There's this short story that I read in the New Yorker a while ago. It's by Saul Bellow, I think. I vaguely remember a pillow talk session by the protagonist and some woman. They're eating expensive food, and she's talking to him about Shakespeare. They're lounging on a mattress on the floor, and he realizes that she's brilliant - she has this tremedously coherent and psychologically astute grand theory about Shakespeare. And he's just dumbstruck.

I like to think I was this girl last night, only not as pretty and not as brilliant. Lovers in literature are always really pretty. Ah, my literary analysis is so astute. Anyway, he says that I inspire him, and I roll my eyes and carry on talking ever so eloquently (how ever else do I speak?) about poetry.

I liked that story as much as I liked that other story about the woman who played Chopin naked. Like, in Fargo. I announced I needed to learn piano in order to play Chopin last night.

I like being adored, but I think I like the thought of leaving in 35 hours even more.

I wonder sometimes if I've damaged myself beyond repair. I certainly don't feel very damaged or emotionally scarred, but I really don't want a boyfriend. Not right now. Maybe I will someday, but not right now. I'm very much not interested in it. And so maybe that's because the first forays into flesh have had not lasted very long and have tended much more towards casual than maybe they should have. They've certainly gotten way more enjoyable of late. Emotionally and physically. Last night was very nice.

I mean, I know it's weird, but I cancelled our date tonight because I just wanted to be by myself. To (honest to god) shampoo my hair, to play Snood, to talk to my friends, to read my murder mystery, to be alone, to nap. I just want to be alone.

Frank's guide to cheap sex includes: no numbers, no last names, and no mention of your hometown. And be sure that you go to their place. I knew he was a romantic bastard. Like I knew I was, too.

2003-06-04, The idea of sex seems so bleeding stale when her heart is as big as a house.

I am really weirdly passive in bed.

2003-06-03, It's odd

before / after

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