***
Oh Nuts. My Hair's all Whacked.

Well, I suppose I like it, and it really give the rock-star-chic-glam with the labret (Or is Rock Star and Chic a paradox? Junkie-wannabe-rocker-whore?) but I think I've really grown out of the that season of my life a few years back, about the same time Garbage's Shirley Manson decided to turn sweet and sing about camps. My hair dresser didn't seem to think so though, so now my hair's all shredded and blue. Not permanent, but I thought it'd be nice to be Clementine for a day. (I was referring to Winslet from Eternal Sunshine.)

***

Mr. Grant actually messaged me today. Well, I don't quite recall him doing that ever, before, on the Day-After. That is, one day after we have a nice long time fooling around on his futon. I really shouldn't have hung out at his place till so late last night during this time when I'm seriously supposed to be cramming and making sure everything's in place before I fly to visit the Boy, but I couldn't help it. I was absolutely craving the sort of connection he manages to give me everytime.

We talked about his sort-of girlfriend, some bible-monger babe he met in HK (who he decided not to bonk because she was such a preacher. He's terribly anti-religion for some reason.) And some Media school in London he's absolutely encouraging me to sign up for. It used to bug me that he slept with other people, but I realized I don't really care, as long as he carries on giving me attention. And it's really not about the sex. Well, allright, it's fucking good, but that just isn't it.

I like being able to say anything I want to around him, and I like the way he fucks around with the waitresses at the Big O cafe.

He (well, allright. We.) Couldn't stop checking out the cute Fillipina waitress serving us; and they have a funny confection there that's called the G-Spot. Well with names like that, the menu was obviously asking to be questioned, so he had to ask her what in the world was a G-Spot. She tried describing it to him, but he wasn't particularly listening.

"Well I'm not interested in those bits, but allright. So it's called the G-spot eh? And does it hit it?"
"Uh, Hurt? I don't think so. It usually feels rather pleasant, and I like it"
(I assumed she heard hurt instead of hit.)

Cuute. What a sport she is.

And you must ABSOLUTELY go to the Big O cafe. It's in Wheelock Place (where border's at) and it serves the BEST chocolate cake. It's the real damn thing. I'm tired of mousse-ish, creamish chocolate cakes. This one is made out of flour and fluff and genuine chocolate cake cream. It's warm, fantastic and has a name that sounds like I'm biting off your dick.

xoxox