filled.


He's off to work, slaving away to assist in intoxicating the masses. I've nothing to do, and I'm putting off cleaning our room until he gets home...this is originally HIS room, after all, and I've no idea what I'll find in it- however, I know what I COULD find and that's enough to keep me waiting until he gets home -home to this blue closet of a room that smells of old wine and anal sex and dirty clothes and him- to well and truly turn this space from an orgiastic mish-mash of clothes, and guitars, and party dresses, and makeup, and sex toys, and mirrors, into a decent looking...
...
...
...is that the manic moaning of the wind, or the maniacal laughter of the ghost in the attic? Hold on, I need music...

...Mmm.
Minor keys.
Much better.


There used to be a wheelchair in the corner. It's now in transition to the garage, hung in livingroom limbo. I kind of miss it. It gave the room character, a bit of saccharine sadness that fit in this blue monstrosity. But we needed room, room for my things, room for both of our egos to fit into one small space.
I'd really like to fuck him in that chair...

It's twelve minutes to one and I've no idea what the day is like. There's a tan-colored bedsheet that matches the pillowcase strewn across the window to keep the light out. It works.

I should wash that pillowcase. The decimated remains of last nights' mascara application that are strewn across it bleed gruesome blue-black pigmented corpses all over our shared pillow.

Is it nice out today? I'd like to know. I'd like to wander down the streets naked. I'll clip some extensions in my hair, get him a bridle and pit and butt-plug pony tail and ride him through the streets and pretend I'm Lady Godiva. No noble cause for me, though; I'll do it to indulge the shallow whim only, because causes are so passé...

...I'm listening to the CD he made for me. It's amazing, of course. He has such great taste in music...

Last night was Karaoke Monday, and he wore my red and black skull hoodie. He looks fantastic in womens' clothing. There's something so thrilling about seeing your lover wear something you own...something that has your scent, your sweat and your skin cells...the feeling is such a deliciously contradictory melding of intimacy and kink. It wet my panties, just a little. The place was empty, so we headed over to the Golden griddle for midnight breakfast and made eyes at each other over the table while playing footsie underneath it.
He absentmindedly poured pepper on his french toast.
He hates pepper.
I laughed, a little.

He's my favorite addiction ever...I've never been this in love.
Four hours until my next fix...