in your eye
May 12, 2005 / 10:36 a.m.
At Three I called you up and told you about how i was glad you had just text messaged me, because the phone buzzing in the carpet woke me up from a sex dream where Paris Hilton was performing sexual acts on me and humming simultaneously.
As the conversation went on, you told me about the time you went to san francisco and some half assed pimp (who was a 'pussy' because he would run away and hide when you were trying to score from drug dealers) attempted to get you to work the street (or 'turn you out'), only you could only get one guy out of everybody who stopped to pay $100 for a blowjob in the Tenderloin.
And you eventually stole the pimp's money and ran away from his hotel room the night he forced you to give him a blowjob and you puked up his cum in the toilet and some of it splashed up and hit you in the eye.
This was your 'grossest' story, and i couldn't disagree with its 'grossness', and i wouldn't have anything to get within a hundred miles of it, and i wanted to really pretend like it was a nightmare and i hadn't actually heard it. That you hadn't really told me it. That that wasn't really in your past, stories like this and so many others.
But you're better now. All that is behind you (us).
You're in LA today, visiting the house elliott smith was murdered in, among other things. I sent you a txt message when i woke up reminding you to take pictures.