DLIGA-Chapter 2

I laugh to myself. I really can't keep my mind off Euro-pop-boy. I keep wondering if there is some chance in hell that he could have been listening to that shitty music as some kind of project or dare or something. I'm now smothering my face with a pillow to keep my giggling down. The human mind can be so ridiculous sometimes. I'm currently in the process of trying to train mine not to have hope for things that I know I won't be able to achieve or attain. It's like when you send away for those cheap toys advertized on the back of cereal boxes - you know, send us four proofs of purchases, we'll send you this limited edition [piece of crap] mini-stuffed animal FREE! - and you know full well that you're not gonna get anything from this company for a year, yet you check the mailbox every day. You sit there for an hour after you get home trying to distract yourself, telling yourself "It won't be there", til finally you give in to your overpowering sense of hope, run down to your mailbox, and sure enough, it's not there. I give up.

I think too much.

I wake up with the sun shining brightly in my eyes & roll over to look at the glowing red digital clock. 8:30. It figures the day that I have the time to sleep in til at least 12 before my body's natural clock forces me to get up and go through the routine of showering and getting dressed, I wake up at 8:30. I sit up and look around my room for a while - it seems like at least a half an hour, I'm determined not to emerge from my bedroom until at least fifteen past 9 - it's 8:35. Fuck it. I fold the corner of my blanket over & slide to the side of the bed and into my furry leopard printed slippers. Dammy thinks they're the coolest things in the world. Okay, so he does act the gay stereotype sometimes. I look in the mirror quickly & notice this: my semi-long hair is plastered to my head, my black eyeliner is under my eyes, and somehow I manage to look strikingly similiar to Kate Moss. Yup, the waif look works for me. That's sarcasm. Fuck trying to make a statement by being 'artistically dressed', I just got up, this is what I look like. I hate models and fashion designers. Some are good, the ones that do stuff thats different, but Calvin Klein can just go get fucked for all I care. Dammy, the 'art insider' gets invites to all these classy designer parties, and the only ones he ever goes to are the interesting ones. And I mean interesting. Last year, he and I managed to get ourselves into a very 'high profile' party on Madison Avenue. I have never been stalked by so many bisexual men and women all in platform shoes and body glitter in my entire life. Not to say that it wasn't a good time, of course.

I walk into the living room and Dammy is there, stretched out on the couch, reading a book about the Irish Potato Famine. He lowers the thick novel & peeks at me over the pages as I walk across the living room and into the kitchen. Just like a cute little mouse. I keep an eye on him from the doorway as I turn on the tea kettle and search through the pantry for a box of pop-tarts.

"You look like shit" Dammy giggles, covering his face completely with the book.

"Yeah...well..." I stutter for a comeback & decide to just throw something at him instead. He continues to giggle and for a minute I feel outside of myself as I watch him with a smile on my face. I shake my head & drift back into reality as the tea kettle whistles.

"So are you making potatoes for me for dinner or something?" I walk into the living room balancing my mug full of hot tea (four sugars, please). I push Dammy's art magazines to the side to clear myself a little square to set my mug down in.

Dammy giggles his infectious giggle again. "Nah, I'm just reading this. I met this guy last night and he said it was really good, he gave it to me."

"Ohh" I nodded. I tried to hide my disappointment. Okay, its obvious, I do have feelings for Dammy, and how can I not? I already explained, he's everything I could ever want in another person except for that one small thing that turns the whole thing off. I get jealous when I hear him talk about guys he meets. So sue me.

Dammy continues reading while I sip my tea in silence. He looks so boyish, so beautiful, so comfortable laying there. His legs stretched out & crossed over one another, his jeans gently folding at his ankles. His sweater is pulled over his knuckles as he clutches the book which is a perfect distance from his blemish-free face. His dark hair, messy but somehow perfect, rests gently on his forehead and against the pillow he's laying on.

God I'm pathetic.

And so... My heart carries on, but my head knows better...

take me home
chapter 1