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12:16 a.m., Sunday night or early Monday morning, whichever way you choose to look at it.
It's been raining all weekend, and, even through all the dark clouds and supposed gloom, it's been a good weekend. A good week, I think.
I danced on friday, learned that I do know what my limits are, and should follow them. Par Example, when a girl says, share a drink with me, and that drink is an Adios Muthafokker, you should say no. Just no. Buy the drink, get your own, of whatever you were having, water, air, whatever. But not that blue Klingon Ale-esque thing. No.
Crashed on Dave's couch, and slept to the soothing sounds of rain plinking on the wrought iron metal railings of his apartment. My back was not happy with me, but my mind was.
Got to Holly's Birthday party unscathed, and got to hang with old friends, new ones, and had a great time. Wrastled some, juggled some (passing no less with Zeke), ranted some, flirted some, talked about Christ in my life some, about sex, and allergies, food, friends, movies, writing, and caffine. I got to learn about some of the people that I know pretty well, and some more about those who I'm just getting to know. And was delightfuly flashed (very nice breasts, yes, indeed.)
I slept restlessly. For all of my goings, I was (and am, yet) quite tired.
And for all the good time I've had this weekend, I can't help but feel a bit lacking, and down. Like I'm missing a target. Like I'm missing the war, and my time is passing by like Elves to the west...there is a sadness that I cannot place, and I don't know why.
The rain stopped earlier this evening, but everything outside is covered with a layer of rich, moist glistening. Like nature decided to wrap the world in saran wrap...
I've wanted to write so much this week past. And so much of it has remained locked inside of the cavity of my skull, and I can't get it out--no--I don't *want* to get it out. Not in a journal, not here. Other ways; ways that I have long since neglected.
I think that I want to go out and wait for the rain again.
It's been raining all weekend, and, even through all the dark clouds and supposed gloom, it's been a good weekend. A good week, I think.
I danced on friday, learned that I do know what my limits are, and should follow them. Par Example, when a girl says, share a drink with me, and that drink is an Adios Muthafokker, you should say no. Just no. Buy the drink, get your own, of whatever you were having, water, air, whatever. But not that blue Klingon Ale-esque thing. No.
Crashed on Dave's couch, and slept to the soothing sounds of rain plinking on the wrought iron metal railings of his apartment. My back was not happy with me, but my mind was.
Got to Holly's Birthday party unscathed, and got to hang with old friends, new ones, and had a great time. Wrastled some, juggled some (passing no less with Zeke), ranted some, flirted some, talked about Christ in my life some, about sex, and allergies, food, friends, movies, writing, and caffine. I got to learn about some of the people that I know pretty well, and some more about those who I'm just getting to know. And was delightfuly flashed (very nice breasts, yes, indeed.)
I slept restlessly. For all of my goings, I was (and am, yet) quite tired.
And for all the good time I've had this weekend, I can't help but feel a bit lacking, and down. Like I'm missing a target. Like I'm missing the war, and my time is passing by like Elves to the west...there is a sadness that I cannot place, and I don't know why.
The rain stopped earlier this evening, but everything outside is covered with a layer of rich, moist glistening. Like nature decided to wrap the world in saran wrap...
I've wanted to write so much this week past. And so much of it has remained locked inside of the cavity of my skull, and I can't get it out--no--I don't *want* to get it out. Not in a journal, not here. Other ways; ways that I have long since neglected.
I think that I want to go out and wait for the rain again.
