Thursday, May 12, 2005

Forfeit

I've been waking up before sunrise for the past week, drooling and screaming at invisible demons, begging to be gunned down by a pack of hungry Bolivian marauders to put an end to my misery. The pain in my throat becomes unbearable that time of the day. Dreams come sewn together like a roll of toilet paper whether or not I wake up in the middle of an active one, the characters left frozen in their roles until I manage to return, a few agony-saturated minutes later, to carry forth the storyline between a nosy neighbour and child:

"JuanaMachine is gay. I've heard the groans of other men coming from his studio loft and once caught him wearing a silk komono as he smoked a Parisien*."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner, little girl of 12 wearing tweeds and a matching newspaper boy cap?!"

***

Did not get enough sleep last night (head unscrewed during film class). Missed half the teacher's lecture about the aesthetics of Luc Besson (I'm also nodding away right now).

I went over to M. Biologique's this morning determined to help him pack so he could avoid the whole rush, rush, foul mood scenerio I bitterly put up with. Except, once he opened the door, my go-getting became no-getting and we both quietly slipped into his bed to sleep. Have I mentioned I've been living on my couch for the past month because rotting food has become a minor health hazard capable of rendering me sterile and blind sooner than it will take to send a sink full of ketchup-stained plates and Nutella-stained everything else to the carwash? So feeling a real headboard felt marvelous.

Staring into his fridge and being greeted by the glimmer of shiny shelves, I took him out for breakfast. He felt a pang for France when we passed this tiny mom 'n pop resto hidden among other, non-descriptive establishments. I quickly made my way out, but relented to return when he stopped badgering me just long enough to hear me admit defeat:

"Mr. Sub? Dim sum? ... Burger King?"

I'm sort of looking forward to M. Biologique leaving. He was right the first time: we do spend a lot of time together. I mean, what do you call an irregular friendship based on being each other's automatic go-tos for every question and response?

A pararriage?

***

*As in, an actual brand of cigarettes from Switzerland. Not kinkilicious, French-speaking homosexual - not this time, anyway.

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