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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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The Demon Who Wants to Stop Your Heart
so as you can see from the lack of a shift key that i am still caring for betty. (yes, poetry) she just had her third meal of the day. (don't think i'm insane--her mama usually feeds her every 4 1/2 hours, even waking up in the night to do so.) i just came in from a bit of shopping. i got gift cards to hastings from mayflower as well as from an aunt-uncle dimer, so i went off and bought a book of borges poetry, a copy of the restaurant at the end of the universe (after soph's quoting hitchhiker's guide to me, of course i had to retrieve my copy from the other location, and of course i couldn't find my copy of restaurant), some elvis costello that i don't already own, and a copy of margaret salinger's bio of her famous papa, j.d., so in a bit, i'm off for a bath and a bit of a read. the neighbor, angelique, has her permanent boy staying with her over the break. i say permanent boy because she is not too shy about having interim boys (and girls too--yay, angelique). anyway, i can usually hear everything through the wall that separates our apartments, and what with the sublingua dry spell in full swing (that plus pms has increased the horniness quotient by a factor of ten), i'm not terribly keen on listening to the aerobic workout hour, so i'm killing a bit of time with the day's ninth entry. and i'll tell you what, that guy, he must be some kind of acrobat. in fact, last time he was here, i happened to be sitting outside as he carried out his stuff to his car, and his stuff included the usual college boy baggage (backpack, beat up duffle bag) as well as a collection of these contraptions that i later saw advertised in the back of maxim's that are supposed to be used to increase the comfort and i suppose therefore the longevity of various sexual positions. and, of course, even when one hasn't the option of not listening (i swear the wall between our apartments is constructed entirely of balsa wood and a couple of coats of paint), one still feels like a pervert for listening. and i'm out of smokes and don't much feel like going out to buy any. and i just feel like bitching. (see above, in re: pms). so instead of doing that, i'll tell you about the day's workout. max and i went off to the gym and i wasn't going to do much lifting, as i lifted yesterday and like to rest at least a day between bouts. i was just going to do some cardio, which i hate doing (see above, in re: smokes). so i got on the treadmill and zoned out for a bit and then decided, what the hell, i'm going to lift. i ended up doing a full workout as well as forty minutes of cardio. and then i came home and needed a nap. it's so funny going to the y. i've gotten used, at the university's gym, to the bevy of young boys and some young women, but the y? it's all these jack la lane types, ex-military types. occassionally, some young chica will come in to run on the treadmill, but most of the time, it's me and the plethora of sexy grandpas. today, this aging italian stallion (spandex shorts, red sweatshirt with the thick gold chain and cross hanging out, black lifting belt, but lifting heavy, so i had some respect for the guy) left his weights on the plate-loaded leg press for a long while, so i tracked him down and he did this kind of "oh, let me get those weights off for you, little lady," act. and i was, like, no thanks. the weight you finished is the weight i usually start at. but thanks, grandpa stallion. i love those old guys. the just don't know what to make of me. it's like having the element of surprise, but not needing it really. i mean, if i sprung anything on them, i'd be surrounded by a bunch of guys in cardiac arrest. not that that wouldn't be very flattering and all, but my cpr? not so good anymore. maybe i should take a class at the y?
More lies:
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