Dear you,
A week ago today, I was eating Indian food out of a vacuum-sealed pouch; I hadn't slept any more than four hours at a time for a week. Repressed near-strangers were labelling me a slut, and I was covered in decades worth of dust.
Least night, prettied up as goth as fuck, I sauntered into Absinthe, with an elegant and exotic companion on my arm, and was seated in the best table in the house. We sampled exotic wines, cheeses, and olives while waiting for the well-trained staff to deliver unto us bloody-rare rib-eye steaks and duck confit, broiled in its own succulent fat.
The wine, by the way, was excellent.
The sex, by the way, was sublime.
And while we've run out of wine, the sex hasn't stopped yet.
So, last night...
In between courses, an elegant gentleman in an understated black suit walked up to our table, addressed me by name, and introduced himself.
His name was Jeremy, and the last time I had seen him was a week before, while we urged the foolish and naive to hurl themselves over the "Ramp of Death" outside of Camp Carp, while eating pancakes covered in E-Z cheese, and listening to Black Sabbath played over a ten-thousand watt sound system.
I love the contrast.
I love my life.
And I still want more.
And this is why I'm elitist, and this is why I think I'm better that anyone else.
Except you.
Eat your life raw, love...
Love,
Indigo.
A week ago today, I was eating Indian food out of a vacuum-sealed pouch; I hadn't slept any more than four hours at a time for a week. Repressed near-strangers were labelling me a slut, and I was covered in decades worth of dust.
Least night, prettied up as goth as fuck, I sauntered into Absinthe, with an elegant and exotic companion on my arm, and was seated in the best table in the house. We sampled exotic wines, cheeses, and olives while waiting for the well-trained staff to deliver unto us bloody-rare rib-eye steaks and duck confit, broiled in its own succulent fat.
The wine, by the way, was excellent.
The sex, by the way, was sublime.
And while we've run out of wine, the sex hasn't stopped yet.
So, last night...
In between courses, an elegant gentleman in an understated black suit walked up to our table, addressed me by name, and introduced himself.
His name was Jeremy, and the last time I had seen him was a week before, while we urged the foolish and naive to hurl themselves over the "Ramp of Death" outside of Camp Carp, while eating pancakes covered in E-Z cheese, and listening to Black Sabbath played over a ten-thousand watt sound system.
I love the contrast.
I love my life.
And I still want more.
And this is why I'm elitist, and this is why I think I'm better that anyone else.
Except you.
Eat your life raw, love...
Love,
Indigo.