It's Beginning To Look a Lot Like Christmas

(Christmas songs always seem to have long titles, why is that?)

I do love me some Friday night fun stuff.

Where you can actually be in public and be loud

And awkwardly proclaim the waiters do not have feelings,

Though I assure you, they do.

Even when they mistake your friend's boyfriend for a girl.

And when you're singing along to a very weird song called "Conquest" in a Mustang.

Good,

Good times.

Who said being an inappropriate, loud, obnoxious teenager wasn't fun?

I will prove them wrong.

Although, I must say,

Being a teenager is stressful, cliche and boring 90%of the time,

It has its moments, indeed.

And so I ought to say

That I do love my friends.

Because, I do, actually.

And they ought to know that.

So there.

I love y'all.

A small rant:

I like you.

I like your arms.

I like that you play guitar.

I find your laugh amusing and cute.

And I just wish...

A lot of things.

Yes,

A lot of things.

And I have these little daydream (and sometimes night dream)

Moments where I can just see us kissing

And being quite happy.

And it makes me blush and feel preposterous,

Because that will not happen.

No matter how cute it may seem in my mind.

(You have a tendency to grab my face, by the way, like they do in the movies- where they lean over and touch their face and pull them in and then plant one on them- like that.)

You are cute and funny and strange,

And it makes me slightly sad that you've got yourself a girlfriend.

But what can I expect?

But I just want some lingering touch.

Some trace of closeness.

Like the Beatles said,

I want to hold your hand.

Oh, please, say to me, you'll let me hold your hand.

Hopeless romantic.

I am one, despite my pessimistic tendencies,

And habits of rejecting sentimentality.

I am a hopeless romantic.

For you.

Silly, silly boy.

And I wonder,

What do you think of me?

Or do you?

Well.

Amidst friendy-times tonight

I read some wickedly weird poetry.

Ever hear of Allen Ginsburg?

Is poetry is...

Different.

It's positively the most sexual poetry I've ever read.

It's utterly awful at times.

Utterly horrifying.

And I don't really see a point in most of the blatant sexual references.

What the hell, Ginsburg?

What the hell.

On the other hand,

I found a book of Pablo Neruda love poems.

And I think they're swell.

Neruda had me when I realized he wrote an entire collection of poems about the sea.

Most, if not all, I've yet to read.

And yes.

So it is,

So it is.

So much to do this weekend.

The busy never stops,

It appears.

But alas,

I did make time to blog.

And that makes me happy.

Goodnight, Adieu.

I do indeed love you.