These Kite Strings | March 11, 2010 | Comments (7)
Guess what? Garage doors are a luxury afforded to few in SF’s most desirable neighborhoods. We are not among that few, but that certainly won’t stop us from using them to our advantage in other ways. See that green, mildew-y stuff to in the lower left hand corners? M calls it moss, and she likes the way it looks. I don’t trust it!
I didn’t really care that the studded blazer AND the bib necklace was a bit much; I just wanted to maximize my orange nail polish while it lasted (read: it’s Tuesday and I scrubbed that shit off HOURS ago). Also, why is my mussed next day hair always so much more come hither than when I actually try to come hither it the night before? Hm?! PLEASE TALK ME DOWN FROM THE LEDGE OF A $99 MADE FOR TV CURLING IRON / STRAIGHTENER / DRYER THING. Please, if ever I needed y’all, it’s now, before I’m a walking poster child for Regretsy, can’t you see?!
Tomboy. Sunday Chronicle. Floppy puppy. That hat she searched and searched for so tirelessly in Old San Juan’s wet, succulent heat (the shirt, too). Her nonchalance, that easy, honest grin, how her hands assume their rightful place around my bony little torso. The nuanced tones of her voice saying all the words she can’t / won’t / doesn’t know how to say. The sun on our parched winter skin, albeit briefly. You know, years ago she once wrote to me, “…except for when you make that trademark SBJ gasp noise, I don’t think you ever even blink off beat.” It hooked me. She hooked me, however slippery I was at the time.
That one up there was just too incredible to be mixed in with any of the others. And then, dips!
This song has the power to change your life. Listen to it, I beseech you:
SBJ @ 9:43 AM
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