I am packing a bag of clothes to board a train tomorrow. I'm going to go see my family for Thanksgiving.
I am listening to Prince. I am a little stoned. There is a glass of red wine by my side.
I told Diego today that I was talking to a boy, a boy that I like, that I have tried again and again to make something happen with. And he, Diego, made the analogy, a wise one, about "Party at Our Place."
I used to have this t-shirt, bright blue, that said, "Party at Our Place," which I have come to assume is some Chuck E. Cheese-like children's birthday party venue. I used to wear this t-shirt all the time. Over and over again. It was comfortable but I also felt cute in it. I really liked the shirt, the fit, the feel, the mood, the color - everything about it. At some point, Jacob made some comment about how unsurprising it was that I was yet again wearing this "Party at Our Place" shirt. Diego was there at the time and seconded this comment and both of them told me I was never allowed to wear the shirt again, that they were sick of seeing it.
This t-shirt, my attachment to that, is the same as whatever is going on with this boy. Diego said they were one and the same. I am not sure the analogy is apt but it sounds like it could be and definitely gave me pause. Either way, I think he's sick of hearing about this person. I kind of am too. But I see his Facebook picture every now and then in my feed and I get all sixteen old high school student seeing that cute boy in the hall and all nervous and shit and holding their books tight to their chest as they swoon and think about fainting, and I think that I want to kiss this person, this cute fucking person.
I'm going to try to hang out with him this weekend once I return from time with my family.
I may have scabies, which I think I got from sleeping with people at the MIX Festival - I have been itchy ever since. And in another physical irritation brought about sex, my pelvic area is really sore from having wasted sex with one of my friends this weekend. I'm hoping it's just soreness, but then there is another part of me that spent a large part of the day Googling hernia symptoms.
Prince is playing. I don't have health insurance. I just scratch myself and get stoned. And I play Prince! I play him loud, loud, loud and play this one song on repeat over and over tonight, the "Party at Our Place" analogy again rearing its head, this thing with repetition, some specific fears and insecurities eased immensely by repeating something over and over again, jamming out to "Forever in My Life."