kerouac says

day three:

him: i don't know what to wear to this thing. what should i wear to this thing? (pause.) are these pants making me look kind of gay?

her: if you're concerned about the perception of gayness, perhaps you should rethink how many flavors of shower gel are in that there bathroom.

him: i've explained the shower gel. it has to do--

her and him: . . . with moooood.

her: i know.

him: are you ever getting out of bed?

her: no. i have airplane cold, and think of how many times i had to go to work while you were lying in *my* bed. also, to pass as a psuedo-gay guy, you really need to learn about ironing your pants.

him: (throws balled up t-shirt at her) oh, whoops.

her: (taking t-shirt under the covers) i'm rubbing this t-shirt all over my swimsuit area.

him: hey.

her: sorry. is having cooch on your shirt going to blow this whole pretend-faggy thing you're brewing?


i don't care if i never leave, never leave, never leave. we had more fun this morning than i had in college, in toto. i have a precious, healthy, whole-wheat style desire growing where i didn't know desire could live.

i have this feeling that all my life i asked for too little, even though enough turned out to be enormously smaller and simpler than i'd anticipated.