Written While Listening to Cello Suite No. 1

Oh my God. She said, Oh my God, I thought that was a joint. Hahahaha. I replied. I looked down at the produce sticker I had taken off my Braeburn apple and rolled unconsciously into Yes, you guessed it, a very small, very miniature, but perfect imitation of, a joint. Hahahaha. I can see that, I say. Sitting here, without my laptop battery charger, checking my battery power in the top right corner of my task bar, I keep reminiscing about last night’s special brownie that he gave me and the giant joint he rolled for us that I smoked half of and she smoke the other half. I keep thinking about the burn, the sweet stench that only Mary Jane, Mary-J, MJ, whatever you wish to call it, can call claimsies to. I remember the dancing. The screaming and sliding around on the hardwood floors. “Jeremiah was a bullfrog! Da-da DA!” I smirk and glance nervously around the café to make sure no one saw me laugh like a crazy person. I remember when he (her boyfriend) came in and then he (the roommate that I’m dating but not, more like “friends” but not, so fuck buddies but potential) walks in and I’m high from the giant joint and high from the brownie so I’m stoned, he says. You’re stoned, he said. Hahahaha. Yeh, I reply. I’m stoned, yes, I think. I continue to watch Steve Carell. God, what a hairy Zeus. I want to worship his body. 40 Year Old Virgin could not have been better cast. He’s hot, I say. I smoked pot last night, he states. I turn around. I smoked it I took three hits from him. I’m open mouthed, agape, flabbergasted. I can’t believe he did that. Somehow he is less attractive. I’m scared now. But more turned on by the fact that my stoned hormones are now fiery and horny, burning a pleasurable, tingling hole through the walls of my vagina and I want to hop on his lap and pull his shirt off and trace his tattoo, Hail Mary Full of Grace, from collar bone left to collar bone right, run my finger down his stomach and under his pants. I want to surprise him and have him put me under him, take my shirt off, admire my breasts, I know they’re great, I’m not vain, everyone says they are. I see him kiss my neck, my chest, my bra line, nudge the fabric away and kiss me, trail down my stomach and tease me. No kissing, he doesn’t kiss. Fuck buddies. But he’ll thank me for sleeping because it gets lonely sometimes. Potential. In the morning he’ll sleep til noon or after and I’ll lay awake from sunrise til sunshine peak alone with him snoring. Adorable. “Friends.” All this I imagine in horny bliss while sitting on the chair a foot from the TV with the hot Steve “Zeus” Carell and he is behind me on the bed, my mouth still agape in turned on aw and they are standing laughing at my face and he shakes his head, gulps from his Coors Light and smiles at me. His nose is broken. He drinks too much. He’s an addict. Or was. Is? I don’t know how this wording works. His forehead is too big, his hair receded, tall which is nice but red in the face which is sunburn I think? and he is kind of rude but has a great laugh and he smells amazing and I love that when I go home I smell like him for a little while longer and if I sleep under his covers and on his pillow and against his skin and tangle our legs and lay upon his chest I leave the next day smelling all day like him and I like it but I don’t because I know I shouldn’t. You have a pattern she told me. You have a pattern my mom said. They are all alike, all the guys. I know this to be true, but while I sit in my chair and watch him and analyze, scrutinize, dramatize, and fantasize him all while stoned I don’t care because I like him and I know it may be a pattern but it’s him and I like all of him, not parts of him, and I’m attracted to him and he is me. We may not kiss or hug or hold hands but I have tons of apathy and I get it because that’s what I do I see the other side not judge and I go back and I call because I like sex and especially when I’m high and horny and he doesn’t like me high because I can’t possibly like myself high, right? but I do and I don’t give a flying fuck what he thinks because I like myself, except not and he can see that I don’t I’m sure because he’s smart and has a degree and drives a nice car I mean truck (the last has nothing to do with the proceeding) and I like sex with him in all positions and I wish he would kiss me but then that would be bad, right? I’m not sure, I think it would. But it doesn’t matter because I want to lay in his bed and though he doesn’t hold me like I wish he would it is nice, he is right, it is nice to lay next to someone, just to know that the bed made for two, which usually holds just one, is filled with two and four arms and four legs and 20 toes and 20 fingers and two hearts and four lungs. You’re wild he said. Hahaha What do you mean? I am sly and know what he meant but he turns around, naked, on the edge of the bed, stares at me, naked, with my hair sex-crazed and frizzy and I know I look hot and he I’m sure is thinking the same, and he smiles and says You know what I mean and I do, I know what he means. But I want to hear it confirmed. I remember all this, visualize on this, in a chair, in his bedroom (not his but the boyfriend, not my boyfriend/friend/fuck buddy/potential but hers), still staring he thinks they think I’m stoned out of my mind but I’m in my mind right mind, sober mind with stoned tinglies and I’m reminiscing/fantasizing about his penis and my vagina becoming friends and sure enough I’m horny and though we move to his room we do nothing but watch McClintok You like Westerns? Yes I do. I love John Wayne I reply and we continue to glance and stare at each other, smile and laugh at each other, small talk, high talk with each other, and I leave I don’t look at him because I want to jump on him and so I say Bye with my eyes out the door, my body in his fingers and I get in my car and I leave and I wish and then I want McDonald’s Hotcakes.