It can be so hard sometimes just to focus on your own thoughts. It’s in these moments of quiet contemplation and enforced solitude, of a self-awareness brought on by the presence of foreign sensation, that the amount of stimulus that exists surprisingly can drive you into a moment with yourself and your thoughts.
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Photograph submitted by jeunefille18.
Sometimes, you just want her all at once. You realize that you’re not capable of such a thing. You bring her close but you can never quite bring her close enough. You press yourself into her with such force that you suppose that perhaps you’ll finally just fall into her.
The top layer of our cells are sloughed off. It’s a little disgusting to think about, but there’s something romantic about the idea that we leave a little bit of ourselves everywhere we go and on everything we touch. And so you can figure that part of her is on you, part of you is on her.
And you figure maybe that’s a huge part of intimacy: not being sure what’s you and what’s her anymore.
This is the story of the thief and the girl he took home to his partner-in-crime.
It’s such a shame. I have a horrible tendency to root for the villain.
After I’m played with, I go right to a mirror. I like to hunt for bruises, for burst capillaries, for scratches. I think certain kinds bruises look gorgeous, the way the color manifests itself on the skin. I’ve always thought hickeys looked like fireworks. I like the feeling of being marked and being in some way possessed through this.
I carry myself differently when I’m bruised. I usually make a concerted effort to cover them, but I still recognize they’re there. They make me hyperaware of my body. They make me feel gorgeous and unique.
These next few days are going to require discipline. Unfortunately, not the sort I’m inclined to enjoy.
It’s always a little sad when I realize the sundresses won’t be coming back out again for a while.
Ohhh yeahhh.
Serious time: It’s so upsetting to me that such a beautiful book was banned solely on the fact that it contains a depiction of lesbian sex. It was not only a gorgeous aspect of the novel, but it should be held to the same standard as the straight sex scenes in a ton of the books I had to read in high school. Come on, America.
In the light of the fact that Norwegian Wood has been removed from the summer reading list of a certain school district due to its “graphic” depictions of lesbian sex (this in turn apparently constitutes “pushing the homosexual agenda,” whatever that means), I have ordered this book, and two others. Montecervesa will not stand for the banning or restriction of books, whatever their content.
There are a few other books in my reading queue before I’ll get to them, but in a short time, I hope to qualify fully for Miss Ivy’s attention on this front. Wish me luck, folks.
Holy hell. Murakami is my absolute favorite author. I just can’t even. I don’t know if I have it in me to disrespect him enough by knocking over these books to get to the lady, but damn.
Bring me Murakami, I will make love to you. Discuss Murakami with me intelligently, I will marry you. Tell me how the absurd, fantastical conflict in Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World affected you in a very real way and I will never, ever let you out of my sight. Ever.
Take it from me: With those colder months approaching, being bound and naked in front of a fire is a wonderful feeling. Just trust me on this one here. But be prepared to get some chills once you move away from the heat.
(No, literally, have a robe or a sweater on hand.)
I can’t smile in pictures. It’s like an affliction. I think it all boils down to the fact that posing for a photograph feels so unnatural to me. You have to break up the action. You have to stop what you’re doing to prove to some mirrors and film that you’re having a lovely time. I don’t want to put a hold on what I’m doing. I just want life to go on, uncaptured and uninterrupted.
That being said, don’t get me started on my problems with the whole notion of going to a department store to take a family photo on a white background. You’ll have me griping for hours.
Legs Malone, photographed by Don Spiro.