Sure thing.

I’m in the bathtub and he’s wiping a cool washcloth on my slightly feverish skin. I only have boxers and a tank on. He’s wearing an apron. He ties my hair up with a toothbrush. I laugh but it ends with a cough and he urges me to sit still as he reaches under my top to wipe my back.

Me: I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.
Him: Hey it’s not like I haven’t seen you–
Me: Oh, hush! This is embarrassing. I’m not a kid.
Him: Yes, but you’re a princess. A sick princess. I have to take care of you.
Pause. He’s wiping my arm with the washcloth.
Me: You’re going to make your wife feel so loved one day.
Him: Yeah… I’m just sorry I couldn’t make her feel loved when we were still together.

Where the hell has the silent, brooding, BAMF old Brian gone?
Now he cooks me breakfast, takes care of me when I’m sick and  he plays a sissy game like Cooking Mama with me.
I’m glad I found him again. For real this time <3

zero drugs.

Mood: happily obliviously drunk and high
Earcandy: Two | Up Dharma Down

I’m picking up my camera again. If it weren’t for the new modelling gig I wouldn’t have even remembered that I actually had a decent camera. I had to practise my walk and the stupid fucking poses that the director specifically instructed us poor underfed girls.

My dealer gave me this shirt in the pic that says ZERO DRUGS.

blah, whatever. Seriously I need to write more meanigful stuff than this random post with a bad picture.

another question.

Sometimes I fear that I shall never be clever enough to do anything but stagnate in impotent desire for wit and charm and intellectuality, and never be brave enough to dwell anywhere else but the kitchen cupboard of these cautious explorations of other people’s lives.

If I had a time machine, I would take by force all the empty hours I’ve thrown away in the name of youthful profligacy.

What the fuck does it mean, “to do something with one’s life” ?

Permanent.

State: flushed cheeks, heart on fire, long sighs
Earcandy: A New Tattoo | Urbandub

The gentle opening melody of the instrument painfully plucks at the strings of this machine in my chest, and I stare at yours, exposed by the deep v of your shirt where the permanent blue ink glows as if it was new. The mere sight of you almost brings me to tears. I shut my eyes to focus on sound–I recognise the song all too well. It breaks into distorted echoing strums, fast and steady as the singing starts. The vocals are desperate, heightening to a haunting, quivering falsetto. I’m literally breathless by the time you breathe out I tremble. I have never heard you sing this way, so sweet and angry at the same time. You beg, you confess, you resign and then…  I’m marvelling from afar, waiting–toes curling, palms sweating, lips quaking–for you to sing the line that I so want to hear, and when you finally scream it out, I instantly shiver. Suddenly there’s no crowd, no band, no thought left in my mind; it’s just me sitting on the bartop and you staring me down as you rip the words from your lips and drive them straight to my heart.

I bleed for you like a new tattoo. In my heart you’ll stay…permanent.

Metaphysical conceit in a jeepney ride.

The farther you sit from me
The larger is the area for my longing

                     –Anthony L. Tan