babylonian whiskey.

I've decided, just to be safe, for now, I'll only drink Blue Moon when I'm at a bar. That way I can at least finish a beer--the orange slice definitely complements it.

There was a song that I thought was about love, but it's actually about death, and in turn, love, but just a different kind.

Could I wear a dress from the 1920s now? I think I could, with this hair.

There haven't been clouds for days. Or at least, there haven't been many clouds.

I'm afraid of lying in my front yard because people will see me, and the bees. I don't like the back yard because it's too small, too bumpy, and the wasps hang out back there, and the pine tree (or what poses as a pine) is a nuisance. I'm afraid to go to a park because of people--or at least, I'm afraid to go alone. What would I do? Lie on the grass and listen to music? I don't want to walk the loop alone either, but people are never free to join me when I have the time.

Ah, social awkwardness--it's not something I revel in, it's just something I deal with. "But you're in theatre"--"But you're an actor"--"But you're so friendly to customers"--"You don't seem like it, you seem outgoing"--"Just say hello"--I'm not terribly awkward, but the more time I've spent around people in theatre, people in film, people in art--the more I realize how incredibly judgmental I am of--and reluctant to interact with--anyone else, besides family and friends, who fall outside of those circles. I hate my regular job because of it. But that could also be because I hate the mall. God, how I hate that mall.

I've been wanting a dancer's body again. I want those powerful muscles to be transferred to my calves and thighs, I want the core strength of a Noh performer, I want, I want, I want--toned isn't supposed to be the right word anymore, but it seems right, in this case. There is so much I want to change--and at the same time, I've never been happier with this body, the same essential figure I've had since partway through freshman year at college. Maybe it takes those happy thoughts to get me there.

Although I don't know why those thoughts would make me happy. After him, these kinds of thoughts are torture. Now that I know what can happen when I start to act on those kinds of feelings--even just sitting on the side, leaving only my feet submerged in the water--it's worse. My mind and my gut are at such odds; although I've nothing better to think about yet until we really put our noses to the grindstone for my other job, so I've been inclined to let my mind wander to those places. Those happy gardens. Those rose-scented fantasies. (Although even those look practical in these new eyes.) At least I don't wander blindly.

But the color rises slightly in my cheeks just thinking, just picturing you--the stupidest thing, really--just walking into my workplace, while I'm just standing there, waiting to greet someone--or even better, somehow sneaking by me when I'm ringing someone up, and I finish, and I exit the box, and boom--it's stupid.

You should ask me out. Or tell me to leave you alone. I know that it's a woman's world and I shouldn't be afraid to be bold, but I'm tired of charging headlong downhill and tumbling head first off the horse. I'm not "searching" for a boyfriend, I'm not "looking" for a relationship--

just

tell me I'm pretty, Wash.

And also, out of that canon's context, tell me why, and tell me you like me.

Or jab the lance straight into my gut. But don't leave me in the lurch.

And in an effort to not end all my writings and ramblings on this same note, I like your eyes. I don't know why. I just do. I also like your glasses. I just do.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, dreams of Iceland and Blue Lake and redwoods and kissing and roadtrips and futures. So many futures.