Drink Drunk last night with five boys. My breasts and vagina felt like the size of Texas. First of the night, I decided not to drink. Last of the night I was smashed faced giggling. Left when I could no longer stand the testosterone in the room. It consumed the oxygen and my lungs got so tired. When I got home I was happy that I wasn’t a boy, but glad they existed. Especially the ones with coy smiles. Instead of sleeping I wrote. Interesting:
I kinda like it. In a drunken rant sort of way. By the way the “pro sports are an abomination” is completely lifted from Professor McSteamy. That’s 1/70 of a reason I am smitten with him. Anyway, this weekend should be fun, and I’m looking forward to it. Next week will be ridiculous. Must write screenplay, but when will I find the time? Ach. I could be doing it now, I suppose. We all know the last unicorn is a last minute kind of gal.drunken post a concerted effort. too tired for all this bull shit.
my tired smile is frumpy. frumpin. hmmmm. wont be too old for htis.
ima big shot a little huge girl.lounge girl.girl next door. no not that door.
too small for my big ol shoes. and on and on and on till someobdy loses the back door keys and I can't tell you what time it is on the moon or inn korea.
shit I should leave ya. leave leaves fall winter. cold dark. cuddly. No NOtme. couldn't be unlovable uncuddleable except for the three. doesn't include you no not you. choose your choice its the pickers way out your loss but mine is greater too great great that manifesto we once lived by is down dirty decayed and full of ONmentionable secrets too. oh well pro sports are an abomination. everything should be a pick up game. eh eh eh? pure fun. Im no good for anyone.
Last night in my drunken sleep, I finally dreamed. It went something like this … The Beach Boys Christmas song was playing in the background, and I saw him from a distance. As he got closer and closer I realized I couldn’t remember his name. I knew it was him, but I just didn’t know what to call him. He stood in front of me waiting. I just looked on perturbed, searching my memory bank. I really couldn’t believe he was really standing there. Thinking him a spirit, I tried to slice my hand through his mid-section. It didn’t work. Finally after dredging up the awkward and old feelings he opened his angelic hipster mouth. Incredulous and even toned he said to me, “Last Unicorn, I cannot believe you don’t even remember my name.“ I shrieked at him, “It’s your fault! It’s your damn fault.” He kept staring at me. Staring at me with his eyes. Barely there pupils intense as the deepest shade of night. He raised his arm as if to grab at me and turned away, my shriek became a whisper, “Why won’t you just leave me alone?” “But I did,” he said, “and you forgot my name. If you really cared you wouldn’t have forgotten.” Once again the shriek rose in me fanning out from my groin. I watched it rise up until my mouth was forced open, “Let me go back to where I came from. Please just disappear.” When I said this his eyes looked pained and vulnerable, but his facial expression never changed. Exactly like I imagined he looked when I called him a spoiled brat.
My knees began to buckle and he grabbed me two hands on my arms. Pulled me up until we were eye level he said, “Your arms so small they are Midwestern and pale. Your gold flecks are brighter than I remember.” Knowing it would be the last time I ever spoke with him I maintained eye contact, “Ex-lover you didn’t have to lie. Go back to citygirl. She’s not a ghost like you, but I know you invented her. Maintained by a false high, and a disproportionate lack of distance. Everything you wanted doesn’t come that easy. She’s a liar and a thief.” A note of recognition flashed in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth turned up in that subtle and sorry way it does. He let go of my arms. Where his hands were, a warm spot burned through and through. I tried pushing him away, but we both knew that I didn’t have to. He turned around, slowly, glancing with a furrowed brow. I knew he was waiting for me to call out profess my love shriek or cry. I wanted to do all of those things, but I knew it would all come out a garbled mess. I wanted to turn around and run as far away as I could, but I stood stuck firmly rooted in the floor. He looked on once more stepped towards me, thought again, turned around and silently left. No trace of him remained. I stood motionless listening to the lonely sounds of the Beach Boys echo groovy tidings off the walls of an empty room.
Rarely do I remember a dream in it’s entirety. If they are all like that, I rather not remember them. Oh well. I feel like I’ve done my best to move on, but something about this time of year dredges up those old timey feelings in the deep down honest part of my sub-conscious. Why is it that I can’t stop thinking about him? Does he ever once in his busy little urban week think of me? He pops up behind my knees, in everything I write, and even in my morning cereal. I’m not unhappy, quite the opposite. Busy, and looking towards a bright future. All that remains is ghost images, but even the vapors get me high. Oh well. I really want him out of my dreams, and I do think this new girl is a joke. But of course I do. Ha ha. Actually I just really don’t like the fact that we have nothing to do with one another’s lives anymore. I really miss his stories, and his Brian Wilson voice. I want to tell him how exciting this new life is for me. Anyway I never got to thank him for driving to the middle of nowhere during hockey playoffs.
Still excited about the newer stuff, and was charged to write something by December 20. An interesting gal from R.I. theme: Robot Sex. I will draw from my darling Minnesota source for ideas. That should be fun. Much like this weekend. I think the weight of my anti-socialism (ha ha) throughout the semester has crashed down upon me. Apparently I’ve been missed and that’s always a great feeling. So this weekend is chockfull o’ soirees and late night trysts. Oh la la. The weather is invigorating and I think I look handsome with a red nose!
The Last Unicorn Lets Lose, no more dreams. I’m frightful for Monday, but that seems like it’s light years away. Light Years Away.
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