Take It Easy, Love EVERYTHING

'First with your hands, then with your mouth
A downpour of sweat, damp cotton clouds
I was a fool, you were my friend
We made it happen'

'Now I do as I please, try not to lie through my teeth
Someone might get hurt, but it won't be me
I should probably feel cheap, but I just feel free
And a little bit empty'

Except I'm no fool, doves. 

My roommate is listening to Womanizer. It's such a good song. If I could write a song it would sound just like that one but encapsulate that feeling you get before an orgasm, deep in your belly when the plane takes off and your body instinctively knows you are not on the ground anymore. I am ready to be liberated; I should probably feel cheap, but I just feel free, and a little bit empty. 

Oh, English men. You in particular have become really self aware. Your eyes became mirrors and I saw myself but with softer skin and extra super strength like you collected all the gold coins and used them to realise that you need to be constantly in love with everyone and everything, attached to nothing. Meaning for us seems to be in a constant state of flux. We talked a lot about honesty and the truth of our bodies.

My crazy ass porn star friend Ashley texted me about the feeling of walking home in the morning and knowing you will have to change your underwear today because you can feel the remnants of last night's sex dripping out of you. She called it a 'creampie'. My love for her knows no bounds. She belongs to Los Angeles, a side of it I never knew completely. A hundred and ten on the freeway when we were late to that party and your fucking menthols. Tattooed twenty three year olds, total 80s hair metal throwbacks with threesomes and your perfect body with the tattoo of your dead best friend on your back. I still remember her name even if I can't remember theirs. Mellie. That was the saddest story I ever heard. 

Things change quickly in LA: cliques grow tired, youth - old, fascination declines into stultifying, sulky boredom. Infatuations fade and love crumbles and friendships dissipate and you must always ebb and flow with the tide. If you can't, you should not be in the City of Angels. In all honesty the longer I stayed, the more I harbored the sneaking suspicion that no one really exists in this city where everything exists where even the road names are a postmodern microcosm of the world. No one really exists, until they have made it. Spiralling out of that centripetal force of success are merely hopefuls caught in a rip tide, trying to swim to the center and being carried further and further away, incidental to what drives LA, their only function to make the rest of us feel better about our lives, our modicum of achievement in a city of achievers.

Thinking of the other, eternal boy. My own internal narrative dissipates like the tendrils of curls against the nape of your neck that I simply like to press my mouth against. But you know, I love every single person I have ever been with in tiny compartments. Tiny brown wooden drawers that encapsulate brown paper packages tied up with a blend of hyperreality and soap bubbles with lucky strike smoke inside which make me smile, and make you wonder what would happen if I burst.