Languishing is Lovely

It's 11:15PM. Not that late, yet I feel like a night owl. Last week, I went out too much, drank too much, slept too little. Oh, how it goes. Last week I was almost run over on the way to work by a woman riding a unicycle. No joke. I still laugh. Last week I helped Sheila with her claymation movie, only there was no clay. Not yet. Last week I crashed a private party at Bistrot du Coin, their fifth anniversary. "I know Yannis." What a lie. Yannis is the co-owner. Last week I was deliriously lost yet deliriously happy. Last week ended with a prolonged period of luxurious languishing, in many positions. Prone. Upright. Seated. Bent over a stool. Passing stool. Honest. What does languishing mean to you?

But enough about the past.

Here we are tonight. A little high, a little full, a little callused in the fingers. Andre taught me a song. I finally got my guitar lesson. Fuck these chords man, my hands are already ruined from years of exposure to acid and turpentine. I'll never have soft, supple hands. I'll never have girly hands. Andrea made me turkey burgers. She has nice hands. I'm sore from my 25-mile bike ride. Tomorrow I must "network" - not that I give a shit about other people in my industry of spinning webs of lies and tales of deception. I want drinks and chicken tenders off the company tab. I'm languishing yet again, in my favorite position, in my favorite disposition: lounging in a chair, naked as fuck, and pensive to boot. Yes, naked as fuck, but not fucking naked. There is a difference.

If only the arts center would call me back so I can rent some studio space. If only so many things.