Friday, October 3, 2008

As KEXP counts down, I count up

from Tumblr post:

I should be asleep now. Considering I'm sick as a dog - supposedly, but the drugs are working. Except for that hour where the first antibiotic made me dizzy and my vision turned all blurry and seeing two for one and like I was drunk before I'd even touched the wine. Got the French doctor lady to change that 'script for shizzle.

So, instead of going out with hot Jimmy down the block who is a first year in my program and who SMS'd me about where the party was tonight, I stayed home and caught up on my VP debate and McCain on The View.

The next-door neighbor knocked and I was tired and I thought he'd want to flirt because we've fucked a couple of times and he took me to my first bath house in Paris and then took me there again where we did a little exchangiste action and I got a sexy older man's cock up my ass. So, I really wasn't in the mood to talk to him though because the last time we were in a sexual position I was tired and spent and he was, like, begging me to finish him off in the cabin at the end of the hall of said bath house. And, last night I let The Filmmaker come over and fuck me on the overly noisy futon-couch thing in my apartment. But I let the neighbor in and he didn't make sly remarks on how long or short it took Filmmaker to get me off (like he did after the Pool Boy fucked me - and yes, it was short and small and bad). He actually came over to gloat about his daughter - who has the misfortune of sleeping directly opposite the wall of the futon-fuck-couch - and to show me a clip of her in Disney France's high school equivalent of some show on Nickelodeon. It made me want to corrupt her more. Granted, when I see her, she's dressed all hottie French high schooler, in the TV show, she's all baggy pants and high fives. A total contrast to deflate any boner.

Yes, I should go to bed. Considering I'm Tumblring about Nickelodeon.

I don't really want to talk about Mike. To me he is a figment in a sense. If I tried to describe him, I'd get it all wrong. Except for the blonde hair and glasses. A son of a hard-ass military dad. A punk rocker. We were all too snobby to pay attention to each other. I think he was brilliant for a kid. He was shy. Liberty loved him. And I vaguely remember seeing him the night before he offed himself. If it was premeditated, it was keenly covered up. We drank whiskey in the van on the way to his funeral. I was dating one of the punk friends. We were somber, not sober. He was straight-edge. He was in the casket. It was surreal.

And none of this matters. It's not who he was at the time, because that was not his beauty. He was in a good band. He had followers in the city. But who he was then is not who he was. Is. He is who he is within me. With me. Daily. Weekly. Monthly. In autumn. In October. He is my inspiration. He is standing over my left shoulder. He is enjoying things now. He is kicking my ass. He is a reminder. He is alive.

This is Mike.

I sent a drunk dial email to about 10 members of my family telling them briefly that I miss them and love them. I do. I feel a bit homesick. I felt more homesick while being sick, on the metro, heading from school to the doctor's appointment. A mom got on with her stroller and baby infant son. He was sick. She was rapid to pull out the medicine she'd just scored and to feed it to him. Hold his hand, look at him, smile, pull his hoody off, try to energize him. She was so concerned and focused and in love and wanting to do anything for him. I have never known this feeling for another person. It was fascinating to see. I was proud of her and knew he was in good hands. And then I missed my mum. I wished she was there to just smoothly rub my forehead.

And then, I am a sick fuck and immediately thought about wanting to fuck on the fever. It's an incredible feeling to fuck while delusional. I did a bit of that last night with the Filmmaker. After seeing that juice, soup, garlic, Dayquil were not improving my situation, I threw it to the wind and went out for whiskey with him. And then back to my apartment and more whiskey and cigarettes and making out and fucking and then a long, detailed, gruffly whispered story about Lola, a 12-year-old girl getting fucked the first time by her brother Vladimir on a playground, who ditches and is replaced by his friend Dimitri - all the while, I was speeding up the vibrator on my clit.

In the morning he fisted me. And I got a fill of protein. Nothing chases cum like a pain au chocolat, I tell you.

Yes, these are the drunk thoughts which should be put to sleep before I divulge too much.

"Cathy, I'm lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping. I'm empty and aching and I don't know why. Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike. They've all come to look for America." - Simon & Garfunkel, on KEXP.

1 comment:

noman said...

I hope your media mavens will brighten your October