Do you remember, the day you let me be the only one

'cause I remember the way you held my gaze, my lovely one.

You're the one,

You're the one,

You're the one.

I am having ridiculous amounts of fun dancing in my seat to Tinashe's Zambezi.

I mean, come on.

The man has style and charisma. He looks like one of those people you'd love to be friends with (I know i'd love to be).

There isn't much about him on the world wide web, but from what i've gathered, he's with Island Records (much love to them and their taste in music) and he was a refugee who came to the U.K. as a child.

Nevertheless, the serious lyrics are offset with Afro beats that warm me inside and out.

Breathe Gentle

I've come to the realization that its been approximately 2+ weeks of daily fighting, with few exceptions.

I don't think I can be blamed if I just don't want to anymore.

So it just feels like he's picking a fight with me, and my normal indignant response at whatever accusations and arguments are being carefully (or not) aligned, organized, and fired at me, is dormant.

And each time, I can't help but ask:

Why do you want to fight me so badly?

Is there some kind of demand for retribution or satisfaction I don't see?

Probably.

So as much as it means to me, I avoid him until the hurricane of hurt and misunderstanding blows over.

I hope.

But its not that I don't think his feelings and points aren't valid, its that the extraneous details - the name calling, the finger-pointing - that try to pin down fault exclusively on one half I loathe.

Fighting won't get us anywhere, so stop trying to move upstream without a paddle.

We are not enemies. Stop acting like it. You're not a victim.

Alas, sweetness.

Who gets sick in May, when the sun is shining and the air is no longer stagnant or pregnant with rain?

Me.

I'm comforting myself with chocolate Teddy Grahams and taking sadistic pleasure in knowing that the bite sized bears are having a rougher time than I.

So I'll stay in and day dream about far away kisses until I decide to slog my way through the house looking for more food.

Grief for Digestion.

My mother, bless her heart, cannot cook. She always manages to deviate away from recipes to add her own..."flair." Among her past conquests is blended corn poured over wild rice, a health food craze that resulted in flourless bread, and whole baby carrots in my sandwiches. With mayo. Today, this tendency leaves me sitting here on a perfect thursday afternoon staring at a smoothie.

And, dear ones, this isn't just any smoothie.

This smoothie has a banana, unpitted cherries, and questionable mint ice cream that expired... last march.

There are bits of chocolate chip in it.

It doesn't have a smoothie texture, exactly, either. It's a cross between a strange icy soup and the result of a five year old happily mashing his food into unrecognizable little chunks.

Housewife she is not.

And so here I stare at the tall, tall, tall glass happily given to me.

I decide to set aside any notions of gourmet, remember that she labors to produce anything, forget my gastrointestinal tract, and spoon the stuff into my mouth as fast as I can.

The aroma of the blender's burning rubber permeates the air.

I have just pulled out a piece of pineapple. I didn't think we had any purchased in the last month.

I have a feeling that Pepto and I will become bosom buddies by the end of this night. Lovely.

The Prom I didn't go to

I don't feel bad about going. I mean, in itself, prom isn't exactly the pinnacle of my high school career (if it can even be called a career). Everyone looks fabulous and dressing up is always fun, but sharing the experience is the best part. And I suppose

Its really the people i miss.

I miss her. I miss them. I miss them all.

I guess connections via text and facebook and quick ims will never replace actually sitting down and talking. I don't mean talking shit about people, as girls are wont to do, but I favor the meaningful ones where you find out about people's opinions, decisions and feelings.

Oh yes, the feelings.

I guess I'm not that interested in who's doing what, but how you feel about your life and how you're doing.

I miss you.

Guilty

Okay, I must confess:

I do love Target.

Even just walking up and down the aisles makes me happier. Maybe I should get out more.

The bright colors and displays are just fun to look at and are good eye candy (for someone who doesn't watch television or see advertisements...the ones in the newspaper not withstanding.)

I bought some toothpaste and sandals today, and even that made me a lot happier.

I'm wearing the aforementioned sandals right now. This from a Chinese girl who isn't supposed to wear shoes in the house. The heel is about an inch - enough for me not to be uncomfortable with my archless foot, and low enough that a 5' 10" girl isn't towering over everyone else. They also don't click-clack like heels normally do. The bottom seem to be rubber or something that muffles the sound so I can skip through my house without anyone noticing! They are plain brown gladiator sandals, but still - I love them. Nothing fancy. Simple.

Ah, happiness.

And the toothpaste? I just like the minty feeling. Mmm.

I have thrown all of my effort in the last three hours in procrastinating my Psychology project.

Damn.

Luis Vuitton Models sans Makeup

I think they look beautiful with and without. Just more unique :)