In one week I get to wrap my arms around you and whisper how proud I am of you for completing Sandhurst. I'm so excited for you! What kind of obstacles will you be doing? Do you know yet?

Plus, I get to see you in uniform. That's just plain hot, I don't care who you are, that's the kind of hot that's blue in the middle.

What I want most of all is just to sleep next to you. It's the quiet and simple moments of just being near that bring me the greatest joy.

Love,
Darcy

Originally Posted October Twenty Fifth Two Thousand And Eight:

"I think you should learn Arabic."

I trust the person who told me this implicitly. The idea of taking Arabic and using those lanugage skills on a daily basis with him is tantalizing. It continues with raising a child who speaks Arabic within the house, sending her little red-haired pigtailed self to Arabic summer camp wanders around my imagination freely. Which is frightening in and of itself. I am daydreaming about being pregnant. That shouldn't be happening. I haven't even met this person yet, and we all know how well my last 'relationship' went that was intiatated by someone miles and miles away. (Only now can I address the Photographer with respect and not my usual approach of inflamed temper.) To open up to someone is terrifying, literally scary to bits and pieces. That's how I feel about him, I am utterly at a loss of words. I trust him implicitly. Some part of my soul just recognizes him and knows how he will react and why he reacts that way. How can I know that, if I don't even know him?

How can I love him, if I don't even know him?

I do this, I fall in love hard and fast, without regards to anything. Everything else is less than what I feel fo this person. How much I want him to be a part of my life, to become a part of my family, to lie beside me every single night whispering our secrets until we've run out. Until the two of us are bare, in the very sense of exposed, and I want to let him make every bad thing in my life dissapear and there is nothing I wouldn't give to make everything better in his life as well. That is how deeply I feel for a complete stranger.

Before you ask: No. I haven't told him. I may be an idiot, but how stupid do you think I am?!

He knows me. He probably already knows and is biding his time until the words stumble haltingly from my lips, like a child saying it for the very first time in trepidation of it never being returned in such a manner. This feeling? It makes my chest hurt, my heart break, and all because I love someone. I hate this feeling. It's an insecure loving someone you barely know, wondering if the feeling could every possible returned, waiting with baited breath everytime you speak and living dizzy on hope. I can't do that. I'm not insecure when I am assured of my secure place in someone's heart. The steel trap that is my heart may be the end of everything, but this heady feeling of potential swarms the senses. Not that I was ever a logical creature, but this single person had irrevocably alterred my life in subtle ways I have yet to discover.

He's asked to see me. Like Cinderella, my presence has been requested at a ball in three months time.

Three months is an indeterminably long time.

Many Days,
Darcy

Here's the thing:

First off, I hate shopping. This is not a secret. The searching through racks of clothes for whatever it is ladies are suppose to aimlessly look for is a bit ridiculous. You need something? Easy as one and two. Three isn't even necessary, like your spleen, white powder people shoot up their noses and twitter.

Step One: Identify Your Need.
Step Two: Fill Your Need.

See? Very simple. For some reason, it's not as simple as one and two. They add three, four, and so on and so forth until their list is mutipled to mutiples and I start hearing words like exponentially, twill, magic eight balls and wrinkle free linen.

Then, when you had the fact that I'm shopping for bottoms, then we relive the denimn hunt of two thousand and nine that I have been avoiding like the bubonic plague to the point that any moment some man in plumage is going to jump out and start screaming Shakesperean lines, "A plaque upon your house!" because gosh-diddly-darnit if you avoid the plague it will follow you home like a drunken sorostitute. And I need shorts. I only own one pair that are very very short and a teensy bit too tight and I'd rather not look like I'm pretening to be sixteen today. Come back next week.

So, I found a pair of plaid shorts.



What do you think?

Yes, the colors are orange, white(?), and pink. For reason's unknown I couldn't find one with small red and green plaid with little letters spelling out all kinds of cool things, but I think I'm going to start a clothing website for people who date color blind people. It's really the only way I'm going to get this need filled, I think.

Love,
Darcy

Oftentimes in my wanderings around the interwebs, I find myself often wondering if people actually read what they write. Terrible grammar, weird concepts, and just strange ideas of the kind of madness Prarie Dawn would not approve it. If Prarie Dawn doesn't approve, then it certainly doesn't need to be said. In fact, most of these harsh comments can go without being typed out with the effort (or lack thereof) put into the them. This only concerns negative comments, of course. Positive ones are welcome here anytime.

Do people even realize how ridiculous their comments can be?

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Author?oid=940517

Love,
Darcy

This is what I think your profile would have said if we had met any other way than we did.





Sleeping Bags,
Darcy

Today I wrote close to three thousand words. Unfortunately, not for script frenzy or anything remotely as fun, weird, interesting, or whatever vibrant adjective you can substitute for that. Instead, I was wrapping up a test that had three essay questions, one thousand words each, and then an extra little question about our favorite book in American Literature. Little Women, by the way, and I don't want any of your lip about Thoreau. I don't care. Yes, Walden Pond, blah blah blah, the man talks about ice bubbles for thirty seven pages. I would know. I read all thirty seven pages wondering if it could be any worse than the entire chapter on the bean field. Strangely enough, it could get worse! Dry as dirt. Dryer than a kid's mouth after a fistful of crackers. (Have you ever asked a little kid to eat crackers and then whistle? Oh, me neither. I would never do such a thing. Ever.)

Then, for class, we had to write a poem along the lines of Whitman to be turned in today along with our tests.

As I have nothing else to write today, here is mine:

I am not the poet of goodness only.
I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness, also.
Do I contain both within? No more immune
To the failures, the triumphs, the trials as any other.
I am no more modest than immodest;
Suceptible to the same degredations, bouyed by
The chance of freedom, yet no more apart from them.
My eyes cannot reach what I encompass.
I am within, without, and no more above or below
For death has no care, save for life, yearning and
Thrashing for each moist breath shaken to ground with
A look, a touch, or some sacred sound now silent.
I am the dying slave swathed in song.
I am the crying infant swaddled in song.
I am the stars, the trees, the ground, the sun
Burning all below to putrid remains
And yet, My eyes cannot reach what I encompass.

All Consuming,
Darcy

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

http://www.streetwithaview.com/scenes.html

I want to stage one of these and do an entire route of fairytales. Rapunzel from a window. Little red riding hood walking along the street with the wolf close behind. While it's not exactly a tpyical fairytale, a pretty girl in a blue gingham dress riding a bicycle would be a neat addition as well.

Love,
Darcy