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the 19th cookbook
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2001-11-17 00:30:34 (UTC)

There is a girl at school...

There is a girl at school. There is the most beautiful girl at
image arts. A small, delicate blonde with a british accent who makes
my heart stop. She is the landlord of a magnificent shy smile, and
nicely aerodynamic, but not too minimal, figure, and a soft soft
voice, and and and. This morning, as I innocently try to do some
last minute homework in the computerlab, she appears and takes a seat
beside me. Having been briefly introduced a few weeks ago by Avi, we
are not complete strangers. And we talk. Small talk. I see that
she is not completely repulsed by me by her efforts to keep the
mainly inconsequential words rolling. As most of my biological
functions malfunction. My heart, my stomach, my speech, my morality
are all not under my full control. The loveliest and scariest state
of being. Adrenaline fucks my brain while I politely swim in
infinate human beauty with my eyes. I take out a pen, and with shaky
handwriting commit my phone-number to a scrap piece of paper. I give
it to her saying no more than;"here's my phone-number." And she
takes it saying no more than;"thanks." I smile and I leave. My
heart pounding, my homework unfinished. And even if this leads to
absolutely nothing (as I suspect), and even if I never see her again,
I will still be happy for experiencing this morning. Today I have
taken from life the beautiful feeling that only the threat of death
or the presence of heart-stopping women can provide.
Natasha visits me for a night, for the night. It is cold in my
room and my feet are freezing. Even sex doesn't warm them up. In a
touching gesture N. takes my icy toes and places them on her
breasts. She is a furnace and in a few minutes the temperature of my
happy toes stands much improved. Then we have sex again.