Can't comprehend all the shit I'm still wanting, though I go a lot of it. Mostly to dance. It's cold and I want the hot. My cat wants the snuggles.

I want the power to say the things I want to say up front and center-- how I love my boy, how I am afraid that I am dipping into self-hatred, how I worry about our (inevitable?) mutual boredom, how alike we are and how silent. How I should get a case of beer and drink it, but I am not going to. I am going to maybe have a St. Germain and Chambourd, and let my cat cling. And... well, who knows.

Most of all, I want to get the boy a tea kettle.

And I feel rediculous, and in the ether. Much as I love this apartment, these songs, this media.

<<agé chose>>

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