witany = a litany of wit

a serious flaw in my character: i am far too easily disillusioned. by everything. i am bored too quickly. hindsight leads to regret. thus i romanticize the past, rationalize the crappy bits, and blur the lucidity of the present.
this applies to many things. well, it currently applies to only a few things. i am absurdly content in much of my life, weirdly enough. reading about date rape under xmas lights. playing pool at a dive tavern in tacoma, interspersed with my drunken boss flirting with me and every other woman there ("he'd hit on a fucking corpse" another coworker commented today). calling the grassy yard in front of work "the pudding of the damned", off the cuff, due to the fecal mire resultant of the constant rain, and illiciting laughter. (elicit?) elo's 'can't get it out of my head' on the drive home, very loud, a truly great song that i hadn't heard in a long time.
the undercurrent of grey is still of the lyrical variety. i was thinking last night about sleeping with someone, waking up in the middle of the night, our faces monochrome, mumbling about our dreams or our paranoias or our love for one another, or possibly all of the above. having somebody there. and i thought of the two people i have ever been able to really achieve that with, and how it doesn;t seem possible to ever feel that way again. and i thought these things without a hint of wistfulness or yearning- more as a 'wow, that was really cool that i could experience those connections, isn't life varied' kind of way. and that is weird. isn't it?
everything is so much fucking simpler now. i am only just becoming accustomed to the concept of having myself alone to be responsible for.
a hag at the computer next to me is loudly braying into her cell phone to blind dates. "i like, i don't know, snowboarding... that's awesome..."
i am the anonymous wench with the hippie-scented sweater and floofy hair and crossed legs and quietly oblique expression. i am fidgeting with my hands and realizing that they smell like the air fresheners in the stairwell lavatory of the peace & love hostel in paris- like fake strawberries and old wood. i wish there was another person in the world who would know exactly what i mean. if only i could open my mouth and have a marvelous accent tumble out.