Arlette the playa'
◊ I am listening to the album Chain Gang of Love by the Raveonettes and it is perfect noisy sugar-pop. It's everything I love about the Beach Boys and the Jesus & Mary Chain and the Ramones: fuzz and noise and distortion and sweet songs about sex and love.
It's making me kinda hot, actually.
No, wait, I'm not getting hot. That's just the anxiety. Because I kind of, well ...
Dan's going to fucking hate me for this and not want to talk to me anymore ...
I have a date this weekend. With the guy from the party. The one who left the monster bruises on me (that I didn't mind when I got them, OK? Just to make things clear). I called him and set it up.
It's fuckin' weird, is what it is. I'm still struggling with all this difficult, painful stuff with Dan, but I'm looking forward to this weekend and the Let's Just Call It Hanging Out So Arlette Doesn't Have To Deal With The Concept Of A Date. I can't figure out if my prevailing mood is supposed to be wounded and serious or silly and fun, so I keep flip-flopping between these two crazy extremes and end up looking either heartless or stupid to everyone else.
Really. It makes so much more sense in my head.
Uh, no, wait -- I take it back. It makes even less sense in my head.
Oh god oh god oh god.
A date.
Hopefully a bunch of ninjas will show up to try to assassinate a disguised super-spy-government-agent there by coincidence so that we'll have something to talk about.