The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Thursday, April 28, 2005
7.5 M.P.H. and the Speed Is Good
Dearest doormats,
O, the love-bug has bit me.
Things are going well between The Magnificent M and myself. I’m finding more and more that I’m enjoying each new visit with her to an amount that seems to be continually increasing. Our relationship is easy-going, neither one of us is officially boyfriend or girlfriend by name, yet I kiss only her, and I am the only one she kisses. It’s cool. The status of our relationship is a semi-unspoken thing, though not something that really needs to be talked about. We are happy in whiling away the hours together, engaging in countless conversations on the militant Republican movement, bisexuality, and Brian May.
And she smiles. And I am happy to see her smile. I recall the way she was merely a month ago when I’d first met her, back when she was unhappy all the time and still prone to breaking down in tears, the week-old memory of the last guy to hurt her still fresh in her head, and the newfound knowledge that her ex-boyfriend of two and a half years was, in fact, a drug addict still causing her undue stress. I look at her now and she’s smiling and happy, twice as beautiful as she was when I met her, and I feel a smell sense of pride in knowing that I was able to help her in achieving this result.
Officially, we aren’t a couple, which means I’m free to hook up with anyone I want. But as I was contemplating this fact on my way home the other day, it occurred to me quite suddenly (and somewhat shockingly) that I have no desire to meet anyone else. I’m quite taken with my new squeeze!
Last time we hung out we watched Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, which means that next time we hang out I’ll more than likely bring along Where the Buffalo Roam. We both greatly appreciate Hunter S. Thompson. I’ll probably end up bringing my tape of Wonder Showzen as well, as M has a twisted sense of humor, like myself.
Again, I got to see the artist at work. The Magnifificent M was at her sewing machine when I arrived at her place, again engaging in another project. It’s really fun to see her at work. Her closet is filled with a collection of mind-blowingly unique and original jackets and shirts and such. Her car as well has a back seat filled with fascinating furry things that never cease to be a cause for conversation. She paints, she draws, she sews, and in all things she does, I always find myself amazed. I can see that perhaps wacky tobacco is indeed a good thing for some people.
We took a trip to the fabric store and went nuts buying thread because it was on sale. Gaudy, kitschy yard ornaments surrounded us. I was always raised to believe that women are supposed to be the gender with an enhanced aesthetic sense, more suited to decorating, but with the garish crap I seem to often see abounding, I find that I have serious second thoughts on that matter.
We also experienced another incident of "Trader Joes bliss", for with her, even tasks as mundane as visiting a grocery store seem to be incredibly fun field-trips. We hop and skip into the store, we hold hands and toss food items at each other, I walk around in a bizarre upright posture, anything for a laugh. I even discovered that Trader Joes sells Bushmills and Jamesons at a much cheaper rate than ever I’ve seen, and I could almost swear the bottles were BIGGER. I’ll not spend my hard-earned cash at a Safeway ever again.
As we returned to M’s place, I prepared a dinner of pizza and salad which we both enjoyed with an oversized bottle of Corona stuffed full of lime slices as we spoke of the urban legends of what actually goes on within the Corona factory. There were some things we decided we’d rather not know. We later tore apart her room looking for a pair of glasses she’d misplaced. It was a nice night and before long, we’d headed to bed.
There’s nothing I like more than laying with her in my arms, and occasionally gracing her with the random kiss on her neck. It’s nice, it’s comfy, and though we constantly fear that the bed might break, I feel completely at peace.
There is one source of distress however, and that’s the noisy neighbors upstairs. These lowly bastards of increased altitude can be heard at all hours running across the ceiling, dropping things, pounding things, and having sex at bizarre hours. We slightly suspect that there may be a drug lab of some sort upstairs. Being that The Magnificent M was getting quite annoyed at the consistent incidents of loud sex pouring sound waves through her ceiling, I came up with a solution: loudly pretend that you’re getting off on it, and they will quickly become self-conscious and stop.
And so, when at three in the morning we heard the telltale squeaking of bedsprings above us, M let out with a loud cry of, “yeah, go for it!” The noise quickly stopped. She followed with a cry of, “don’t stop now, you’re almost there!” but the silence continued. Several minutes later we heard the amorous activity upstairs restarted, though with a quite noticeable drop in volume. They were trying to keep quiet. The Magnificent M and I both had a long, good laugh.
It was a good night and I woke up happy. My waking experience was made that much better by the presence of Bill Murray’s Groundhog’s Day on television. The only thing that could have possibly made it better was if it had been the beginning of the film, and not the end.
We made breakfast, which consisted of some toast with the jam I’d bought her, and talked and kissed some more. Meanwhile, her pet cockatiel flew madly about the room, crapping wherever he could and making kamikaze strafing runs at the tops of our heads. I rather like her pet bird, he has a cool-looking feathery Mohawk-type thing that I find adds a lot of character. I’ve been trying to get her to enlist him to join in the fight against evil with us, but first he needs a proper animal-sidekick name. I, being The Virgin Prince, have Bobo the Virgin Chimp. She, being The Magnificent M, isn’t as fond of her bird being called Birdy, the Magnificent Cock. We’ll work on it.
I eventually had to take my leave of her, returning home to find that Bobo had broken into the finger-paints. The walls of my residence were covered in crudely painted Warholian banana portraits, and dripping Dadaist interpretations of Lindsay Lohan. Ah, my loyal sidekick is such the starving artist. Seriously, I haven’t fed him since last week.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
O, the love-bug has bit me.
Things are going well between The Magnificent M and myself. I’m finding more and more that I’m enjoying each new visit with her to an amount that seems to be continually increasing. Our relationship is easy-going, neither one of us is officially boyfriend or girlfriend by name, yet I kiss only her, and I am the only one she kisses. It’s cool. The status of our relationship is a semi-unspoken thing, though not something that really needs to be talked about. We are happy in whiling away the hours together, engaging in countless conversations on the militant Republican movement, bisexuality, and Brian May.
And she smiles. And I am happy to see her smile. I recall the way she was merely a month ago when I’d first met her, back when she was unhappy all the time and still prone to breaking down in tears, the week-old memory of the last guy to hurt her still fresh in her head, and the newfound knowledge that her ex-boyfriend of two and a half years was, in fact, a drug addict still causing her undue stress. I look at her now and she’s smiling and happy, twice as beautiful as she was when I met her, and I feel a smell sense of pride in knowing that I was able to help her in achieving this result.
Officially, we aren’t a couple, which means I’m free to hook up with anyone I want. But as I was contemplating this fact on my way home the other day, it occurred to me quite suddenly (and somewhat shockingly) that I have no desire to meet anyone else. I’m quite taken with my new squeeze!
Last time we hung out we watched Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, which means that next time we hang out I’ll more than likely bring along Where the Buffalo Roam. We both greatly appreciate Hunter S. Thompson. I’ll probably end up bringing my tape of Wonder Showzen as well, as M has a twisted sense of humor, like myself.
Again, I got to see the artist at work. The Magnifificent M was at her sewing machine when I arrived at her place, again engaging in another project. It’s really fun to see her at work. Her closet is filled with a collection of mind-blowingly unique and original jackets and shirts and such. Her car as well has a back seat filled with fascinating furry things that never cease to be a cause for conversation. She paints, she draws, she sews, and in all things she does, I always find myself amazed. I can see that perhaps wacky tobacco is indeed a good thing for some people.
We took a trip to the fabric store and went nuts buying thread because it was on sale. Gaudy, kitschy yard ornaments surrounded us. I was always raised to believe that women are supposed to be the gender with an enhanced aesthetic sense, more suited to decorating, but with the garish crap I seem to often see abounding, I find that I have serious second thoughts on that matter.
We also experienced another incident of "Trader Joes bliss", for with her, even tasks as mundane as visiting a grocery store seem to be incredibly fun field-trips. We hop and skip into the store, we hold hands and toss food items at each other, I walk around in a bizarre upright posture, anything for a laugh. I even discovered that Trader Joes sells Bushmills and Jamesons at a much cheaper rate than ever I’ve seen, and I could almost swear the bottles were BIGGER. I’ll not spend my hard-earned cash at a Safeway ever again.
As we returned to M’s place, I prepared a dinner of pizza and salad which we both enjoyed with an oversized bottle of Corona stuffed full of lime slices as we spoke of the urban legends of what actually goes on within the Corona factory. There were some things we decided we’d rather not know. We later tore apart her room looking for a pair of glasses she’d misplaced. It was a nice night and before long, we’d headed to bed.
There’s nothing I like more than laying with her in my arms, and occasionally gracing her with the random kiss on her neck. It’s nice, it’s comfy, and though we constantly fear that the bed might break, I feel completely at peace.
There is one source of distress however, and that’s the noisy neighbors upstairs. These lowly bastards of increased altitude can be heard at all hours running across the ceiling, dropping things, pounding things, and having sex at bizarre hours. We slightly suspect that there may be a drug lab of some sort upstairs. Being that The Magnificent M was getting quite annoyed at the consistent incidents of loud sex pouring sound waves through her ceiling, I came up with a solution: loudly pretend that you’re getting off on it, and they will quickly become self-conscious and stop.
And so, when at three in the morning we heard the telltale squeaking of bedsprings above us, M let out with a loud cry of, “yeah, go for it!” The noise quickly stopped. She followed with a cry of, “don’t stop now, you’re almost there!” but the silence continued. Several minutes later we heard the amorous activity upstairs restarted, though with a quite noticeable drop in volume. They were trying to keep quiet. The Magnificent M and I both had a long, good laugh.
It was a good night and I woke up happy. My waking experience was made that much better by the presence of Bill Murray’s Groundhog’s Day on television. The only thing that could have possibly made it better was if it had been the beginning of the film, and not the end.
We made breakfast, which consisted of some toast with the jam I’d bought her, and talked and kissed some more. Meanwhile, her pet cockatiel flew madly about the room, crapping wherever he could and making kamikaze strafing runs at the tops of our heads. I rather like her pet bird, he has a cool-looking feathery Mohawk-type thing that I find adds a lot of character. I’ve been trying to get her to enlist him to join in the fight against evil with us, but first he needs a proper animal-sidekick name. I, being The Virgin Prince, have Bobo the Virgin Chimp. She, being The Magnificent M, isn’t as fond of her bird being called Birdy, the Magnificent Cock. We’ll work on it.
I eventually had to take my leave of her, returning home to find that Bobo had broken into the finger-paints. The walls of my residence were covered in crudely painted Warholian banana portraits, and dripping Dadaist interpretations of Lindsay Lohan. Ah, my loyal sidekick is such the starving artist. Seriously, I haven’t fed him since last week.
The Virgin Prince
