i am fan-fucking-tastictical.
anyone who says i do not rock the pool house should be molested. scratching on the break isn't too shabby especially if the ball bounces off the other side, breaks the numbered globe triangle and sinks a stripe.
i like warm skin when it is fifty degrees outside. and moonlight crawls in between bamboo blinds creating shadows on the blankets we hide beneath. it's nice to talk to silouetted damion about stuff and feeling safe and still being a sassy lady. and i kissed him.
blowing off animated worlds and lessons on the motions of sound waves for jitterbug perfume (tom robbins). nice to be lost in someone else conceived in eight point font.
the breeze outside screams of the tropics, i swear. the temperature has been a' risin', perfect hammock weather. kickin' back with something fruity that is not ben aqua underneath early spring sun. we sat around metal tables eating food with cheese components (ham and cheese sandwich, cheese pizza) and sipping from a soup spoon (chicken noodle and minestrone) laughing about mispronunciations and my new persona. a bird swept down from the rafters, looked us straight in the eyes and stole joe's cookie. he accused me of eating it. flip flops and baggy cords, taking off the long sleeve shirt so bare arms meet the air and kiss of the sun. no fresh green leaf buds quite yet. but i break off parts of the vine wrapping up the sides of the wall. peeling back the brown bark reveals virginal green life blood.
puddles caused by the dripping of juices of the mind and tears streaming from a beating crimson heart. and puddles creating steam that rise off the sun soaked concrete, and steam swirls and causes misty eyed clouds to form.
currently spinning: joan of arc: me and america or the united