And then it came to pass that the faggots nearly outnumbered the heterosexuals. Travis (a boy I made out with one night at Shana's a long long time ago--thank god he doesn't remember) arrived with his entourage, including Jose (a boy who incessantly hits on me every time I see him). Jose kept asking Kyla, "What kind of guys is he into?" She kept telling him things like, "I don't know," until finally she said, "Intellectuals, I guess," to which he replied, "Well, I'm that," which made us both laugh a little. The thought that I'd be into the stumpy fashion design major in the Britney Spears sport jacket knockoff with the limp hand and the imaginary runway was just too laughable.
And in addition, I've been doubting my sexuality, thinking perhaps bisexuality really is a possibility and not something that gay boys made up as a clever guise to ease into pure unadulterated Sodom and Gomorrah-esque blasphemy. I won't go into detail with that though. Plus, my libido has dwindled some, after a few months of gimme gimme.
It has now been over a week since I'm spoken with dear old Mark and I suppose it's safe to say that it's over, if not officially. Though I think I'd like to make it so, perhaps calling him up and trying to pinpoint what went askew exactly. Eh, closure is over-rated.
I'm feeling quite well today actually. Dare I say happy? Must be on some sort of streak. I began a poem last night (about aforementioned boy) that begins with a rather subtly bitter bang, which I really like thus far. I'd like to think the mixtape I made yesterday has a little something to do with it as well. The Smiths, Shivaree, Bright Eyes, The Arcade Fire, Idlewild, The Kills, Nearly God, among others. It's euphoric. Orgasmic.
It's nice to think that music is all you need to live happily.