In which I shamelessly dork out on y’all.

The new-boyfriend vocabulary is growing; I’m gonna need a jargon file just so I can read it occasionally and smirk. None of it means nothing to anyone else, of course, but phrases like “Fuck you, get the fuck off me” and “You gotta understand; I live in the same yellow” and “At least the puking part’s over” all crack me up.

The weekend’s been superfun. Saturday night after work we went to Kelly’s and had dinner and drinks and I met his caddy. Later we met up with Becca and got hammered down at Barn Disease, partyin’ with the twenty-year-olds and diggin’ on their drama. (I got to see Arturrrrrro; I love that creature!) I had much more vodka than anyone needs and passed out in K’s bed around two.

The next morning he made me tea and toast; eventually we went to Walmart (where there were idiot coneheads standing in every damn aisle like cattle in chutes) for general necessities (I got lens solution and laundry detergent; he bought plumbing shit for his upstairs bathroom), and then I spent the afternoon finding my bedroom floor while he went home and mowed his lawn in ninety seven-degree heat. Around five he came over and chatted up my G’ma while I showered, and then we went back to his place where he cooked me dinner. And made me drinks. And ravished me senseless for hours. Christ.

This morning, though? The wretched bitch woke me up early so he could go golfing.

I’ve just washed my whites to wear to Amma the weekend after next and have all my saris and punjabis drying on the line. My room is clean and my belly’s full (I made an egg, hashed browns and veggie sausage, and then slathered it all in vegetarian gravy – oh yes) and now I’m seriously considering a big, fat nap (if I don’t have to go to band practice, that is).