(attention whore)

attention: whore,

running for cover from tickle fights into the arms of the man who is not mine.

missing mine and settling for less for the warmth of company, blurry lines 'tween you and i and him and her and she and he and they and us.

i'm marrying monotony and missing out on memories of collegiate tall-tales, and i'm clinging to the hopes of happilyeverafter without first exploring just what that means. and i'm seeking love in company i know and finding something like it where i expect it least.

maybe this is what it feels like to let go.

modernmystery.

i think you are so annoying,
that's why you get so disappointing.
i swear you are so important,
nothing you do is pointless,

yeah.

there is no modern mystery

official.

officially official.
he made the big gesture.

and i'm content, and i am comfortable, and i am calm in my heart of hearts.

and i am
happy.
happy.
happy.

aaroneous.

aloners.

:/

firsts

john cameron mitchell. live and in person. hilarious and touching and nostalgic and personal.

complete beauty.

click the link, yo.

EDITat11:24p.m.

i've never before so appreciated desks and open door policies.

it's wednesday night, and i'm not a drinker.
i'm a worrier, a lover, a compulsive facebook-er.
it's late, and i'm tuned into the party down the hall
to the melodies of hellogoodbye.

watching. listening. worrying.

EDITat3:12a.m.

righteousness is so two years ago. it's much less fun when your heart's involved.

first snow

the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve
of the first snow—

so the gods shake us from our sleep.

i've been contemplating for what seems like eternities (rather endless days and sleepless nights of tangled arms and legs and b-b-b-bodies interwoven into one ethereal experience) the perfect pseudonym for him. or you, depending on who's reading. i just can't pick one. i was struggling with fiction and fantasy, pouring over obscure references passed over in conversation, and, finally, finally, one stuck:

the blue bandit, bb for short.

i'm beginning to feel the murmurings of something big with this eponymous bb. i feel particularly clever in his presence, though my penchant for trusting (read: gullible) is driving me mad. i'm hiding in your bed, and you're hiding in your bed.

and i'm playing both nursemaid and the crazy patient.

bb makes me feel warm and secure with gripping bear hugs (not fatal. yet.) and whisperings of innuendo fmeo. the kisses and pleadings and failure to convey properly only endear him further. and i'm pressing my heart closerandcloserandcloser until the only remnants of me are the greasy smudges on eyeglasses, creating the cling-wrap effect of the coloring of overwhelming sentiments.

and i'm getting small tokens from suitors who i'd like to feel for in the abstract, but my mind's so wrapped around the tightly-trimmed cleanly nail of the blue bandit, masked and waiting and enigmatic and wholly feeling for me.

and that's the thing that helps me sleep at night, often wrapped in his embrace:

helikesmehelikesmehelikesme

i think it's a sure sign of something grandiose, as i witnessed my first real northern snowfall this week. it was epically beautiful, the misting flakes hitting my upturned face in a torrent of smile-inducing precipitation.

and i took it all in as he took my hand and guided me from the window
home.

lay down your arms now

see the world
find an old fashioned girl
and when all's been said and done
it's the things that are given, not won
are the things that you want

i'm breaking down the boys' fort and playing kissing games with tickling and non-diegetic (or is it diegetic?) uproars of giggles and hand-grabbing. i'm being an old-fashioned girl and using too many hyphens, but i'm finding it harder to push away the insecurities and the nagging of a mind too concentrated on the things that ultimately don't matter. i'm losing my focus into words and theories and scents, closing my eyes and trying to grab the reins from the dispassionate and impossibly stubborn and self-righteous contexts of life simply working out.

i'm rushing the fort with t's and holy shoes (hole-y, not saintly), obscure and idiosyncratic, and he's kissing me through murmurings and questions and terror and mock indignation. and he's kissing me with the lights off, and i'm kissing him with my eyes closed, and i'm falling faster.

i'm toppling the fort with scores of laughter and breathlessness, and it'sworkingit'sworkingit'sworking.

maybe he's falling too

addled.

it's something more.

itisgaspingbreathsandclutchinghandsandintertwinedfingersanddesperationandhearttugsand
earsandearsandearsandticklingandsomethingapproachingtherealsentimentalityoflove.

and i like it.