a re-arranger of the proverbial bookshelf

The silence depressed me.  It wasn’t the silence of silence.  It was my own silence.

boys-from-baker-street:

why can’t there be a petting zoo but instead of animals there can be british actors 

#mummy, i wanna pat the Hiddleston #no sweetie #mummy wants to pat the Cumberbatch first #and then we’ll go and take some photos of the Firth and the Fry #and we can go and feed a Freeman later on

I’d buy an lifetime pass.

(Source: elementrypenguin, via youcancallme-em)

So, I’ve been away for a little while- I’ve been busy with both work and class since getting back from England.

And now, now everything- in the time span of one dark, unforgiving night on the streets of Chicago that I once looked at with some sort of misplaced fucked up reverence- everything has changed.

I want nothing, I feel nothing- I want simultaneously to fade into the same night that swallowed my screams and to never ponder the darkness again.

This is what it feels like to have the blinders ripped off of swollen, bruised 20 year old eyes- to have the blinders ripped of and know this is what you are now.

Heading out for my second night with my British gentleman

Dinner downtown followed by a walk and then who knows.

Brushing twice in case he puts his mouth on my mouth again.

So tonight may have actually been one of the best nights of my life.

I was at work today, and started talking with a man who was visiting Chicago from England and somehow ended up getting him to ask me out after we closed for the night.  I was of course suspicious, wondering why a charming 30-something Brit would have a night free when visiting a big city but decided to go and reasoned that if I didn’t I would definitely regret it later.  With no destination in mind, we wandered around Lincoln Park and Old Town, stopping at a 24 hour Starbucks, he paid a street performer to play Taco’s “Puttin’ on the Ritz” (I had mentioned earlier that whenever I hear someone playing that is the only time I’ll pay street performers- picky, I know) and half-danced with me on the bridge over the lake, we walked around downtown and then took the tunnel to Lakeshore Drive/path and walked on the shore and when I mentioned I hate the feel of sand on my feet he picked me up and half dumped me in the shallow end up to the middle of my calves.  Laughing, he bent down, tugged off my shoes and grabbed my collar and kissed me, in Lake Michigan at 2 in the morning with the taste of Starbucks on my tongue and the cold biting into us both.

We sat on the shoreline and talked, and talked, and talked, half-danced to some music that was drifting in from the nightlife near the pier.  And when I mentioned that I had to work in the morning he walked me home, kissed me briefly and we made plans for the next two nights.

I mean damn.  Doesn’t this only happen in movies?