’s.

In my room—chowing down on a few slices. She’s talking like a little kid…

Her: “I love pizzaaaaa!”

Lying down together in the freshly prepared futon bed I made earlier today. It’s a little bigger than the twin size mattress I’ve used ever since I was a little kid. I had a hunch you would be sleeping here tonight. Kissing—she’s whispering I love you’s. Getting on top of me—pleasure for both of us. Her sounds are more elaborative than in a sober state. You feel amazing. It doesn’t take much for me even though I try to endure as long as I can.

I’ve got the hype machine playing on the computer—Nancy Sinatra’s “Bang Bang” song starts up, a dubstep remix. Singing softly into my ear as we stand there grooving to the music, Bang bang, he shot me down. Bang bang, I hit the ground. Bang bang, that awful sound. Bang bang, my baby shot me down. I love that breathy tone in her voice. It’s such a turn-on that shoots straight through my body.

I lay her down in the bed.

Her: “Don’t go. Stay with me forever.”

Newspaper route.

Eating a little Pecan Tart Pie with Milk.

Coast to Coast AM—discussing Bigfoot: the latest findings and the validity of eye witness accounts.

Arriving back home—my baby is rustling in the bed—awakening. I tend to her and lie down for a little bit. She doesn’t remember having sex earlier but she remembers eating pizza.

That hot heat reverberates off her whole being—soft bare legs—cozier than a teddy bear. I love this energy. I want to be close—as close as I can get. Squeezing as hard as I can is the best I can do—imagining my body melting into her body. A little sex from behind—in no way would it be considered a quickie but invigorating nonetheless.

Me: “Thanks for the endorphins, honey.”

I head out of the house with a little green pack geared up with my ipod and her car keys with intent to jog to Harpoon Larry’s and drive her car back here. It’s a beautiful 3 mile trek as the sun is rising—listening to newly obtained jams from hype machine.

Dinner: Egg with a Salad and Fresh Garlic Naan Bread. Chocolate

Whiskey.

Joining her in the sack. 9:11 a.m.