Straight No Chaser

Kiss Kiss

i am very annoyed with myself for hospitability. i know that isn't a word, i know what the word's supposed to be, it was carelessness, i know everyone knows these things, et cetera, but still. aaron sometimes says things like "shannon is perfect as always." which, for all i try to discourage such maxims, is a nice to thing to hear. to read. i liked the pedestal better, once i saw that it was made of marble, not cotton balls. and plus, there's always that tiny chance that one day his loneliness and my need for cash will land us in a coincidental mail-order bride situation, and for that to work, i will need to be perfect.

anyway, in a shining display of my tremendous hospitability, i am currently sharing my microscopic room with nine other individuals, only one of whom actually lives here. the ball is friday; melony wants a date; we've had more guys in here, over the past three days, than we have square inches of space in which to fit them. this batch, they're mostly my friends, and have divided themselves into two camps: those who might want to escort melony to the dance (three crowded onto her twin bed), and those who definitively do not (remaining five stretched out on my side). nobody wanted to go to the young jeezy concert, because nobody has fifteen dollars to blow on something that's going to definitely suck. so we six, the shannon team, are watching "pulp fiction." (the melonballers are, appropriately, sucking melony's balls. and vying for space on her gigantic bosom.)

i don't know why we bother, with this kind of bureaucracy. we already know bryant is going to ask, eventually, and that if he does, she'll say yes, because she hasn't been in atlanta long enough to see him in his full assholic splendor. he's drunk, right now, and literally dribbling onto her cleavage, but that's not even as bad as he gets. i've seen. she thinks he's handsome, though, and finds it endearing that he calls her "butterball." perfect match, maybe.

jonathan, tyler, jabari, dante and will are quickly wearing out their welcome. i want to change clothes, and can't; minor inconveniences like that.

eerie coincidence, today. heavenflower (actual name of an actual girl from my actual creative writing workshop) turned in a story frighteningly similar to one i had begun to write. derived from a prompt aaron gave me over the summer, my story was supposed to explicate the circumstances leading up to a mother dropping her infant from the rooftop of a thirty-story building; heavenflower's story ended with a mother pushing the double-seater stroller containing her infant and toddler from the rooftop of a fifty-story building. i know she's not familiar with writing.com, because i asked, indirectly, so either it's a huge coincidence, or they are getting their story ideas from the same infanticidal muse. probably the former.

jabari just grabbed my leg and started tickling my knee. hence the need to change; you can't wear a skirt in a room where you're outnumbered, three and a half to one, by obnoxious boys who don't get enough friction. jabari is about to get kicked in the face.

i'd never, of course. i don't do stuff like that. it is weird, though. in another life, like high school, this intensity of male attention would mean something, and probably be fun. today, though, with marcus having pulmonary panic attacks on the other side of campus every five seconds, and as badly as i miss him, and want him to come over and play, or just read stuff i've written and watch vh1 with me, i just want everyone else to go away.

i'm not mad anymore. i just miss him a lot. he's coming over on monday, after the stupid dance and the stupid coronation and the stupid game and the stupid step show are over, and then it's his turn to be the focus of someone's patient, careful attention.

maybe i will kick jabari in the face. he seems to sort of want me to.