"Bubbly and cloy and happy"
No, I'll skip cloy and go straight for insidious, thanks. There was never one defining moment when I knew for sure. There were plenty of jolts, plenty of "I could so easily fall in love with this person", plenty plenty plenty "good god, he is so fucking incredibly marvellously bizarre." He said, "Even if it wasn't safe" and I fell several kilometres. There was the look on his face when he saw Manson's drawing, more falling. The first time he called me boy. The fiftieth time he called me boy. There were limes and salt and naughtiness and complexity and pinches galore; being buried to our waists and talk of toes and the sound of whipped cream cans and the astral projection of grapes.
Between the jolts, there was the comfort of slipping in easily with each other, even if it had been awhile, picking up whatever strange threads and doghairs of conversation were to be found, and there were always plenty to be found; his brain is as hairy as his carpet when it's been too long between hooverings. Thank god there's no hoovering in his head, my favourite playground.
I have no idea when it happened. I think it always was.
Between the jolts, there was the comfort of slipping in easily with each other, even if it had been awhile, picking up whatever strange threads and doghairs of conversation were to be found, and there were always plenty to be found; his brain is as hairy as his carpet when it's been too long between hooverings. Thank god there's no hoovering in his head, my favourite playground.
I have no idea when it happened. I think it always was.