Our Touch Will Color the Hours

Well, starting right where you left off, I’ll respond to your question: Do I consider myself lucky or unlucky that the first person I found is the first person I fell in love with? Funny you should ask, because I do actually think about that sometimes. I don’t know, am I lucky?

On the one hand, I do feel extremely unlucky. Getting into this so early on tends to lead to me to fear the possibility (and very possible probability) that we, in fact, won’t last forever. Of course, being in love with Andrew, I want desperately to deny that possibility. Yet I can’t help but assume that I have been cursed — cursed with a blessing that will very likely be snatched away from me one day by the fates. That’s just how it usually works. And because of this, I often find myself wishing that we had only met and fallen for each other years into the future instead of now.

On the other hand, how could I not be lucky? It’s Andrew! Even a small morsel of perfection (as imperfect as it is) is better than none at all. Which isn’t to say that Andrew is a small morsel. I’d consider him a larger-than-small morsel. It’s like enjoying an amazing piece of red velvet cheesecake at the beginning of a meal because the servers happened to bring it out too early. Better to have it now than never, otherwise you’re left with a stale cookie later on. And truthfully, he is my savior. Where would I be without him?

Especially since we do fit together so magically, it’s difficult to deny that it’s ridiculously lucky and perfect. Normally, I’m not much of a believer in fate and destiny, and I prefer the more logical and less stupid coincidental system of the world. However, there is just no way on Earth that we ended up together on a basis of coincidence.

Allow me to point out:

  • Andrew has seen Wicked on Broadway, has read the book, has a cat named Fiyero, and even relates himself to said character. (Really when you think about it, it’s not too far off. Fiyero is a bit of stoner-like character, I just realized. Don’t you think?)
  • Speaking of cats, he used to own one called Rafiki.
  • He has pretty much the same spiritual beliefs as I do. I know plenty of other people who would scoff at my thoughts on energy and the power of the mind.
  • We have an incredible understanding of each other that allows us to communicate without any problems.
  • You and I just happened to predict the turn of events, with my silly New Year’s resolution and your comment on his and my potential compatibility on that one walk-around-the-block of ours.
  • You also happened to be the most perfect best friend at the moment of his random ass attack on my lips.
  • His random ass attack on my lips was during the cast party after the play. It’s only my dream or whatever to be in one of those backstage romance things, no big deal. Hello, match made in heaven! Olivia and Sir Andrew Aguecheek in the end, whodda thunkit?
  •  You’ve seen his bathroom and what it’s decorated with. And the snow globes in his bedroom.
  •  And my mom likes him, loves him, has had a dignified conversation with him about smoking weed and doesn’t seem to mind, and secretly would like me to marry him, I’m sure.
  • (Also, side note: we would make the gorgeousest looking babies who would have a 50% chance of having blue eyes thanks to our sexy genes.)

OK, so he eats meat and I don’t. Oops.

And as far as fitting together like puzzle pieces goes… I guess I never really thought about it. I don’t have any other prior cuddle buddies to compare him to, so I never really noticed that it even could be awkward. The only time I can remember ever making a note of how we fit together was at the very beginning of our relationship. We were lying on the bed, and I had remembered you telling me that when the two of YOU lay together that one time, there was some junk about you being too low and not by his face. Something like that. And so I thought, “Huh, this doesn’t seem to be weird. And he seems comfortable enough too. Heh.”

When we lie together, I never think of us as two people anymore. Instead we are welded together as a new and single entity. There is no space in between us (I don’t really allow it). Each atom of mine that is touching his is tingling with a quiet euphoria.

I have this stoner theory about why people touch. I believe that the only reason why people make physical contact (intentionally) is for an exchange of energy to occur. And in that energy is emotion, thought, purpose, empathy, etc. It’s an exchange that is necessary to survive. Without it, your soul is a blank sheet of paper that doesn’t have a chance to change or grow. You are left without essence.

Applied to sex, it explains orgasm. I’m going to go ahead and get graphic here. You are literally inside someone or someone is inside you, as close as you can get. You are touching and touching and touching. Energy (and everything that comes with it as explained earlier) is heightened to the extreme, and your souls are practically vibrating with the amount of information it receives in the exchange. Well, that energy needs to go somewhere since your soul would explode or break down like a computer, so (for the male) it is released as a physical substance that is meant to stay with the other person and leave a mark (aka a baby). For men, anyway. I can’t totally explain female coming. Or masturbation. It’s just a theory in progress. Actually it’s probably really only a hypothesis.

And like I said before, I thought of it when I was high. Also, it sounds way cooler and more legitimate if you’re high when you think about it. You can totally visualize it. Also, I confess that I actually only thought about the sex part just now.

So there it is, more train of thought continued. My life is not worth talking about either.


P.S. I think that thinking of titles is fun, especially since I mostly just steal them from somewhere, mostly songs. It’s neat to find lyrics or a quote or reference that can perfectly match my mood or thought, yet still remain somewhat curious.

P.P.S. After “P.S.” and “P.P.S.” you’re just supposed to keep adding P’s, since P.S. stands for “post script.” So it becomes a post post-script, and a post post-post-script and so on.

P.P.P.S. Sabrina herself is not doing so well.


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