into the night
we biked to the nirvana cover band. eric and lee and i moshed and were happy, and i'm 28, and this is important. outside in the yard some man started pretending to be eastern philosophy all close to me (it took me three tries to spell philosophy just now, and it maybe isn't correct) and then he pulled out his drivers license to prove he was 40 years old, saying and no, i don't know that guy who killed taylor behl as i inched away from him. then those of us that hopped on bicycles and escaped! into the night!
i drank one bottle of champagne. earlier, i carried twenty-two black helium-filled balloons down the street in one hand, on the bike. some pre-frat child stabbed a balloon (somehow?brandishing a knife?) as i rode past, and i slurred threats, and made it home;
then smeared white gooey zombie makeup allover my face and danced for a long time, ate aderol and later trying to uncomplicate my bedsheets tried to drunkenly write this very epic love letter because i was very drunk, brilliant, emotional; but i couldn't write in english anymore and my handwriting is cursive but then i forgot how to write in cursive and so, at a total loss, decides to read herself to sleep and pulled a gigantic pile of books from the shelf onto my head when going for the bottommost one, and hollered bloody murder, and had really angry dreams about my enemies. this morning my whole face was broken out in zits and i looked like a zombie. you ought to be scared!
yours, amanda L. at 1:25 PM [+] | |