Thursday, December 06, 2007

Laughing at the Frozen Rain

This house is an old house – drafty all the time. It’s November and my bedroom is cold. I have a heater in it and I straddle it for an extra blast of heat. It burns the insides of my legs sometimes. It’s getting colder here and so am I.

Danny drove to the island to see me last night. He is a sweet man – easy-going, honest, simple. I’ve known him since my teens. We dated briefly; for a week, I think. He broke up with me in front of the girl’s bathroom in high school. I cut school, went to the woods and smoked a joint and cried and then laughed. And then laughed some more.

We ran into each other not so long ago and he wanted to get together. He looks different now. He still has beautiful blue eyes. And two kids and a new divorce. He’s an electrician with a failing business. And he’s moving back in with his mother. All the makings of a match made in heaven.

I’ve heard it said that the older you get, the more your personality sets in stone - less pliable. The little pains of life fuse with the big pains and you didn’t take the time to dislodge them, cry or scream them out. So they compiled and calcified and they now occupy a dead space where kindness used to live. Oh how poetic.

I want to be flexible. I want to, I want to. But I’m not.

Danny slept in my bed last night and I wanted to kill him. He’s a big guy and he seemed to grow as the cold night progressed. His arms became virtual bear traps. And while he didn’t snore, he breathed louder than I thought humanly possible. Almost dragon-like. He also smelled like baby powder twice removed – like some weird, adulterated version of baby powder. I told him earlier that night, “Hey, you sure smell like baby powder – like a lot.” He said it was his deodorant. Deodorant indeed. This bothered me.

Toxic Baby Powder Bear Trap man literally had me in a chokehold at 5 this morning. His arms were too heavy to lift up. I thought I might suffocate…him.

And on top of feeling like a smashed pea, I felt a little confused. I’m supposed to like this warm “other person” sensation in my bed, right? It shouldn’t feel like a burden – I mean, literally, like an immense physical burden, right? I wanted to roll over and whisper softly into his ear “Hey, can you get the hell out of here?”

When Danny woke up this morning, I had been up for an hour sitting at my desk, bleary-eyed. Looking well-rested, he stretched and asked, “Do you know what you need?”

I toyed with several responses in my tired little head:

“A silencer?”

“For you to get the hell out of my bed and stop baby powdering your scent all over the joint!”

“To be never asked again, ‘Do you know what I need?’”

“To stop dating, cause y’all annoy my ass.”

I went with the simple but classicly acerbic, “Oh, pray tell.”

An electric blanket, he says.

“The blankets that you kicked off the bed usually keep me warm enough.”

He laughed and stretched and got out of bed and kissed my cheek.


Over breakfast, I asked him if I seemed like a bitch to which he replied, “Yeah, you’re a bitch a little.”

Well, then why do you want to date me, I asked.

“I don’t know. Um, I don’t know.”

I told him how I appreciated his well-thought out answer.

“See – that kind of thing. Makes you sound like a bitch a little.”

“Hmm…I always thought that was just biting sarcasm.”

I took a bite of my Scrapple (a very strange meat product that I’d rather not talk about.)

He suggested I lighten up a little and stop acting like I know everything.

“Me, me? I know less each day! I seem like a know-it-all?”

“Yeah, a little. Well, you do know a lot. So it makes me feel like a hick, like some Jersey blue-collar guy – which I am, I know. You know about wine and music and film, which I like to call movies. I drink beer and lay wire. So yeah, I kinda feel stupid around you.”

He looked down into his coffee and I suddenly felt like a piece of…Scrapple.

“I’m…sorry if I made you feel that way. I would never want to make someone feel that way.”

“It just seems I get on your nerves a lot.”

“Danny, everything gets on my nerves anymore and I don’t know why.”

“But maybe you just don’t like me the way I like you. Or you wouldn’t be so touchy.”

The truth of his statement hung silently over our heads.

I remembered caring more when I was younger – I cared about what I said and how I was perceived because I so wanted to be…wanted. But that concern has quietly unraveled over the years. It’s been replaced by a deep and contented sense of not caring. It feels good speaking my mind at all costs. Sure, you disenfranchise just about everyone but you breathe a big sigh of relief.

There’s this little Fury who lives inside of me now. Perhaps she’s always been there. Her rusty restraints have finally fallen off and she tears around my room, spitting fire and clawing my face. I can’t stop her. I don’t even want to try. I’m hoping she’ll exhaust herself and melt away and left will be a pliable, sweet person.

Until then, she and I will sleep happily together. She touches me. Her lips are icy and her tongue is like a hot poker. She is the best lover and hater I know. She doesn’t steal my cover - she is my cover. She pulls my hair hard and whispers nasty words in my ears. I am forced to relent. She and I watch reruns of Xena, the Warrior Princess together and plan our great escape. There will be tons of carnage and fire, we hope.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

A Castle Awaits

I’m not a princess today. My head hurts from cheap wine and I'm broke and I'm bleeding. And I’m certainly not a princess today. Nobody fights to come in my castle, nobody slays my demons at night. Nobody dotes on me like royalty. I am the doter, the minion, the workhorse and I’m not a princess today.

This morning, I cleaned the fireplace to warm my cold soul. The rust and dust fell all over me. And covered in soot, I thought ah, yes, Cinderella, of course! A pre-princess princess, covered in ash, no date for the ball, just a good-hearted soul.

My heart wants so much today. And nobody knows it. It aches and longs and speaks to thin air, to an empty room, to a dead dragon. Expectations are for people who can afford them, I remind it. Shhh…and be quiet. It beats a little less, afraid to be heard. Afraid to disturb.

Everyday I try to give love and express who I am and follow some messy path to my kingdom of gold. Everyday I get angry and confused and hurt by others…and even then, I try to remember the good and my arms outstretch again, like a sad, little robot on love overdrive.

I’ve never been a princess. Not as a little girl, not as the sweet 16 I longed to be. I tried and I waited, but the gates kept closing. And the message was clear. I was asking too much when it all seemed so little. I began to whisper, “Stop asking, just stop asking” and tried fading away.

Sometimes I’m fooled and a spark reappears. “Well, maybe it’s my time. To shine. To dance life easy. To glide about gracefully. To be loved deservedly. To be sexed passionately. To be adorned greatly.” I rise expectantly and the gates close again, this time more slowly, more deliberately, as if to mock me. I sit back down, hands folded, head bowed.

Did I do something wrong? Did I get in the way? Do I not belong here anymore – or in the first place? And those friends, they yell at me for thinking this way. As if I’m indulgent, like the princess I’m not. Stop thinking that way!

I’ve vacuumed my brain to discover the source, to rid myself of the old thoughts, the sick thoughts, that keep me away, from my castle, my prince and my treasures in troves. I’ve scoured and scrubbed inside, to clean them away. I’ve shouted and sung and cried till I’m heaving. I’ve explained and I’ve written, as I’m doing right now, but still I remain not a princess today.

Perhaps I am one and just haven't noticed. Maybe this old room is my castle, this room where I heard my mother moan from cancer, thinking it was a stomach flu; this room where, as a child, I hid from my brother, who meant me serious harm. I've slayed dragons here before, this I am sure.

Maybe my treasures are these words, my chariot an old rusty truck and my prince, my soft pillow. My bottle of pills, fine caviar and my old flannel shirt, my ceremonial gown. I do have the haughty quality of someone who has seen too much and been given too little. The chin-up stoicism of a worn, regal soul.

My hair does flow freely and I run like a stallion. I laugh and I flirt and sing songs to the sea. I dance by myself until I'm exhausted. I give and I hurt and love well beyond my means. I dream of things that only a god would dare think of. A castle awaits me, if only in dreams.

And these words will only mean something to the peasant who writes them. It’s my edict I write, to the kingdom of me.

Friday, October 19, 2007

The Brothers

As I adjusted to life at the Jersey shore and my old family house, I befriended three rag-tag young brothers from the end of my street. I met them at a block party one summer’s evening and the next day we went surfing together. We would be close from that point on, in varying degrees, but they would all feel like genuine brothers to me.


They’re definitely what you would call “rough around the edges.” Their clothes are often dirty or torn up. They always have scratches and bruises from one thing or another. They’re naturally athletic, always daring one another to jump over this or dive off of that. They fart, curse and their observations border on the ignorant or sublimely ridiculous.


They like explosives, laugh at stupid shit and drive any vehicle fast and well. They’re virile and pretty with lithe, toned bodies. They drink copious amounts of cheap beer. They sleep wherever they fall at the end of the day. They’re boys, barely men, with something distinctly untamed in them.


And I began to experience the feeling of having brothers – real, live, beautiful beasts of brothers, shaking cages and breaking down doors.


The biggest influence they had on me was surfing. I taught myself the basics I lived in California years ago but I was definitely beginner. The brothers took on the task of making me a serious surfer, encouraging me (loudly) to drop in on waves that seemed way too scary and intimidating. Bit by bit, they were creating a risk-taker of me. Is this what real brothers do? I like it!

Once we drove to a local surf spot at the end of the island. They were being particularly boyish, commenting on every (and I do mean every) female we passed by.


At first, I wrote it off. But it became increasingly annoying. Finally, I cracked.


“Listen, can you guys knock it off?! You sound childish and kinda fucking annoying.”


The car went dead silent. I felt relieved, took a deep breath and drank in the silence, which lasted a mere 15 seconds before one brother saw another hottie and the comments started flying again.

After dropping them off like a load of dirty laundry, I reflected on their dismissal of my request. I could have felt unheard, disrespected. But instead, I felt a strange surge of flattery. Only brothers would feel comfortable enough to disregard you so openly, right?


There was a silent vote that took place after my firm request to shut the fuck up:

They could swallow their urge to assert their heterosexuality every 5 seconds


They could continue to be themselves in front of me, as they’d always been, for better or for worse.

Even on the losing end of the vote, it felt like a win. Because they love me…and that solves a lot of problems. 


They have helped shape me into a woman who is wilder and braver. And I love them too. Probably always will.

The youngest one borrowed an oversized sweatshirt of mine years ago. He never returned it. And I let him, even though I really like that sweatshirt. Because it feels good when he wears it. It feels good on me.



Saturday, October 06, 2007

God in Little Objects

God in Little Objects

Joy! I just bought a pair of kitchen scissors. What are kitchen scissors, you ask? Well, they are scissors…but for the kitchen. And they bring joy. Because you cut stuff instead of chopping stuff. I feel fancy and adult, owning these kitchen scissors. Who would have thought such a simple tool would yield such giddy delight?

I was moderately happy when I bought my first cooler many years ago. Not kitchen scissors happy but in the same ballpark. Sort of “Oh look how responsible I am. Look! I own a cooler now. I can put food in the cooler and it will stay cool. Look at me! I’m an adult.”

I don’t feel happy about the pumpy thermos thing I bought for my coffee. I thought it would offer me something: convenience, portability of my hot coffee. But it hasn’t…or I don’t care about those features as much as I thought. It simply collects dust in the corner. It’s slowly becoming clutter. And that’s discouraging.

My cheap wetsuit makes me immensely unhappy. It’s cheap and it sucks. So every time I put it on, I remember my tendency to scrimp on things that matter to me and I feel testy. My wetsuit matters: It keeps me warm in cold water and I surf. That’s important. I hate my cheap wetsuit. It’s tight and it constricts me.

My friend at the end of the street has been acting differently. He’s a guy and I’m not and I thought we could just be friends but instead some weird “why don’t you have sex with me” vibe has developed and put a strain on us. He’s become emotionally detached and into these head games.
He’s slowly becoming a coffee pumpy thing, collecting dust in the corner.

My mother, I thought, would provide me considerably more happiness. She had a great and unusual personality. But she was pretty self-centered and depressed and dramatic and I often fell quietly by the wayside. She was the kitchen scissors I always wanted. She was the wetsuit that makes me grimace. She could have been the cooler, at least. Maybe she was. Maybe I’m just mad.

The liquid soap I bought smells of orange blossoms. Every single time I use it, it makes me feel like a child; it’s such a simple, pretty scent. I feel innocent and delicate. The wetsuit makes me angry and self-punitive. My mother should have been quieter and softer sometimes, for my sake. The guy down the street, he reads a book called The Game that teaches him nasty tricks that men can play on women so they can score.

My kitchen scissors currently provide me more happiness than he does. Which is sad because they are scissors and he is a man. He’s slowly becoming clutter. And that’s discouraging. I miss his orange blossom scent. I’m getting a new wetsuit soon but you only get one mom, constricting neckline and all. I don’t own that cooler anymore. I don’t know where it went.

My kitchen scissors are God this week. Luxurious and sharp. Amen.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Weed Killer, Friend Killer

In an attempt to make friends on my little island off of the Jersey coast, I often cruise the streets. Cruising isn't just for people in search of a sexual conquest; it's made for any lonely gal, new to an area, trying to connect. And while cruising is a little strange in a small town, it is still a perfectly viable way to meet people.

So there I am, walking down my little street and I spot a potential John! And she's a woman! (This is particularly great, because I seem to be just fine attracting 20-something surfer boys who want to celebrate my new "Cougar" status but I miss the kinship of a good, ol' gal). I stop in front of her house and admire her garden. Her name is Emily.

She's visiting from NYC and will be here throughout the summer – a much-needed break, since she is a professional dancer, nursing a long-standing injury. Wow…and she's in the arts. Good deal, since I'm an artist too, damnit.

We talk for several minutes and I can tell we hit it off just fine. Later that night, she comes over for a little scotch on the rocks and we sit in my backyard talking under the stars about everything under the sun. I sleep that night a little more soundly, knowing there's a female only doors down, with which to bitch.

Several days later, I meander by her place (I don't have to cruise anymore…my days of ill-repute are over). We talk for a few minutes, but I can sense a chill in the air. Hmmm…She said noticed on her way out of my backyard that night that my brother had a can of the weed-killer Roundup next to our house. Well, yes, yes, we do have Roundup. Well, we don't – my brother does, I explain.

She goes on to tell me the vast amount of ecological damage that Roundup does on a small island like this. That there are easier and more natural ways to get rid of weeds nowadays. Half-lives are mentioned. Endocrine disruptors are tossed around. Glyphosate herbicides bandied about. Fish immune systems fired my way. My head is spinning. "But, but…it's not MY Roundup, I tell you. It's my brother's! Poison ivy! Not me!"

But it's too late. The damage has been done apparently. I'm stunned that someone would hold my brother's weed killer against me. A New Yorker, no less! Hours later, as I lie awake in my bed, I retort mentally. "Well, if you're so ecologically correct, Ms. Dancer Thang, then why did you take a $225 car service here? Why not ride a horse? And those cigarettes you're smoking, the last time I checked, weren't exactly an unborn fish's best friend."

The next day, I cruise by her place (I'm back to my old tricks again). She weakly lifts a hand toward me – not quite a wave, more of "This is as much as you get from me, Weed Killer Girl."

I continue on to the beach for a swim and pick up a bunch of cigarette butts as I exit, something I do often and with little fanfare. I fantasize about taking them and spelling out the words "Mother Earth, My Green Ass" in front of her door but that would take a lot of butts. I drop them in the nearest trashcan instead.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

The Airport Story

And it was such a simple thing he did, such a simple act. One that allowed my soul to bleed freely. One that deepened my breath finally. One that would serve as a lighting rod for my jagged, little heart.

And it was such a simple act. Between two people. Two humans. When everything can be so difficult. When disconnect is the norm. When lifelong friendships can unravel quietly and fade into yesterday. When families gather awkwardly, with nothing to say because it never was said and all the words just froze up somewhere along the way. Because we’re all so busy, aren’t we? And we always have things on our minds.

My dear friend Ian arrives from California today. He lives in the woods with his wife and his kids. When I’m with them, I relax. Because I’m loved. Because I don’t have to be anything even close to perfect. Because together, we know how to love one another and show it. And it’s simple. It flows and heals and crashes over me, again and again. It seems so simple, that kind of love. But it’s not always that simple, is it? To feel love like breeze on your face.

Phone rings. Detach. The hardware is broken again. Computer voices with too many choices. Buffalo-Ranch-Flavored Doritos and Rainbow-colored Goldfish for the Kids. Because the Kids don’t have enough dyes and poisons and why not, in the form of cute glowing orange fish? DVD players in big fat cars, because we don’t watch enough, do we? Women with cell phones melting into their faces, into their glands. Words, because women are talking too much. We’re all talking too much. Disconnect.

Ah, my friend Ian. Haven’t seen him in years. Drove thru mazes at 80 miles per hour to see him, to get to him. Think, think. What exit? Right or left? Exit what? Is he a departure or an arrival? Why can’t I think of the answer easily? Is he a departure or an arrival? My mind gets so fuzzy anymore.
It’s alright. Our moment will happen soon and wake me up again. My simple moment is arriving any minute.

I wait by the baggage claim. Bloated, ruddy people. T-shirts that say things because there’s not enough ads shoved in our faces, is there? Walking billboards on warbling, big bellies. Big blobs of never-ending “feed me.” Feed my hole. And I can’t figure it out anymore, how to find anything good in people. I simply can’t see it. Where the good is, underneath the ads and the fat and the words and the voices that could crack glass and the cell phones and the greed.

But he will be here and I will have my moment with him. It’s not that big, but it’s huge. His name is Ian and he is beautiful. He lives in the woods and he radiates and he loves easily. Over the next few days, I will seem like a live wire of flighty emotions around him and he won’t understand that it’s love disguised, because my heart is weak and flabby from underuse and dull with common pain.

I will wish, after he leaves, that I would have told him more, more of what he means to me. I will wish my love wouldn’t twist inside of me and turn into touchiness and oversensitivity. He loves easily and I do not. I think too much and I am too dark because the world disturbs me and the depth of it’s ugly sickens me and shuts me down.

Ian! At the end of a long runway of orange-green carpet, many miles from me still, I see him. I feel so small and shaken from stress and caffeine. He looms looks so large and walks so slowly. His eyes suddenly catch me. Come on, Ian, I think. We’re late and why can’t he hurry like me? We have Things To Do now that you’re here. Let’s jam it in until we’re unaware of it all!

He’s getting closer and I see him smile.

I’m sorry for my simple story. Because here is the climax, here is the simple act: he opens his arms. That’s it. He opens his arms fully, as wide as mountains and I’ve forgotten such a basic gesture. And suddenly, my body starts shaking, from the inside out. Someone is walking toward me with mile-long, outstretched arms. Welcoming me, inviting me. Me. My human invitation.

I hear a little voice inside of me scream. Scream! Scream from the pain and joy of it all. Shake, because it is rare, this simple act, in my life and I can’t imagine why. My shoulders go slack and I feel like I might fall to the ground. I let my friend wrap his big arms around me. And I know, for one brief second, I’m home.

Nobody does it. And we’re all dying for it. Because phones vibrate and people hurt animals and we can’t speak properly anymore. Because the trash keeps flowing and the babies keep coming. Because we’re all crumbling apart and we pretend like we’re not…and we’re proud of our detachment. Because our hearts are icy and our eyes are glazed. Because we douse our homes in floral-scented bleach and smiley-faced bug killer. Because we believe the bullshit.

I fall into his arms like a broken doll and let the mountains wrap around my tired, trembling shoulders. A million forgotten tears fall on the worn and ugly carpet. He smells like a man and his face is warm. We are all warm bodies with big, forgotten hearts. And my friend’s hug will be the single-most important moment for me this year. I wish I would have told him that.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

The Shelf Life of a 24-year-old Boyfriend

Two weeks ago, my roommate and I went to the club across the street to meet some boys, dance, look hot, feel hotter. This clean-cut, painfully young college boy rigorously pursued me throughout the evening, though I was smitten with the DJ (who was a little more age-appropriate.) I thought I'd scare off the young boy once I told him my age, but much to my dismay, this only made my little suitor more attracted to me. I relented and took him home that night and drank him in like a glass of fine (albeit young) wine.

Still recovering from a break-up with someone nearly twice this boy's age, I couldn't help but notice how much good that night did for me. First off, 24-year old boys are cute. Really cute. They radiate this virility and their bodies are like rubber balls. They're musculature is like twisted metal. And far should I go with these sordid details? Well, when you have sex with a 24-year-old, his erection feels like steel - like his life depends on fucking you. There’s something deeply carnal and immediate about it. Its like being stabbed by a pretty dagger.

But more than the standard young hottie stuff, I liked how obviously he liked me. Lavishing me with attention, compliments, physical touch - and it kinda shocked me that those elements felt so FOREIGN to me. Like I contend with so many defective, bored and uninspired men (we can ALL have that too world-worn quality), that when you get the warm, fuzzy stuff - the attention and affection, it almost feels weird! (And please don't tell me I attract them - there are tons of men out there who have the emotional availability of a toothless comb. I just happen to know a lot of them intimately…or not so intimately, as the case may be.)

So I rode my fresh daisy high for the rest of the week - getting tons of romantic text messages and emails from him. I didn't really even need to see him, you see - it was simply the knowledge that this expressive, young Rubber Ball was out there, bouncing around and actively liking me. I breathed a little deeper, my step lightened - I felt the way one is supposed to feel in Spring – a feeling that often alludes this Scorpionic lover of Winter, bare branches and moss-covered tombstones.

But alas, our "love" was not to be long on this earthly plane (shocker, right?) My friend Ruby and I went out one fateful night last week and met up with the Rubber Ball. Ruby had just found out her dad has cancer and is re-adjusting from a 3-month sojourn to an orphanage in Africa. She was drinking deeply and singing Karaoke repeatedly. At one point, Ruby yanked the mike away from some college student and announced to a stunned crowd that her dad has cancer and “Screw you!” While I relished in the punk rock-like awkwardness of the moment, I also knew my good friend was in trouble. Rubber Ball really saved the day and tried to talk her down from an unfolding fit of rage, confusion, disillusionment and...did I say rage?

Well, I was really impressed by my Rubber Ball’s gentleman-like abilities and told him the next morning via text. Unfortunately, he was confused by the number I was texting from and thought the thank-you was coming directly from Ruby. He proceeded to tell "Ruby" how close he was to kissing her that previous night and how he looked forward to seeing her again. How he admired her behind greatly and how, while he hooked up with Beth, he hoped that didn't deter the two of them from "talking." I tried furiously to stop him. No, Rubber Ball, don't bounce all over my castles in the sand! My New Spring…it just sprung! But stop, he wouldn't. I had to call him and break the news that he had made a most fateful and tactical error. He reacted defensively and well, like a 24-year old. I acted like a 40-year old and promptly broke up with him.

Love is fleeting, we all know. Lust is even quicker. And a crush on a 24-year old can only last 24 seconds. Or 2.4 days. So their shelf-life is about as long as fruit fly’s existence. But for those 24 seconds or 2.4 days, you feel this flash of sexual energy that can literally hurt, it feels so good and life-affirming. And after the disillusionment passes, you are grateful to share your inner 24-year old girl with an actual 24-year old boy. And kiss him good-bye...and find a more honest 23-year-old!

Just kidding…kinda.

Editor's Note: This same douchey guy by the name of Jackson Stairrett Shappy (lame name, I know) or Jackson Stairrett has tried to enter my life several times since this initial post years ago. He's a certifiable sociopath with stalker-like tendencies. Apparently his mother never wanted him (and can you blame her?) so he lives to get back at women by manipulating and lying to them. One of the women he screwed over created a Facebook page dedicated to outing him by displaying his countless lies along with his cock shots (really? Do men ever think that works?)

So apparently the shelf life of a psycho named Jackson Stairett Shappy is much longer than I'd anticipate.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Dear Eminem

I've been writing to Eminem recently, via his MySpace comments page. Why? I don't know!! What do I look like, your personal Answer Queen? Sorry.... I guess because he listens (just look at that concerned look on his face!) He doesn't judge me. He doesn't talk back. He's like the big brother I never had. Its not like I'm even a big fan of Eminem or even rap for that matter. I just find it amusing/comforting revealing my weekly trials and tribulations to Eminem. That's all.

So here was my latest comment left to Eminem on his MySpace page:

Dear Eminem:

Just wanted to let you know that my recent move from one lousy Brooklyn neighborhood to another lousy Brooklyn neighborhood went off without a hitch. Well, there was one small problem - I thought I was moving into a safer apartment building on the morning I moved, I noticed a gunshot thru the glass in the entryway, bullet lying there and all. I figured it was the neighborhood trying to welcome me in its own special way. What do you think?

Whatever. I don't want you to worry about me. Focus on yourself right now. And I do hope you're taking care of yourself - drinking water and taking the time for a big, deep breath.

Love and kisses,

Beth Mann

PS. Remember I told you how my health insurance company wouldn't cover my latest annual gyn exam? Well, apparently, they said I made the appointment ONE MONTH too early than I should have and I am now responsible for the $230 appointment. Can you believe it? Again...don't worry your pretty little head.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Sexy dream This Morning starring Hugh Laurie

So Hugh Laurie (the guy from House - mad crush) and I are in some small building in a snowy field. Quarters are very tight and everything we do is in very close proximity of one another; imagine being in alarge closet with someone. He speaks and I don't know him very well, but am impressed by how intelligent he comes across...and how damn hot he is...I LOVE HIM OKAY?

Sooo....he leans over me to get something and I smell him for the first time up close, you know...the way someone smells and its...I LOVE HIM. He smells good - like something virile and sexy and mossy or...or...good. Huh? I suddenly kiss him on his neck as he leans over me and my lips are hot and his neck smells good and I can't stop by myself. And he's just fine with it...he's very relaxed and casual about it.

Maybe in heaven you get to bang all these people. Beth...inappropriate. Oh well. No one is reading anyway. Bang, bang, bang away!!!!!!