Battle of Hoth (3ABY)

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smore-shnapps:

Artist: こいも@ﾂｲｯﾀｰ

@ http://drawr.net/coximo

I told T. today that UFC fighters remind me of boa constrictors — once they apply the choke hold, they resemble reptiles with mice stuck halfway down their gullet.  So it never made sense to me why grown men holler over the ordeal.  I told myself I’d draw a picture and perhaps send it to him for the fun of it, though the image in my head never quite translates to my hands.  The same goes for sound.  I took a long practice break because my own playing was giving me a migraine; and as much as I was going for Ilya Kaler, I sounded like some screechy imposter instead.  But the break was well-spent; I drew T. in a Pokemon card with special abilities and whatnot.  He is one of those few people that I can say Thank You to five times a day, and it still wouldn’t be enough.  It’s kind of a scary feeling, the weight of that gratitude.  I feel so much Sad at the thought of him dissipating off in the distance, like he’s this little phantom I’m trying to hold onto.  Good-bye, T., good-bye, I love you very much my dear friend.

F. told me today that it is exhausting to be human, and he has no idea why the Pinocchios of the world wish to be so.  They turn it into the unattainable goal, as though being human is some glorious thing.  While he was talking, I practiced writing with my hand on his so that our handwriting looked nearly the same.  It’s a strange feeling — to have your hand know what it’s like to be someone else’s hand.  M. taught me that trick long ago and I remember she used to be so solemn during the procedure.  F. stayed long enough to make sure I wasn’t going to (a) die, or (b) have my foot taken off (he wanted to mount it or put it in a jar).  I’m really happy my foot stays on, though sadly a lot of tissue has died.  We ate our weight in chocolate chip cookies amid discussion about cannibalism.  F. said he would totally eat a person, for the poetic feel of it.  I mentioned the nice part in the book Hannibal where Hannibal and Clarice cleave off the top of someone’s head and spoon out parts of the brain.  The victim, being lobomotized, sings weary nonsense throughout the dinner before dying (the other nice part about that scene was Hannibal being moved by the sheen of butter on Clarice’s lips).  F. bought Hannibal and Titus Andronicus and read a few parts aloud to me.  He has a very nice voice — very dry, like he is enjoying a joke at your expense.

I wonder if S. hates me for not going to church.

I wonder if I will actually get to see M. next month.

I wonder if J. is a good person.  He seems really, really sweet.

I wonder about amphitheaters.

I wonder why K. has to die. 

I wonder why I am suddenly full of all these names and faces and voices.  This is not like me at all.

(Source: andrewbreitel, via lajoiedespetiteschoses)

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