he adores me

tonight is thursday.
thursday means poetry.
poetry means i get to see the maestro.
my stomach is jumpy, my hands are jittery and i can't focus on anything.
grinning like a fool.
i'm really excited about seeing him tonight.
this is all very bad.
it just feels fucking incredible.
i'm gonna be a wreck until 10.

the buses were terrible this morning.
it didn't help that i had a bottle and a half of wine for dinner.
i drank on the steps of a mini-park near the broadway tunnel
and listened to the maestro tell stories. there are more details there but i'm guarding them jealously, because they somehow seem
to stay sweeter if i keep them to myself.
anyhow.
buses.
standing at the stop, a little out of it, for twenty-five minutes.
got passed by twice by buses that couldn't have fit another human
being on them; no way.
and the sky is that kind of overcast that isn't quite cloudy,
and it's warm enough so that it feels like it wants to rain but
hasn't quite committed yet. i like it. days like that make the
world seem... less real in that dragging, meandering, pointless way the days seem to actually feel most of the time. i turn on my ipod, it's paused on a song called last night by tiger army. appropriate. and i smile a little. and then my headphones dissolve into my ears with sounds. and i feel like falling. and i can't believe that
the random selection on my ipod is speaking to me, but how else do you explain me swaying slightly at a bus stop listening to the siren song by the anniversary?
"at the edge of the rest of your life.
at the end of a one-way road
i was losing everything
and tonight may never shine
if you never open your eyes
i keep this heart right next to mine"
and the chorus hums, and the music swells and it couldn't have gone better if cameron crowe was directing my life and picking the soundtrack, all the way to work.
and this is all i can think about:

he's talking about overdosing on his own cynicism.
yeah, she nods enthusiastically. the whole it-doesn't-mean-anything,
we're-all-doomed, nothing-matters bullshit? she laughs a litte,
in a hard way. yeah, i do that like every six months.
you made that better, he says, watching a smile spread across her face.
i'm glad, she tells him. the wine has made their blood sleepy and slow and she kisses each of his temples and then his forehead slow-motion like, so softly it burns.

i'm ridin' high off of somethin'
could be the coffee, could be that the misfits are screaming "attitude" in my head loud enough to tempt me to reserve a conference room in the building for "DameRight's Slam Dancing hour" so that I can bang against the walls and sing at the top of my lungs, could be the pic of me on the mag website (apparently i look really hot waiting in line for an iPhone), could be that i caused one of my favorite comic/blogs/thingies to be nominated on said mag website which seems to have confused
the hell outta the nice boy who draws it.
or it could be the way my morning started. a brief recap: