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When you MOM discovers the Slut you are...

*shudder* Not a good thing.

We spent the whole afternoon eating macadamia nut ice-cream and blue-berry cheesecake while she expounded the values of chastity and the worth of sex to my receptive but frustratingly resigned mind. She took up most of the conversation, even when it came to the erotics of courtship; But what would I know about that. It’s been something I’ve forgotten for too long now, possibly since I was in, oh… junior high. And she even gave me advice pertaining to the Boy, none of which I can particularly remember, possibly because it wasn’t anything I didn’t already think of.

It went a lot better then I thought it would.

She was up to my ears in emo-blackmail yesterday afternoon, and I was getting really worked up and consistently more stressed out with the progression of the day. Coupled with the recent bout of imagined despair that’s linked to no tangible reason, by the time I got home, I felt myself thinking, fuck this. I need to get out. I don’t know where the hell I’d get out to, but I need to just get the hell out.

So I packed a bunch of stuff with the notion that I’d pay my uncle a surprise visit, and just get away from it all until things sorted themselves up. But most predictably, I turned out to be too lazy to bother going all the way to the bus station with a duffle bag weighing far too much. Besides, it looked like rain.

So I messaged Mr. Grant. By this point in time I was the paradigm of a mind implosion, and what I really required was a glass of good wine and someone to listen to me rant.

“I feel so neurotic, my mind’s going to collapse into itself and there’s no one else I can seek out for the respite I desire. You’ve got to meet me or I die.”

He was great company last night, I wouldn’t know what I’d have done otherwise. Psychotic little girls are really best not left in isolation with their desolations. I met him outside Cayote. (and coincidently bumped into my favourite photographer (I don’t know if I’m still his favourite model, but who cares) whom I must congratulate on being invited to write Picture Perfect for The Straits Times. The bastard actually came up to me and asked if Mr. G was the item for dessert.)

Ah anyway, he never ceases to make me feel better. And I figured why a long time ago; it’s because he really pays attention to me.
“What will you have with me?”
“Oh? I don’t know, I just want to talk to you.”
Sweet, sugar coated, caramel loaded tongue. Good for the psyche, great for the lips.

The next morning was mildly amusing. He didn’t want to get up and check his emails, and I was postponing, as much as I could, from giving my mom a call. But eventually, with his arms around my back and his hand on mine, I finally contacted my mom.

“And for the love of God girl, stop being so melodramatic.”

I swear, if it was anyone else, I would have been intensely affronted.

xoxox