Saturday 02 March 2002
I had the best dream. There was this boy. Regular
readers of this diary will have deduced that that right now I'm fucking
boy-crazy. It's driving me mad. But I don't want booty, I want beauty.
This boy had it going on. We've all got eyes and mouth but his were most
pleasing in distribution. His eyes destroyed me. Brown. Hazel. Whatever.
With these lashes all swooped around dark and lustrous. And these pretty
red lips. A girl's mouth, he had, and there's some poor girl somewhere
with a boy's mouth all thin and compressed; and I'm sorry for her but
I'm very grateful too and if I ever meet her I will shake her by the hand
and thank her profusely. But I won't want to kiss her, because all my
wanting-to-kiss was sucked up by this pretty youthful dreamboy whose utmost
desire seemed to be to sit by my side. It was like a benevolent god had
dropped a boy-shaped angel into my lap as a present. And the god had given
the boy-angel a script. And the script said: 'Your writing fucking rocks'.
And the boy read from it all night.
It was a mighty dream.
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