hang up the chick habit

I’ve got some ideas rattling around my head. The voices of angels, what they would sound like as raw feed information; explaining my theories on hotel rooms and the gideon bible; the differential inherent in friends and chosen family. I suppose I should explain why I woke in such a dreary mood the other day. When I say I woke with a nosebleed, what I really meant was that I opened my eyes, choked, and watched red fountain arc parabola up then splatter down on me. In spite of being quite the interesting visual effect, it wasn’t a pleasant way to greet the day. Sitting up, my mouth flooded again and again cut off all the air. More bloody mess. By the time I’d barefooted my way to the cold bathroom, I was less than impressed with myself and the blood dripping through my hair, caught in my eyelashes and down my thighs. I felt like a badly cut scene from a horror film. Well, the special effects were pretty, but it wasn’t enough to rescue the acting.

Speaking of atrocious cine, as part of yesterday’s twenty-four hours of Tyler, we sat through the sequel to the Ring. I say no, do not do this. There are a few moments where it’s like they collared a local arts major into directing a few shots, but they’re not pretty enough to make the other hour and fourty-five worth the price of admission. We, however, were lucky enough not to pay for our random moments of vicious deer attack, as we’d met up with Matthew for lunch and he sent us off with a movie pass to help while the time between his wanderin’ off and his wanderin’ back for our evening of Elementary Introduction to Six String Samurai.

Tyler and I get along exceptionally well. It’s like we’ve stumbled upon another one of Us. We, the sane, do hereby declare that the aforementioned isn’t a trick, but honesty. We have a shield of worth and we’ll walk all over you by accident. It’s fun this way, walking down the street arm and arm, skipping loudly to the 7-11 for a slurpee, feeling it in the teeth. I respect friends who bring their own pyjama pants when they invite themselves to stay. Today we’re going to bicycle around on a quest for decent cinnamon buns. They have to be gooey to count. Now if I could only find my underwear, because gods only know where they went last night in this mess.