So I'm going to bed, but, of course, not to sleep. I'm going to sidle up to a nice slice of my Lit textbook and make sauce with the reading I was supposed to have done last Thursday. I blame the post, and the prices of used textbooks. Like seasoned whores. Honestly. And some even with the inky marks of passion in.

But everything is here, save my workbook for Italian, which I shall have to procure elsewhere.

Everything is here, including the small grey item which was the only thing missing from the perfection of My Part of this house.

Now he is making the small of my back the warmest place in the house. I don't mind, in spite of 90 degrees and humidity like a steam bath with no mentholated.

Which reminds me. The Ex-Marine (who is in desperate need of a nickname) smokes menthols. Newports.

If he wasn't a Pisces, I'd swear he was a Darlingboy. But well... he is a Pisces.

So toss me a cigarette, will you? There's a love.

<<agé chose>>

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