I'm in need of a good night's sleep; hell, I'm in need of a lot of things. We rearranged the beds the other day, and the sun seeps through the blinds and hits me in the face. The beds are bunked, and I'm on bottom, so I've hung excess throw blankets as a poor-man's canopy bed. It'd be divinely decadent if it weren't so half-assed. I'm fighting the urge to use that controlling metaphor: secluding myself, hiding myself from the sunlight.
It's so damn tempting, though.
It's 9:30 in the morning and my mind couldn't be more devoid of thought, Middleton be damned. I think I convinced someone to throw a hump-day party tonight. We're all going to dress to get laid, and by 'we' I mean everyone who isn't me. It's sort of fruitless (pun intended, unfortunately). When it comes to gay boys in the dorm, it's me and my suitemate, and the suitemate won't have anything to do with anyone in the building. As fun as putting on my XS black Banana Republic shirt and watching everyone else get drunk is, it isn't.
Oh, and if anyone else says something like "Don't worry about it Bob. You'll find someone eventually" they're getting a punch in a face. After 15 months without a date, I'm acknowledged that it's me. This weekend marks the 12th weekend where the guy I've asked out is going out of town. I know I haven't mentioned the previous 11, but that's because I've plastered that grin on my face so often it's like a Pompeiian fresco.
I'm sick of it.
