Most of it is waiting on those kinds of days. Hearing them walk through the house, hearing their conversations, hearing the water run, the doors open and close, the dishes slide into the washer. Hearing their phones ring, hearing their keys clack against the table, hearing chairs being pulled out, pushed in. And waiting.
bed
I have a collection of dainty little dresses that I wish I could just roll around in all the time.
(PS: Casey, I absolutely love this song and this photograph.)
No. No way. That is Ashton Kutcher, is it not? No way.
No way does the guy who comes out giggling after creating a fake physiological ambush on a celebrity manage to pull that kind of sexy. I refuse to accept it. It’s not him. It can’t be. It must be his evil twin or something.
Do this to me? Please?
this.gif.unf.
My terrible coffee to actual food consumed ratio yesterday has left me feeling pretty gross this morning. Oh, finals.
As hilarious as the caption is, it’s true. Neglect can be so freaking sexy. There is something so gripping about a partner purposely ignoring me when setting me to a task or making me stand in the corner while they do something else. It shows a huge amount of restraint on their part, too, which I think is amazing seeing as I’m one of those types who just wants to get the show on the road.
Yes its nice slut but not now the game is on
“Just checking to make sure it’s still there, Daddy.”
“Like you’re riding a train at night across some vast plain, and you catch a glimpse of a tiny light in a window of a farmhouse. In an instant it’s sucked back into the darkness behind and vanishes. But if you close your eyes, that point of light stays with you, just barely for a few moments.” – Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart.
So, I’m sick. No, not this kind of sick. (Well, that, too.) Like, sick sick. Like I have a cold.
Thankfully, my professor was super understanding and told me I could just bring my paper to seminar next week. Not so thankfully, I have to spend the day nursing myself back to health since I have a really important meeting with my department coming up AND I’ve got some really awesome weekend plans I don’t want to cancel.
Blegh.
“The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul,” – W.B. Yeats.
I’m one of those people who, in the profound words of Malcolm in the Middle, “casseroles”. It takes me a while to get used to something that’s new or changed. It happens, I don’t process it, and suddenly: ding!
This is especially true when people stay over or I stay over with someone. Even when I was a child sleeping over my grandmother’s. I’d be in this kind of limbo state where I felt neither here nor there.
Suddenly, I’d have this moment where I’d be like, “oh, I’m here now.” And then it feels like it’s been forever.
This is, of course, especially harsh when the separation occurs. Not saying I get separation anxiety, but I just “casserole” all over again.
She won’t believe he’s home until she wakes up where he is.