Fuck that last post: Marshall and I get to dogsit again! For this sweet, tiny, precious, scruffy little thing named Mojo. Who is ridiculously photogenic and has a little leather outfit, what?! We haven't even met the dog yet, but his owner is Susan, the woman who heads up Drinking Liberally here, and we have nothing but love for Susan. And she is letting us dogsit! And we are getting off-campus, and we'll have a new playmate/cuddle-buddy, and I'll be able to rest a little easier once I've got a dog in my life again. Oh my god oh my god oh my god. I am rocking the fuck out alone in my room, even though it's way too hot for a high-energy dance marathon like I've been throwing up in here. Sophie Ellis Bextor's "Murder on the Dancefloor" and Billy Idol's "Dancing With Myself" and Hot Hot Heat's "Talk To Me, Dance With Me" and Geri Halliwell's "Ride It" will be the soundtrack of the night: fact. I am talking like a crazy person and dancing like one, too, and I haven't eaten all day and my therapist might dump me on the next visit and when the fuck am I going to study for comps, seriously? But fuck it all, because all my tunnel-wishes and pink-car-wishes and digital-clock-wishes are coming true, one at a time, and so I've just got to start wishing harder, obviously.
By the next post, I'll have my camera cord back, and will be able to show you my new little room, and my cute new friends, and what a lazy, blurry morning in bed with Boudreaux looks like. For tonight, I am singing with the windows open, dancing like the blissed-out, dog-enthused fiend that I am.
By the next post, I'll have my camera cord back, and will be able to show you my new little room, and my cute new friends, and what a lazy, blurry morning in bed with Boudreaux looks like. For tonight, I am singing with the windows open, dancing like the blissed-out, dog-enthused fiend that I am.
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