(no subject)
We tried to see Hostel, rach, Lea, and I, but the mr-pompous-i-work-at-the-movies-i-am-god-man wouldn't believe I was 17! I've gotten into clubs, passed for 21, but I can't see some soft-core?
So we saw Memoirs of a Geisha, ran into Kristen and Tschoppy there. I was really happy, sitting in the middle of this diverse row. It was ganstas, and nerds, and drama fags OH MY.
That, and we almost died on the way home. That was cute.
Luckily, Rachel has some mean emergency wheel-cutting skills.
I wrote a poem. I shall now be lame and share it.
My room glowed gold
Six mismatched, messy candles
The wind cried outside my window
Mournful, it cried, and clumsily, it took the power out.
Five dark, damp, solitary hours
The chill of four more months of winter
Three wax burns on my fingers
Two cold feet in my slippers
One cup of tea; cold.
One me; shivering.
Yes, I miss the heat,
But I don’t miss electricity
And I don’t miss captivity
I know why the wind cries
But I can only imagine
How you look, lit by candlelight
The wind throatily moaned the blues
Outside my tangled sheets, my tangled hair
Outside my room, cold and crimson
I did not think, not once, of peeling wax
Slowly, softly off your skin
After nearly dying, I am really happy to be alive. Being alive is crunk.
So we saw Memoirs of a Geisha, ran into Kristen and Tschoppy there. I was really happy, sitting in the middle of this diverse row. It was ganstas, and nerds, and drama fags OH MY.
That, and we almost died on the way home. That was cute.
Luckily, Rachel has some mean emergency wheel-cutting skills.
I wrote a poem. I shall now be lame and share it.
My room glowed gold
Six mismatched, messy candles
The wind cried outside my window
Mournful, it cried, and clumsily, it took the power out.
Five dark, damp, solitary hours
The chill of four more months of winter
Three wax burns on my fingers
Two cold feet in my slippers
One cup of tea; cold.
One me; shivering.
Yes, I miss the heat,
But I don’t miss electricity
And I don’t miss captivity
I know why the wind cries
But I can only imagine
How you look, lit by candlelight
The wind throatily moaned the blues
Outside my tangled sheets, my tangled hair
Outside my room, cold and crimson
I did not think, not once, of peeling wax
Slowly, softly off your skin
After nearly dying, I am really happy to be alive. Being alive is crunk.