(pause)
Last night the person I thought might try to kiss me, tried to kiss me. I was pretty sure it was going to happen because every time I got up to sit in a different chair, further away from them, they would come and sit right next to me. It was weird. Awkward. At that point (the musical chairs point), I yawned and said that I needed to go to bed and I'd see them later. That is when the quasi-lunge happened.
I feel embarrassed when someone does this. When there is no context or history of kissing. When they don't ask if they can or even ask if I am attracted to them. It's really awkward. I always feel like I have some odd-ass butterfly on my mouth that they are trying to catch between their teeth. It's gross, and kind of disgusting.
(pause)
So, yes. Tomorrow will be exciting and nerve wracking.
I've been happy lately, thinking and writing and reading with people who are very different from me. It's cool to be in contexts where one of the only common threads among us are the things we are reading and talking about, and the language that we are using.
As a cinematic suggestion, I need to plug Buñeul's El ángel exterminador (The Exterminating Angel) again. If you've never seen it, watch it. It may make you feel claustrophobic, but for me, right now, I'm into that. I think I may be obsessing over concepts of hell in the form of humans. This film by Buñeul, Sartre's No Exit, and Gacía Lorca's La casa de Bernarda Alba (The House of Bernarda Alba) all mixed up with either an intentional or accidental panopticon motif - I'm into it, and ready to write.
Be well; be loved; find a window and tap on it to make sure that it is real and not a window-pane-shaped video recording device,
k.
(image: Yumi Lambert by Yusuke Miyazaki _ L'Express Styles (France), November 2015 via genetic-freak tumblr)
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