Just got back from Ana’s. Basically by the skin of my teeth. I’ve got an erlenmeyer flask of distilled passive-aggressive sexual confusion and after typing this up and maybe a cup of coffee I’ll lock the cork down with some sealing wax, mark it with the insignia ring (totally turned out great, by the way—a sleek airship framed by a sunburst), and file it with the others. Four hundred fifty American US dollars, can’t beat that. (Haha but of course I can, which is what next week’s “date” is concerned with—one thousand bucks and no change if I can procure the elusive quiet pride. It is within my grasp, friends—send me your good luck wishes!)
But you should’ve seen me trying to sneak the apartment key off her nipple ring. God, like a bad sitcom come to life. (Hang on a sec while I add another stroke to my tally of how many times I’ve said that. Three more and I win a free fucking frogurt.) I mean, sure, she’s out cold, but it’s been my experience that nipple-pulling is one of the things that can knock you right back into consciousness, like god’s own ammonium carbonate. And the keyring is totally tiny and tight, and I clipped my fingernails in preparation for our evening together (as requested) so I can’t pry the thing apart, and the key I want is surrounded by three or four others, and on and on, a complete nightmare.
But I’m out, I’m free, I’m home, a job well done, pat-pat, and I’ve already spent the money: Fucking Victor/Victoria special edition DVD.