I have four days before the move and still I continue to procrastinate; instead I choose to go out with friends for drinks, guzzling vodka until I am inebriated and incoherent. Remember the days of elementary school when you had a history report due two weeks from today? Were you the type of person to finish it immediately? I was not. I needed and relished the pressure of waiting until the night prior. One could surmise that I like a challenge. Others would say that I procrastinate. They would all be correct.
Last night, I fucked a reader of this blog and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Actually, he first found me on a dating site where I had put up a profile to direct traffic here (I am crafty, Chinese and wily) and we began an email correspondence. Despite my frosty communiques, he somehow convinced me to meet him. I was already out with a friend having drinks, so it was no trouble to share with him our location and he promptly arrived, buying us a round. (This is how you charm the ladies. Good work!) My friend confided, "He's cute; I'd fuck him" which was enough encouragement after three Ketel cocktails. The three of us adjourned to another bar where my friend tucked into some Irish concoction served over ice while he and I talked excitedly about film studies and the cinematic gaze. See, I am the sort of lady who appreciates the academic stroke, not the ego. Talk to me about cultural studies or postmodern film theory; do not tell me I am beautiful or sexy.
Not surprisingly, he agreed to walk me home, ever the gentleman, and as I perused the numerous programs my DVR had captured, we fucked. I wish I could describe it to you better but I was rather drunk, and I suspect I might still be now, a few hours before I am due at work. I have no complaints; instead I am left here wondering at what point does art intersect with real life? Can you become so enmeshed in creating some sort of facade or alternate reality that it becomes the actual reality? And also: shit, we really should have used a condom.
