And the past remains real...
Thank you my friend, for mulling up the memories of penguins on the corner and the many completely out of the blue adventures into chaos. All the hours of music and swimming and driving the same 10 mile-at-max round trip over and over again, making up parallel universes we were lords and masters of. And we hadn't even discovered drugs yet, although madonna always went best with a gallon of rotgut vodka.
I came here on a different, but not entirely unrelated note though. My luck sexually lately has relied quite a bit on that magical elixir, and though I've upgraded to semi-rotgut whiskey the root of the idea stays the same. Once the liquid muse has simmered around enough inside of me I get inspired to do all sorts of things, like express my real emotions and falling short of that, at least covertly act out my desire for sex and comfort.
That roughly means I lately find myself waking up half hungover in his bed with clouded memories of sexual encounters and the driving urge to get up and away from him now before I've been close too long mixed with the knowledge that these are the only sober moments of this I'm going to get. Double edged mindfuckery. I keep trying to go on from this thought but the million ways it branches out all lead to me deleting paragraphs and trying to unravel my thoughts back to here so I think I'll just quit and hope tomorrow is better.
