a) Number of pink pens found in my desk while packing.
b) Number of used once/twice tubes of Dior Show Mascara everywhere in my room.
c) Number of times I will be told tomorrow, “You look so much better without that God-awful dark hair”.
So, I keep having this re-occuring dream. In my dream I am at camp in Rhinebeck and some accident occurs where I need to change clothes. I go back to my bunk to change and realize I forgot to pack. I always freak out because I have no clothes, make up, shower stuff, money, ANYTHING for ten weeks. Then I always beg my mom or dad to send money so I can buy new things or ship my stuff. They are always really mean and say no. Then, I steal some sort of car and drive 5 hours (as I opposed to 13) to my mom’s house. On the way, I pick some friend up that my mom “would not appove of” (most of the time someone I don’t even know, but twice a familiar face) and create some kind of scandal at my mom’s house. So weird!
My first re-occurring dream since 4-K, where I dreamed about a man with no face chasing me down the beach.
Today’s agenda: Creating a packing list immediately after yoga class.
Woke up and before I could even roll my head over to see the strap of lastnight’s Jill Stuart dress still on; I was back at that runway. My hand had pulled on the back of my purple velvet leotard, rubbing too close to yesterday’s Sarasota sunburn. My body, in some Beatles song worm-hole already shaking off what it knew was about to happen. One arm up, chin up, smile, shoulders back, big breath. And then the run, the spring board. Upside down but still in control, my life has not really changed. Then I missed the hand and my neck is on the spring board, on the metal pole. “IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS” the loudest roar to ever surpass vanilla chapstick.
Pulled the strap up and rolled off of my car keys, all the upside down, none of the control. IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS.
“What’s your name,” we both say with giggly grins that we whip out like campers with water guns, a little too psyched for trouble.
The next day my phone buzzes and I know who it is before I turn my head. “So, you need to do that thing again where you make my mind spin,” I say, and we talk for two hours, and then for two weeks, and then it’s sunrise, and fall, and we’re still talking.
We fight a lot but it feels like gymnastics, when you bring your leg to the back of your head and it’s a complete race between agony and growth. I’m more limber now, and I push further; his fault.
There comes the laughs, the stretch and then heat, and he snarls, “You’ve never met anyone like me, have you?”
“No,” I roll my eyes, “but you’ve never met anyone like meeeeeeeee!”
And then we laugh and tackle each other, and get sick on ginger ale and pizza, and fight some more. In the morning I ache, but I feel like I can one up Nastia when I stretch.
sign me up, dude.
Hometown in Hermes: So, can you say you survived your first Art’ish party? Did you even have fun?
Laur: I don’t remember much of last night. I’m bad at math when it comes to Belvedere.
Hometown in Hermes: I don’t remember much of last night either…
Laur: because?
Hometown in Hermes: Because I was just staring at you.
Laur: So where was your girlfriend looking?
“What you call passion is not spiritual force, but friction between the soul and the outside world.” - Herman Hesse
So, you can kinda say I am a Brooklyn bound L-train.
