Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Too Many Ups

Sorry beforehand for the poor quality of this post. I'm rushing to write this because I'm meeting M. Biologique after his exam to catch a showing of Born Into Brothels.


I suppose this is it. The end of the months-long drama. I got some down 'n dirty, softcore action last night at M. Biologique's and realized this thing, this supposedly unhealthy union of lust thing, is exactly what I've been looking for.

J.Lass verbalized it perfectly for me. I've never wanted a relationship (in the traditional sense of the word). I was always looking to be validated and "getting my man" (so to speak) has helped me reach this hedonistic goal. With M. Biologique, I get to play courtship games without having to worry about social conformity and public opinion. I don't have to worry about making amends on a daily basis. I don't have to worry, period, because we live separate lives.

"You're in the perfect scenerio for you," J.Lass stressed. "There's the constant chase without ever having to settle down."

Last night, M. Biologique suggested we meet up at the chalet on top of the mountain. The invite sounded nonchalant and unofficial so I didn't feel guilty when I made a detour on my way up and ended up at JuanaMachine's to watch The Corporation (bark gets crazy in the dark, y'all). M. Biologique finally came home a few hours later and invited me over to his place (which was down the hall from where I was anyway). Apparently, he had packed a salmon picnic for me. Sweet! But I didn't end up coming. Boo! So I made it up to him in bed (MB: "It's weird that it doesn't feel weird that you're sitting on top of me naked." L: "Yeah, I know. Is that weird?"). Later, leaning against each other on the couch by candlelight (hydro, he cannot afford), we discussed our relationship, making it clear that we weren't obligated to each other. But the way it's been working out, the convenience factor has hindered both sides from forming side dishes.

My girlfriends find it upsetting that I'd agree to this sort of arrangement because I'll always be "second," thus, replaceable. But I'm reassured, knowing one does not pack picnic dinners and share intimate thoughts with any old fuck.

Aye, aye, because the only cure to bliss is having to admit there is none.


My laptop's fucked up. Won't even start up. Scared shitless my music files have been wiped clean. Going back to the "armpit" tomorrow. Mom's desperate to see me. Bought a large burlap/canvas bag with lemon yellow, mock-croc trim by Ralph Lauren. I convinced myself it was a justifiable purchase: a gift from me to me for completing my first year of university.

Hope she doesn't find out.

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