I was fully intent on spending this morning asleep, sprawled out warm on my stomach with a stuffed pony tucked under my arm, yet another delightful weekend morning. The weather's finally turning warm and it's raining a little, making this the perfect time to brush aside all the things I should be doing and lounge under the window.
Failing that, I was going to wake up, be good, go to class and then come home to get some workthings done. Or, since the whiplash is still fierce enough to keep my head still, maybe just skip right to the French homework and short seminar paper and then skip out for the afternoon.
Instead I am lying in bed, blissed out on expensive chocolate, diet coke straight from the bottle, watery sunshine filtering down through the blinds. I was vaguely going to write in tribute to C., to make a weird curved line between the way that her sister once called me "the tautness I hold myself in" and how her forays into photographing and being photographed are part of a sense of self that I will never have.
That's all for this morning. I'm up and awake and on the move; I can't ever be unconditionally attracted or unconditionally blissed.
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