moRe moJos, anYoNe?

Uhm. Can't move very much. People have been giving me weird(er) looks since I waddle like penguin. There's a bulge in-on my torso (half of which, I admit, is imagined) that starts directly below the place where my boobs are supposed to be. Full of pizza and spahitty and mojos and chicken and Coke and ice cream. Oh gawd. Must exercise. Must go to gym. Must imagine myself going to gym.

Of course I'm not going to exercise. Ugh. Physical effort? Come on. Besides, I put too much calorie-burning energy on forcing myself to wake up each morning and preventing myself from jumping on Roommate No.2 and hacking her to bits with an earring.

And tomorrow, I have to wake up at 5:30 so I'll get up at 6 so I can be at Arneow seven. NSTP. Kids, kids, kids.

I am so terrible with kids. They hate me. I know it. As if they possess the same radar as homosexuals do. (But I''m going to be a good mother -- where the fuck did that come from?)

<<-->>

I saw Her today, on the way to MVP. Yes, am a stalker. But she is a beautiful girl, meant to be stalked, meant to have altars and temples to worship. She's perfect and imperfect. She's so drop-dead gorgeous, it just squeezes me inside and one gets the impression that she deliberately made mistakes on herself. Can't explain.

But when I think of her, when I close my eyes, I see her lying on a bed of fallen orange leaves. She makes me think of autumn. And apples.

I read somewhere that homosexuality -- lesbianism, to be more precise -- is narcissism in its highest form. (Yes, a man wrote that book.) One makes love with one's own image. A parallelism: lips to lips, neck to neck, breast to breast, waist to waist, hips to hips, legs to legs and everything else in between. Beauty and beauty, after all. And during lovemaking, while you do the nasty thing, you wonder if she uses your lotion or how many days it's been since she last waxed. You think of how the tops of her breasts peeked from the shirt she borrowed from you or how the mascara clumps on her eyelashes only serve to endear you more. You then look at her feet and that bony arch on top of it when she curls her toes. And you long to kiss it. You wonder how she manages to fill your palms so right with all her dips and curves. You thread your fingers in her hair and ask yourself if curls look better on her. It's like looking into a mirror but only better.

But I digress.

So, with Her, it's actually more of a booger complex slash masochism. She's so pretty, I could kill myself. I mean, what reason left to live if people like Her walk this mortal plane?

But yeah, it's a crush. Or, as it's called in foreign all-girls schools, a flush. Like you know she's pretty and every guy's wet dream but you don't think of her that way because that's just too sacrilegous. It's just worship and envy rolled into one volatile ball.

'Sides, I do not have wet dreams. (More's the pity.)

<<-->>

Badly need to pee. Toodles, children. See you when I see you.

Oh, and Happy Birthday to Verne this Sunday.. :p