Jan. 15th, 2009

thewordofweb: (this constant change: by ?)
I cannot believe he fucking heckled me.

...That's about the only thing that comes to mind as I sit there with the brush and shove it through the long hair, still figuring out how I'm going about this. This, this being whatever attachments have fused and grown firmer in our time here and through yesterday (however you explain that) and this morning (I'm not sure if we can explain that away, given our sobriety) and now I'm standing at the door we share in a strapless red number that cuts down to my ankles and my bare feet press against the wooden floor.

There is a very set plan about this and I might have even stolen some products for the night, pressing pink to lips and smudges to eyes in a simplistic way the likes that Oscar Wilde would have very much approved of (it's really almost as if this place and these events would have fit so perfectly in his novels). So there I am, with a plan, and with a single knock on Joe's door, it's not going to reverse, now.

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thewordofweb

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