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I’m doing my nails before Puerto Domingo 👀 💍
I’m doing my nails before Puerto Domingo 👀 💍
You are such a good writer. I don’t think you fully realize how good you are yet. I don’t mean that to sound condescending… just that I feel like I’m watching a fucking genius finding her legs, trusting her voice, and already the world is like, “Who the fuck is this???” You’re 3 for 3 in your submissions, and I know this is only the beginning, and that’s so sexy.
Am I doing this wrong? Are my oaths too long? I guess I am writing about you, after all.
I’m having a hard time writing new stories because all I want to write about is you, but I don’t know how yet. I’ve never written about being happy before. I have to discover a whole new language and new rhythms and new jokes because my sad characters aren’t sad anymore. They keep smiling, and I don’t know what to do with them.
I just peeped over at the blood oath you’re writing and it was something about wanting to write about me all the time and I just want you to know that I haven’t written about you yet. No. Not really written. Notes and like diary entries, sure, but not, like, an actual thing. I mean there was that sexy zine love letter but you know what I mean. But that’s a good thing. Because the things I write about are bad and sad, and I feel like I have to give those stories a voice before I start cavalierly writing about chowing down on your cock all the time.
At midnight tonight, we’ll have officially been dating for three months, which is funny because there is no fucking way we’ve only been dating for only three months. No seriously. How is that possible? We’ve been dating for three years or thirty or we broke time entirely and we’re drifting sideways in non-time, fucking in some vortex where the world appears to be moving but every day is the same and it’s the best day of my life.
When good things happen, you’re the first person I want to tell. When bad things happen, you’re the first person I want to tell. When weird things happen, you’re the first person I want to tell. Live, laugh, love, bitches.
We got Covid shots and felt achy so we ordered ramen for delivery and made margaritas and watched a TV show about Northern Ireland and fucked twice and you squirted the second time and I took an Advil and my headache is gone because you said, “Why don’t you take an Advil? No seriously, take an Advil.” I think today was the best day of my life.
Although I don’t actually believe in soulmates – who has time to sit up in heaven or wherever and match-make while wars are happening? (wait, maybe that’s why wars are happening????) – you are SO right for me that it almost makes me a believer.
We went to see Michael Hurley, but I could barely pay attention because you had the hiccups and then you got the giggles and I’ve never been so in love with you and then we went to your place and I said, “Bobbie has fleas,” and you laughed so hard you could barely breathe, and I couldn’t stop laughing because it wasn’t even funny. Bobbie doesn’t have fleas. You do. You’re covered in them, but I love you anyway.