(Reposted. Originally written August 14, 5:47 am)
There's a woman dancing on the side of my screen right now. She's advertising a new line of lingerie for Victoria's Secret. If she looked real it might make for a sexier ad. As it stands she looks like a cartoon. I'm not sure if it's a photograph or a drawing. Probably something in between.
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A first entry. I really should go to bed.
Oh well. This is good for me.
So, here comes an attempt at being creative. Ready? Ready?!
I'm off to a good start with the title of this post.
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Well, don't judge too harshly, oh blog readers (real or imagined). Stream of consciousness, for the most part, I think, will be what follows. Maybe I'll edit out the most explicit bits.
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At the computer, here I sit. It's late. The sounds of the coastal highway have just re-entered my consciousness. I've been so wrapped up in writing these two entries that I haven't been aware of the outside world. Obviously! Look at the time! Almost six. Almost light out.
Laptop. Glorified typewriter. Black hole suckssss me out of the peaceful darkness, into the buzzing, everbright infotainment superhighway. She's looking at me, there at the side of this scroll box. Her expression.... lust? confusion? Maybe the two combined. She's lost her way on the highway and is terribly horny. Am I underdressed, she purrs? stammers? slurs? The all new body of Victoria. No, not underdressed. I guess she's attractive. I can't really see her breasts, but her lower half looks nice. The panties, too. Why is she leaning back? I want to lay down, she says. Aha! For sex! Yes!
The faintly gleaming power bar next to the TV promises me something mysterious. A late night candle is burned by an overworked accountant. The assessment must be finished by tonight, or no job in the morning. Or maybe something more ominous, a dreadful thing awaits me, just out of reach, a bit of a ways down the road. So indistinct, it is, formless and without description. Orange is coming, it says to me. Curiousity and fear, neck in neck, vying for control of my subconscious. And it's.....curiousity! No surprises there.
The filaments of a legion of incandescent bulbs cascade across down the peaks of my memory. Something bizarre to fill the gaps, too difficult to explore the missing pieces. Mountains and a heap of rolling and tumbling, swarming coils. Batlike, they flitter past my inner eye; now they've commandeered this paragraph. She waits until I've finished. Victorian queen of hearts. Virgin elizabeth skips three centuries, swims through the sixties, rolls around with the television/exploitation crowd in the nineties and returns to the England of 1838, wearing lascivious nightclothes and secretive of her temporal ever-presence.
She's becoming more attractive as the night wanes. This is probably because the last shreds of logic are leaving me.
The day doesn't so much break at sunset as melt into twilight. I wonder if that feeling one gets during late afternoon is the same feeling old people live with consistently.
A first entry. I really should go to bed.
Oh well. This is good for me.
So, here comes an attempt at being creative. Ready? Ready?!
I'm off to a good start with the title of this post.
----
Well, don't judge too harshly, oh blog readers (real or imagined). Stream of consciousness, for the most part, I think, will be what follows. Maybe I'll edit out the most explicit bits.
----
At the computer, here I sit. It's late. The sounds of the coastal highway have just re-entered my consciousness. I've been so wrapped up in writing these two entries that I haven't been aware of the outside world. Obviously! Look at the time! Almost six. Almost light out.
Laptop. Glorified typewriter. Black hole suckssss me out of the peaceful darkness, into the buzzing, everbright infotainment superhighway. She's looking at me, there at the side of this scroll box. Her expression.... lust? confusion? Maybe the two combined. She's lost her way on the highway and is terribly horny. Am I underdressed, she purrs? stammers? slurs? The all new body of Victoria. No, not underdressed. I guess she's attractive. I can't really see her breasts, but her lower half looks nice. The panties, too. Why is she leaning back? I want to lay down, she says. Aha! For sex! Yes!
The faintly gleaming power bar next to the TV promises me something mysterious. A late night candle is burned by an overworked accountant. The assessment must be finished by tonight, or no job in the morning. Or maybe something more ominous, a dreadful thing awaits me, just out of reach, a bit of a ways down the road. So indistinct, it is, formless and without description. Orange is coming, it says to me. Curiousity and fear, neck in neck, vying for control of my subconscious. And it's.....curiousity! No surprises there.
The filaments of a legion of incandescent bulbs cascade across down the peaks of my memory. Something bizarre to fill the gaps, too difficult to explore the missing pieces. Mountains and a heap of rolling and tumbling, swarming coils. Batlike, they flitter past my inner eye; now they've commandeered this paragraph. She waits until I've finished. Victorian queen of hearts. Virgin elizabeth skips three centuries, swims through the sixties, rolls around with the television/exploitation crowd in the nineties and returns to the England of 1838, wearing lascivious nightclothes and secretive of her temporal ever-presence.
She's becoming more attractive as the night wanes. This is probably because the last shreds of logic are leaving me.
The day doesn't so much break at sunset as melt into twilight. I wonder if that feeling one gets during late afternoon is the same feeling old people live with consistently.
I can see the mountain of unrecycled recyclables in my kitchen. It's been terraforming (quite successfully) the Northwest corner of that room for the past year. Time to take the trash out? No. Time to sleep. If I can see my unclean kitchen without the lights on, then it must be past my bedtime. May flights of angels sing me to my rest and to my own sleeping Vicktoria, sans lingerie.
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