Friday, July 27, 2007
^
Smoking: Zanzibar Classics (with my cousin Courtney; she smokes USA Gold Lights?)
Reading: Ghost Hunters Scariest Cases (or something like that; you get the idea)
You've been reading too much, you overpoetic book-whore. <3
No matter how slow, the outpost still sends off its supplies, even to clumsy soldiers who forget to manage their camp and themselves. The outpost becomes meager with nothing to send to the outside world, nothing to exchange; nothing to prove that there are, indeed, soldiers waiting for supplies. But the letters come. The signs of life arise and the outpost is once again sure that there is, indeed, someone responding to its packages. The outpost sends as much as it can, all wrapped in brown paper and tired twine.
Luckily, even without letters and messages, the outpost knows that those soldiers will survive. They aren't dumb enough to perish.
Is the love obvious? It should be. Do I pester too much? I hope not. Are my messages too desperate? Let us pray they are not.
Hotel morning coffee pisses me off. The cups are like a joke. It's as if they want to top off your night of sleeping ON a rock, instead of LIKE one, by giving you the most meager wake-up call possible. A teaspoon of rotten, badly-brewed sludge topped with non-dairy, non-liquid creamer and sugar that gives you a caffeine buzz equivalent to that of the Queen Mother on her first cuppa; that is to say, NOT.
This morning's coffee was exquisite, however, despite it being the hotel variety. It was very nouveau, coming from a machine, programmed to your taste by various buttons. Very European. Very innovative. The scent of chocolate invades the nose, but the taste is not neurotically sweet; it tastes like what I ordered: coffee; cafe mocha; strong; 100%. Delicious. (The bagel was sub-par, I hate to report.)
Family swarms and my mind is addled. I feel more clever without competition. I'm talkative and vicious, just as you taught me, but I am less afraid to speak; I am less afraid to be corrected, haha. I see those that I have missed for months, but I miss another anew; the days feel like months. When will I ever see you again? Is it really only two weeks? I sound like a love-sick shitty-romance-author. :P (Oh wait, I -am-. Lame.)
Reading: Ghost Hunters Scariest Cases (or something like that; you get the idea)
You've been reading too much, you overpoetic book-whore. <3
No matter how slow, the outpost still sends off its supplies, even to clumsy soldiers who forget to manage their camp and themselves. The outpost becomes meager with nothing to send to the outside world, nothing to exchange; nothing to prove that there are, indeed, soldiers waiting for supplies. But the letters come. The signs of life arise and the outpost is once again sure that there is, indeed, someone responding to its packages. The outpost sends as much as it can, all wrapped in brown paper and tired twine.
Luckily, even without letters and messages, the outpost knows that those soldiers will survive. They aren't dumb enough to perish.
Is the love obvious? It should be. Do I pester too much? I hope not. Are my messages too desperate? Let us pray they are not.
Hotel morning coffee pisses me off. The cups are like a joke. It's as if they want to top off your night of sleeping ON a rock, instead of LIKE one, by giving you the most meager wake-up call possible. A teaspoon of rotten, badly-brewed sludge topped with non-dairy, non-liquid creamer and sugar that gives you a caffeine buzz equivalent to that of the Queen Mother on her first cuppa; that is to say, NOT.
This morning's coffee was exquisite, however, despite it being the hotel variety. It was very nouveau, coming from a machine, programmed to your taste by various buttons. Very European. Very innovative. The scent of chocolate invades the nose, but the taste is not neurotically sweet; it tastes like what I ordered: coffee; cafe mocha; strong; 100%. Delicious. (The bagel was sub-par, I hate to report.)
Family swarms and my mind is addled. I feel more clever without competition. I'm talkative and vicious, just as you taught me, but I am less afraid to speak; I am less afraid to be corrected, haha. I see those that I have missed for months, but I miss another anew; the days feel like months. When will I ever see you again? Is it really only two weeks? I sound like a love-sick shitty-romance-author. :P (Oh wait, I -am-. Lame.)
// posted by Kate @ 4:29 PM 
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