Bad Romance

I think of you
Far much than I really should
My thoughts linger too long on the curve of your lips
And the way your eyes light up when you smile

I cannot explain the way I feel
This sudden rush of emotion
That accompanies thoughts of you
I cannot even begin to explain
Why

I long to feel your fingers
Your touch against my bare skin
I am dying to feel your lips crushed against my own
Caught up in the heat of the moment
Our bodies pressed together
Breathing harsh and fast
Fingers scrabbling at flesh,
Limbs twined
I long to feel that rush,
Like a snort of carnal cocaine
I feel as though I’m already addicted to you
And will not be able to get enough

My stupid heart
Hopes achingly
Wondering if we are destined to be
That I found you for a reason
My brain is telling my heart to shut the hell up
I don’t need the confusion
I just want to live in the moment and let go
Is that too much for me to ask?

--"Untitled", Lashawn Chillious
(Written 6/20/2008)

Beautiful Dirty Rich

It's late, so I thought I'd share with you guys that today is November 17th. Why is this date important? It's the day I was supposed to be born, and one month away from my real birthday.

Yay!!!!

I will be 24. One year away from 25, which hails the beginning of my quarterlife crisis. That should be a fun installation in my blog.

And now it's time for bed, since I have to get up at the asscrack of dawn to take Nicky to school. More tomorrow!

XO

Where I Stood

Ugh. My jaw looks as though someone just decided to haul off and punch me. I had a really bad experience with Percoset yesterday, resulting in severe nausea and dizziness. I had my mouth assaulted by an oral surgeon, resulting in one less wisdom tooth cramping my jaw's style.

Hurray.

In other news, my job blocked blogging sites, so I'll have to save funny work shit for when I get home. On the positive side, I'll be doing a lot more blogging in my pajamas. Rowrrr. It'll be The Nighttime Confessions of a Crazed and Oppressed Receptionist. Or the mid-morning. You get the idea. It'll be scandalous, racy, a tad sexy, and as always, absolutely insane. I promise it'll be better than Sarah Palin's memoir. And all my -ing words will end with a "g".

Hmm...As some of you know, I have an irrational fear of squirrels. Why, I'm not entirely sure, though I think it has something to do with my dad telling me that if I got bitten by one I'd have to get ten shots in my stomach or I'd die of rabies. That could explain me avoiding them like The Plague. Well, usually I just go about my day and stomp my foot if a rogue squirrel is doing his/her squirrel thing in my general vicinity. Now...I will cross the street if they don't run away. The other day I actually felt a twinge of panic when I walked past one eating an acorn on my street. Panic. Like actual fear. I'd recommend therapy, but I'm sure the psychiatrist would either laugh at me or tell me my fear of the squirrel is a metaphor for how I hate my mother.

But I love my mom. I just have a weird, completely illogical phobia of squirrels. Thank God it's nearly winter and those nefarious critters will be off in their trees, jacking off or sleeping or watching NHL or whatever the hell it is that squirrels do in their spare time.

Any suggestions on how to get over this insanity are welcome.

Paparazzi

(Note: There is no real point to today's post. I'm in a silly mood and started typing.)

I know I've said it before, but I think I'm pretty awesome.

Clarification. I know I am pretty awesome. Quite possibly the epitome of awesomeness. Who's gonna argue against that? (I'll karate chop you in the throat if you do. Be warned, friend.) I've lived a life chock full of awesomeness and kickass things. Being born, circa 1985. Selling my brother for a brief period of time in 1991. The Lashawn Fan Club, circa 1997. Taping toilet paper to my shoe in 8th grade and taking off down the hall. Falling down the stairs so many times at St. Joe's and making it look cool. Breaking Jesus and putting him back together with Sticky-Tac. Getting suspended six times in a Catholic high school. Taping a picture of MC Hammer on the back wall of my Honors English 11 class. Jumping over a box at Burger King and missing the other side and falling in the box, in front of a full restaurant of people. Walking like a really crappy drag queen when I wear high heels. Organizing a Miss America pageant in grade school and getting the boys in my class to do the "Here she is, Miss America" wave. Writing a play in 7th grade that we never performed but everyone was psyched about (the writing wasn't that awesome, but the concept was). Sitting on the floor in Honors English 12 when I really was supposed to sit in my chair.

You can't really plan or be taught these things, no. You just have to let them come to you, just let them happen. You have to be born with that kind of raw excellence.

I'm an iconoclast. I do awe inspiring things daily, whether it be saying something dazzlingly witty or making people roll their eyes or tripping over nothing or muttering to myself...I can always be counted on to jazz things up, to be the cilantro in the spice rack of life. I'm a one-woman production. I'm F-ing awesome, dude. You don't mess with that Nobel Prize winning formula. Nay. (Apparently, I'm also quite the Narcissist.)

I mean, I like to sit in my pajamas on a Friday night (when I'm broke, holla) and eat ice cream and watch Law and Order DVDs with my dad. Why? Because it's badass, that's why. No one who wasn't in touch with their awesomeness would dare admit to such a thing, but since I am the Chuck Norris of Awesomeness, I can and will admit to it. I'm secure in my awesomeness.

I'm scared of squirrels. How many people confident enough with their supreme coolness would reveal such a potentially embarrassing factoid to the world? (That particular fear is getting a bit out of control, actually. We'll address that later on, in another post.) How many people can say they had dreams about being best friends with David Beckham, called him Becks, and drank a most likely vile concoction of vodka and Gatorade? Not too many, I'm sure. How many people wrote wondrous little ditties about Erik the Red and his son, Leif Erikson? Exactly.

It takes a special person to carry the torch of insanity.

The Sound of White

I want a guitar for Christmas.

No, I don't know how to play the guitar. Yes, I used to play my friend Katie's like a stand-up bass back in high school because I thought it was funny. Why, you ask, why would I want a guitar? Because. I want to be an artsy singer/songwriter with a cool guitar case and a cup of latte from Starbucks, who looks at the world through poetic eyes and thinks all of life is a song. I want to jam out like John Mayer does on his electric guitar. I want even more people to think that I am kickass and cool. Naturally, part of me thinks I'll get frustrated with learning to play after a week and just put said guitar in a corner somewhere and forget about it. The other part insists that I will become a stellar guitarist.

Right. Because I really nailed the recorder back in high school. I still cringe when I hear "Mary Had A Little Lamb"...I screeched through that one quite nicely, thank you. I'll keep you posted.


Ugh. My shoulder hurts. I have like the worst posture ever at my desk. I start out sitting all normal and upright, but somewhere during my day I morph into the hunchback of Notre Dame. I have long voiced to the girls in the office my desire of keeping a geisha in the closet to give me hot tea and massages when the stabbing pain in my muscles begins, but it usually gets laughed off in that "oh that Lashawn is such a silly girl" way. What can a girl do to get taken seriously? I'm thinking about getting one of those things you throw over the back of your chair and it massages your back and adds heat to "relax the pain away." Those are kind of pricey though, so I'm leaning more towards just bitching about the pain and rubbing my shoulder in a melodramatic fashion. Or I could have Nicky give me a massage. He's not really that awesome at it, but it's really cute when he rubs my shoulders. Plus, it's free. You can't argue with that.

I'm looking out the garage window, and it looks beautiful outside. One of those super nice, sunny and brisk quintessential kind of Autumn days we get in Ohio. The air has a brisk chill in it, along with the faint smell of the falling leaves. Of course, I get out at 6, so by the time I leave work it will be dark and blah outside. Makes me want to go home, curl up with a comfy blanket, and take a nap.

Sounds good. I'll leave you with a Friday afternoon quote from one of my personal heroes, Ricky Bobby (of Talledega Nights fame):

"I wake up in the morning and I piss excellence."