Life Worth Living

Note: I originally wrote this as part of a massive bulk post about All-Things-Leone, which I started last weekend and have been adding to all week. That post isn’t done yet, but this part of it is, and then I decided—it’s so different from everything else in there: a longer topic, for one thing, and it has less of an off-handed character, for another—that I decided to separate it out and give it its own post.

Let us now talk about sex. Leone and his of-age friends went to a local pub for a weekly special last week, and I knew that when he came over that night (he’s been spending most of them here) that if he was drunk, he would bring up sex. He was only buzzed, and not even noticeably; still, I was right.

It’s been on both of our minds recently, and I know he’s been wondering (but not wanting to ask) when we’re going to go all the way. We’ve done just about everything but the act, and not that that’s not enjoyable (because it very much is), but the hormonal adolescents that we are, we’re going to think about doing more. At 21-in-a-month I’m still a virgin, but not because I’m saving myself for marriage. I understand why people would, and sometimes I wish I had the resolve and self-discipline to, but when I think about potentially losing all those years of sex I could be having because I’m patiently waiting for that one day, I just don’t think I can do it. I’m not waiting for marriage, and I’m not even waiting for the Right Guy. I’m just still a virgin because I’m waiting for someone who isn’t a random guy I brought home from a party, a one night stand. A fling might do, depending on the guy. A boyfriend, so long as it’s one I genuinely like and respect, would do very well.

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Yes I am.

(Not Really)

But just what else is a girl supposed to think when she’s innocently washing the dishes in workout shorts and she hears her roommate go “woah that’s some bruise” and turns around to see a purple monstrosity on the top of her right calf just lurking there as if to say “here I am, and here I’ve been for days, right under your nose.”

Bigger around than a golf ball, smaller than a tennis ball, and deep plum purple. I’m not kidding; exactly the color of a plum, with sickly green fading in at the edges. It’s not all that uncommon for me, with my ITP and all, to have a bruise so capable of DESTROYING THE WORLD, but it’s been a while since I’ve been so frightened to look at a part of my own body. Not fun at all.

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I’m sitting here in my big comfy chair in front of the TV, nursing a sore throat and decidedly not doing any more of the massive amounts of reading I still have left to do, because I know that I haven’t been running off steam so much as pure fear of falling behind on the reading since after dinner. It feels like I’ve been fighting a battle; reading and reading and trying to cram all these pages of interesting and boring (at the same time, isn’t that a concept? A paradox?) when all I really want to do is go to sleep. And I know I’m just hanging on by a thread and my attention is so frayed that I’m really only getting one of every three sentences into my head. So that’s when I decide, you know what, I can keep reading but it’s only going to get worse from here and it might be better just to put this off until tomorrow, when I stand a better chance of actually understanding what’s on the page. So I’m just going to relax the rest of tonight.

You know what’s not helping? This darned sore throat I’m getting…and it’d be a lot easier to deal with if it’s very presence didn’t indicate a cold brewing. I’ve been sick enough times to know that my cold symptoms usually manifest first as a nasty sore throat before progressing to the sniffles, the coughing, etc. And this sore throat is pretty vicious; it’s not looking good.

I’m fairly certain that I got this cold, flu, whatever, from Roommate. She’s been sniffing and coughing and generally just being very gross (I’m sorry. I’m an unsympathetic bitch, I know) and the whole time I’ve been thinking “this better not get me sick too. I mean it. I better not get sick from you. Bitch, get away from me.” And now I’m sitting here and my throat just screams every time I swallow and when I get up I’m tired and dizzy on top of it all and I just want to slap her because of it. I know she didn’t mean to do it and I know it’s not her fault, but I can’t help it when my point-the-blame finger comes out to play. Yesterday night I started getting those delirious fever dreams that are just NOT, not fun and I knew I was probably in for a rough week.

Fuck, this better be gone by tomorrow. I dont know that I can get through this coming week riding on a cold.