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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


02.06.10

Hi. I can't sleep. It's 5:05 AM. I wolfed down a lot of chicken today/yesterday, drank 3 cups of coffee, and indulged in an ice cream sandwich at 3 AM. I don't know what happened. I had to look up articles on terrorist Youtube videos (surprisingly many) and conspiracy texts (not that many) on my school's library catalogue, and here I still am, with too much to read, and not much writing.

I polished my nails midnight blue at 11 PM. I painted them for the first time in years, since I slicked them tangerine right after I came back from Barcelona in 2006, because it was the same juicy color as the many-stranded bead cuff I got at a flea market there.

Dark-lacquered nails look so right, typing on a silver keyboard, shiny where the sharply angled light from a small red desk lamp hits the beveled edge, dark where the symbols await pressing skin and flesh. Typing is also an aesthetic pleasure, as it should be, yes?






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