saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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Shake your hind thing.
I went dancing for the first time in weeks on Friday. My legs hurt like nobody�s business. Especially my thighs. Yes, my thighs aren�t your business. Fuck off.
Aaren played seven out of ten of my requests, which would partially explain why I felt it necessary to keep dancing, even after my lungs began begging with me to stop, dear God, please stop and my legs still moved after they�d almost lost feeling and my vision started to seem kind of grainy (or maybe that was just effects of the fog machine).
I know that after I get past that pain, though, it will feel wonderful. Like drugs, only better (and not as fucking stupid and infantile, by a long shot). I could dance my feet into bloody stumps and never even realize what had happened. It�s like I can�t stop. It�s like �The Red Shoes.�
It is �The Red Combat Boots.�
I got to talk to friends I haven�t seen for a while, including Joe. He was glad to see me, and hugged me so fiercely that the studs and pins and other fragments of metal on his clothing began to gouge me. At least all the pseudo-vampires were downstairs and therefore unable to smell when I began to bleed.
Many people said that they were glad to see me again, but that they understood why I was being so anti, what with having a child and school and work and all. For some reason, this didn�t comfort me. I wanted them to be less understanding and tell me that I must come back next week, against all odds, and then I could say �oh, of course,� even though I knew I wouldn�t.
I�ve been stood up by my friends so often lately that I�m starting to think that I�m fading right out of their heads. I�m disintegrating like old movie film. I need an exorbitantly wealthy society that needs a project to deter their boredom to sponsor the preservation of Louise. Piece me together, clean me up, and dab a little color back into these lips. Voila! Pass me a PBR and I�ll stand against the wall pretending to sip it, pretty and unobtrusive, like a cardboard cutout.
Yeah.
I always wanted one of those cutouts of Han Solo. Or James Dean. Or Mr. T. So I could drape my clothes on them. I can just see my bras hanging on Han�s pistol. That no-nonsense and yet slightly nervous look on his face. He is frozen in a half-crouch, unsure but prepared for whatever might happen next. Then I�d put my underwear on his head. Black ones. To go with his vest.
Duh.
7:11 p.m. - 2002-05-26
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