In Which I Feel Pretty and Witty and Gay

S makes me feel gorgeous. Let's get that out of the way. It's sick, really, how great I feel around him. I'm tempted, for example, to go everywhere now in my bikini. Like to the bank. And to visit people in the hospital.

And things are...that way. That just-discovered, subways-can't-move-fast-enough-for-me-to-get-to-his-apartment, my-life-is-like-a-movie-with-the-fucking-best-soundtrack-EVER, way.

I mean I email him Microsoft Paint pictures, for god's sake. It sounds disgusting (and, frankly, it is), but it's also SO MUCH FUCKING FUN I CAN'T STAND IT. I send him cute little perfectly illustrated funny drawings of things I want us to do on our dates. And he sends me back cute little terribly illustrated barely recognizeable but really fucking funny drawings back. We do this all day.

We draw to each other.

So obviously everything is silly and marvelous and sexy and thrilling. And you're all The Most Sincere Good-Hearted Best-Wishing Super-Curious Movie Star Angels for being so excited for me and sending us soooo much enthusiasm and good luck. And the world is a perfect place, every day is Saturday, they've invented a pill that you can take instead of doing sit-ups, this pill tastes like chocolate sundaes, S is the second man in the world who is able to give me orgasms*, Paris Hilton has been eaten by cannibals on a recent vacation to South America, and Oh my God what the hell am I gonna blog about?

I mean, now I'm that girl. The one with the cottage by the sea. And her cat. And her man. And her total fucking happiness. Tra-la-la. La-la...um...La.

OR

I'm that other girl. The one who finally gets what she wants and can't be happy about it. Because, truth be told, she actually likes being miserable. She thrives on it, if she's being honest. She's a fucking New Yorker, after all. Happiness makes her uneasy.

BUT

I am happy. There's no use denying it. People tell me I'm glowing. And I can often be seen doing high-kicks on street corners because when I talk to him on the phone I feel like jumping.

STILL HOWEVER

I don't want to become one of those annoying women who starts every sentence with "My boyfriend and I..."

NOR DO I

want to become--even worse--one of those women who punctuates everything with a giggle, and says things like, "I know I've only known him for fourteen days..."

BUT

I know I've only known him for fourteen days....

AND

Now I have these conversations with S about feelings. He can talk about feelings. I can say, "Hey S! Let's talk about feelings" and his head won't explode. Or maybe I might say, "Hey, S! I really like you a lot," and (are you ready for this...it's fucking amazing!) he'll say, "I like you a lot too."

HOWEVER

I just want to say that there is still and will always be a huuuuge difference between me and those "The bridesmaid dresses will be mauve, I think. I also think four flower girls and two ring bearers would be cute. They'll wear teal" kind of women.

AND FURTHERMORE

When I say "I know I've only known him for fourteen days," what I mean is "So it's great that I'm already comfortable enough around him to take my shoes off without worrying that my feet smell,"

AND NOT

"Where's the fucking engagement ring already, Mister? If you're afraid of commitment I need to know now because time is a wastin' and I ain't gettin' any younger! Got that?"

DON'T GET ME WRONG, THOUGH

I would rather die than fart around him. Smelly feet, I'm over. But the thought of farting around him keeps me up at night.

WHICH REMINDS ME

To tell you that we're going to wait to sleep together. Both in a "sleep in the same bed" and "have sex" kind of way.

BRINGING ME BACK TO

Tra-la-la-la. Why hello, little bluebird. Come! Skip with me!

AND YET

Fucking shoot me. Gah. *shudders* Bluebirds creep me out.

ON THE OTHER HAND, THOUGH

There's only five more hours left until I get to kiss him more!

SO

Time move faster already because five hours seems like:

f o r e v e r

BUT WAIT A MINUTE HERE

Can someone get me a martini? Someone? God. I mean, puhlease, People. Really. Next she'll be doing high kicks and skipping around in circles. And then what? Yuck. All this bloody happiness is fucking irritating. Someone call M! Can someone get M back in here? And what about that Unholy Slutwhore Person? She was great. Someone get her on the phone. Call Hell. So what you don't have the number. Call Information. That slut gal was interesting. None of this fucking bluebird bullshit was happening when she and M ran the show. God, I have a headache. Hello?! Martini, People! Where's my martini?!? Christ.

YET AT THE SAME TIME

*skips around in circles and does high kicks*

BUT WAIT A MINUTE HERE...AGAIN

I am realizing something.

WHICH IS

That, even happy, I am still psychotic.

FINE THEN,

I feel better.

ALSO

My bikini is gonna bring joy to a lot of sick people.




*That one's true.