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I need to do that more often.
Jul. 11th, 2004 04:32 amSo my dear [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] and I hit Ulana's tonight, me for the first time in I don't know how long, he for the first time ever. I reek of smoke, I've gained five pounds and my skirt was too tight (in addition to being just ridiculously short over my ass), and I didn't win a damned thing in the raffle, or any door prizes. But I'm very, very content. I saw Christiane and Tom Truelove, whom I haven't seen in forever. Ellen, whom I know I know, but don't know how I know. My beloved Kiltboy, who's taking an extended vacation from the place (I missed his last set. Gah.) The charming Poe. And, of course, the devastatingly, wickedly handsome Jim-- I have to say that, as I know he's the only one of the lot who'll read my Journal. Oh-- there is one other. Meekay, nice shirt. You stared right over my head.
I'm resisting the urge to rub my eyes. I'm tired, but I still have all that pretentious Goth make-up shit on my face. Thank G-d I learned long ago never to take myself too seriously.
I love to watch people, and watch their reactions to the way I look when I'm going a-Gothing. It's obvious some folks react with alarm, and some with ridicule. But some-- even the unlikeliest people-- look me in the eye and grin. I know, they say, unsaying. I understand. Hey, Little Freak: rock on.
I know there's an extra swagger in my step when I'm swimming in this particular skin. I remember years ago, when I first wore my Boots, and carried a sword on my hip, I would end the day feeling as if I'd either spent the day riding a big horse, or, mm...riding a big stallion. It took me a while to figure out it was the extra swing in my hips, the kick to my step.
In recent years, I've more mourned the loss of that peculiar muscular ache than reveled in it annoyance. I spend too much time walking quietly, keeping my eyes down, worrying about my next task or my next responsibility. I've throttled my little inner hedonist, and made her wear workaday shoes.
At least I released so much of the cloud that was in my eyes yesterday. At least we talked it out and blew it away.
Oh, it's a shame you're not here. I'd make you make me walk like that tomorrow.
I'm resisting the urge to rub my eyes. I'm tired, but I still have all that pretentious Goth make-up shit on my face. Thank G-d I learned long ago never to take myself too seriously.
I love to watch people, and watch their reactions to the way I look when I'm going a-Gothing. It's obvious some folks react with alarm, and some with ridicule. But some-- even the unlikeliest people-- look me in the eye and grin. I know, they say, unsaying. I understand. Hey, Little Freak: rock on.
I know there's an extra swagger in my step when I'm swimming in this particular skin. I remember years ago, when I first wore my Boots, and carried a sword on my hip, I would end the day feeling as if I'd either spent the day riding a big horse, or, mm...riding a big stallion. It took me a while to figure out it was the extra swing in my hips, the kick to my step.
In recent years, I've more mourned the loss of that peculiar muscular ache than reveled in it annoyance. I spend too much time walking quietly, keeping my eyes down, worrying about my next task or my next responsibility. I've throttled my little inner hedonist, and made her wear workaday shoes.
At least I released so much of the cloud that was in my eyes yesterday. At least we talked it out and blew it away.
Oh, it's a shame you're not here. I'd make you make me walk like that tomorrow.