If it hadn't rained, tonight would be a porch-and-cigarette night.

Cute is a curseword. I knew it would be one of these days when I looked at the television and thought Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' would be good.

As it is, it's a night for ruby port. It's been here since my birthday, in accordance with my oath. Ruby port, and floor-length black gown. Contemplating grand escapades and escapes. All I need is mascara.

As it is, I have Phantom-Kitten-the-Restless squirming on my lap. Or having other wil-o-the-wisp adventures.

Perchance this is the result of plowing through Elizabeth Swados' Flamboy�nt. Probably, it is the result of me not wanting to call the navy recriuter. Hell. The navy will be there, a looming option till I'm 35.

The idea of picking up like that, leaving my live of decadent lesbianism and mild bohemia, fills me with dread. Leaving my job, which is the first job I've /liked/ in a really long time.

Mmm, port. I chose port as it went with my mood and my outfit. I've a stoli citrona in the fridge, but I cannae have it now... one of the few useful nuggets my pere inflicted on me before I left home: do not mix the grape and the grain.

There is also brandy, kaluha, and vodka, just to show what I've given up by indugling in port for the sake of fashion. Particularily when there is no one to see. Save, of course, vicariously through my exhibitionism, you electronic trickles.

And, oh god, I should have known better than to chase a depression with a depressant.

More port, and 'Dangerous Game' from Jekyll & Hyde playing. Bloody hell.

I don't /need/ more port, but dammit, I am going to have more.

Beauty over pain, always.

<<agé chose>>

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