I'm all about the word vomit

I've come to this page almost every week since my last post, written an entry and left it unpublished. I'm one of those disgustingly private people that can't handle regurgitating the days events in first person. Or maybe i just don't have the required writing skill. Either way, it's not my style.

But procrastination pushes me to write today. Everything pushes me to write. So maybe it's time for a story?

Dead & Lovely.

I met him on the last day of May, at least that's what the records say. Although I'm sure it wasn't much later that I became aware of him. He's the type of self-important fuck that can never blend into the background of a room. The trademark only son.

I was pretty high that night, floating off my own magnificence or something close to it. The room was a technicolour mass of body glitter and ecstacy and I was firmly at the centre. At some point in the night I saw him. They say I was crossing the floor to dance with a scarecrow when his smile caught my eye. I disagree.

Our eyes met first.

I gave him a wink, he replied with a smile.

Five minutes later I knew I was in over my head. No champagne haze could deny that. But I'm a stubborn kinda girl and men don't usually get the better of me.

'I've seen you around' he whispered as I moved past him.

'Who hasn't?' I called over my shoulder. The crowd around us laughed, he was definitely new to the scene. His response was to grab my elbow, stalling my progression through the bodies. I raised a brow. He handed me a drink.

Sometimes that's all it takes to end a story, but we're just getting started...