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Friday, Jul. 05, 2002 / 5:48 p.m. ~Nothing Like a Shower On a Hot Summer Day~ Ahhhhh, desire fulfilled. I was craving a shower. I took a shower. How great is that? So simple. So glorious. I am clean. One might eat off me. One might eat me. Mmmmm....I am so sensual lately. Sensous. Filled with sensation, so desirous of sexual activity. I dreamed of Moby again. Sigh..... I was lucidly dreaming, and this shall be all I remember: I awoke realizing I'd dreamed about him, and it was good, very very good. And I went back to sleep and continued. Or so I think. Later, all I could remember was that I was with him, and that he knew me from his message boards, he knew all about me. He'd read all I'd written there, my profile, everything. But the details are totally gone. Just a remnant, a memory of making it happen, a subconscious awareness of dream lucidity. Should it be surprising? I ordered 4 Moby CDs online, was it yesterday? Was that only yesterday? 2 from Spun.com, 2 from Half.com, and did I write this already? No, I told Mark, via email, that's it, right? And I searched for photos of him, of Moby, on Google, and I found some good ones, I stared at him a long time, I thought about what someone wrote on that "How do YOU know when you're in love?" thread, about how if you feel it in your crotch it's not love, but who cares? So, it's lust, so it's many things, it's obsession and it feels good to have it going on. It really does. Think of it, in my dreams we've already done most of what I want to do, it couldn't get any better, could it? I'm thinking about sex all the time. It's been so long, no, SO long. Not since I've come close to it, not since I've thought there existed the possibility, but since it actually happened, all sweaty and juicy, skin and tongues and hair and arms and legs. I am not always good at playing the game, the one in which I'm hard and steely, and I don't need nor do I want a man, don't care if I'm ever lying naked against one again, or sitting across one's lap, or, or, or......... I almost hurt with wanting it. Sort of achy. No, it hurts, it's physical pain. I really want to get laid, but no, no, no, just anyone will not do. I am discriminating, even amidst my pain. I do not settle. I do not. Today was hellish. The phones/computer tracking server took that hit on Wednesday and it is still dead. Calls re-routed through switchboard, tracking down, and so we manually keyed documents, pulled payroll numbers off another database, the old, old, one, and typed up Excel spreadsheets. I loved the challenge, though I exhaled loudly, harrumphed a few times, and under my breath said how FUCKING RIDICULOUS it was to be operating under such circumstances. And why have they let us leave early on so many other occasions, but not since this debacle? Ahhhh, we did leave early, 5:00 instead of 6:00. To ATM to deposit my paycheck, and not coming home directly, sitting through two extra really, really, really long red lights made me SO hot and sweaty - as it is One Million Five Hundred Thousand Degrees Farenheit in my car. So I came home, fed the girls, an hour early, but they don't know that, and took that shower I wanted so badly and put on my Land's End lovely lavendar cotton-y, very soft, knit nightshirt and I am cozy and comfy and Branford will call later and want me to go into town to hang out and whatever, and what exactly does he want from me? He'll let me have the keyboard that came with the PC he sold me, even though I said I didn't need it, but it turns out I do, but not for money, he wrote me today via email, for "something else". Oh no. Puhleeze. It had better be computer related. You want me to de-frag your laptop? That I can do. Organize your voluminous bookmarks? Done. But hey now, no sexual favors, unh uh. Nopers. Moby is the only one I'm going to have sex with. Or maybe a stranger at a club. The right eye contact, the right opening line, a pocketful of condoms, back to his place, yes, I think I would. I think I would use someone for sex, but it would have to be someone I choose. Oh, I won't act on this mad desire. I'm too much of a homebody. If I go anyhwere it will be with Branford and he doesn't like it when I flirt while I'm with him, flirt with other men that is. Ack. Ugh. Unnnnnh. Pain. Sort of fuckmenow pain. I know, I know, it's like I'm in heat or something. Probably just ovulating, it's that time again. Release the egg, journey down ye olde Fallopian tubees. Nada. Menstruate. Shed. Great, can't wait. 41 years old. How much longer????? I got about 4 hours sleep last night, I'm thinking. That's why my Moby dream is only a hazy, gauzy, diaphanous (I love that word), fuzzy, remnant of a semblance of a memory. I only remember waking up and remembering, saying, "Whoa" like Keanu Reeves or someone, or maybe not "Whoa", maybe "Lordy, Lordy" or "Omigod", or "Why oh why can't I get up and write THAT one down now?!" But I did not. I should upload a photo from my images file, something good, something Mobylicious, and post it here. Or I should go listen to "18" again, or "Animal Rights" or "MobySongs" or soon I shall listen to "Move" and "Go Remixes" and "Early Underground", punk Moby. Or I can read his journal again, about how he waited tables in his own restaurant yesterday, played Chinese Checkers with his best friend......I'm silly with it. Silly. Fixated, consumed, obsessed. All fine words. Very very fine. I was imagining actually getting to meet him after his show (which I doubt I will, but I like to dream), and thinking I may just stammer, I may not be able to speak at all. You know? Build something up so high and you can't even climb to the top of it, you can only shout from down below, your voice barely able to reach. "Hellloooooo up there!!! Can you heaaarrrrrr me, Mobyyyyyyyy? I think you're amaaaaaazinggggggg!!!!!! Can we Fuuuuuuuck nowwwwww???????!!!!!!" Nope. He can't even hear me. And there's a line behind me. "Move it along, sister, we don't got all night here, we all want a piece, okay?" What is with this lucid dreaming, anyway? How am I doing that? I'm going to crash. I've had enough. All clean, I've written in my little online diary now, I think I deserve a nap. Get in bed, have an orgasm or three, dream, dream, dream, imagine, fantasize, mmmmmm......... We'll see. Here, Moby looking intelligent, backstage:  Cost of the War in Iraq
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