Sincerity. Wind-Blown Drizzle. Nothing Else.
Cat's ACA Hiphop kids are in the other room right now, partying after Undie Run.
Not that I'm irritated. I'm glad they're all having fun. (I know you, you clever little beaver, are reading some fifteen metric tons of sarcasm into that last sentence. And understandably so; I don't blame you. But that really was sincere. I promise, I won't make it a habit.) It just makes me wish that I were somewhere else.
Somewhere a damned sight better than drunken banter forcing its way through the walls of my strangely humid room. In the dark typing quietly in one window, reading out-of-print Murakami in the other.
It makes me wish that I had gone up to Carpenteria to see Marc and Miranda, and whatever other wonders of modern society San Luis Obispo saw fit to belch out of its agrarian wastelands. Not that I really want to kick it with my old buddy, however. Though that would be nice.
It's more that I really, really wish I could sit on the beach right about now. I'd sit on the sand as the night-time overcast starts to coagulate into a wind-blown drizzle. And the sand gets damp around me. I'd put The Microphones on my iPod because I'm lame and oh-so-very bourgeois. I'd sit as long as I could before the tide formally annexes the territory, as it is wont to do. I'd be cold and getting rapidly soaked. It feels like such a thin mist, but it would be surprisingly thorough. I'd probably get sand everywhere, too. Cold, gritty sand. The worst kind to get in your shoes and down your pants. That feeling I hate.
But nothing else would make me happier right now.
Not that I'm irritated. I'm glad they're all having fun. (I know you, you clever little beaver, are reading some fifteen metric tons of sarcasm into that last sentence. And understandably so; I don't blame you. But that really was sincere. I promise, I won't make it a habit.) It just makes me wish that I were somewhere else.
Somewhere a damned sight better than drunken banter forcing its way through the walls of my strangely humid room. In the dark typing quietly in one window, reading out-of-print Murakami in the other.
It makes me wish that I had gone up to Carpenteria to see Marc and Miranda, and whatever other wonders of modern society San Luis Obispo saw fit to belch out of its agrarian wastelands. Not that I really want to kick it with my old buddy, however. Though that would be nice.
It's more that I really, really wish I could sit on the beach right about now. I'd sit on the sand as the night-time overcast starts to coagulate into a wind-blown drizzle. And the sand gets damp around me. I'd put The Microphones on my iPod because I'm lame and oh-so-very bourgeois. I'd sit as long as I could before the tide formally annexes the territory, as it is wont to do. I'd be cold and getting rapidly soaked. It feels like such a thin mist, but it would be surprisingly thorough. I'd probably get sand everywhere, too. Cold, gritty sand. The worst kind to get in your shoes and down your pants. That feeling I hate.
But nothing else would make me happier right now.
posted by Unknown at 1:44 AM
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