Oct 29, 2016
The sweet sensation of taking out the trash.
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The sweet sensation of taking out the trash.
To the woman who keeps giving me a sultry look on the train: I am gay, and you look as if you've taken a trip through a blender. I'm not interested.
Christophe doesn't wear pants as often as he should when he's over. I'm not complaining, but my dad's gone and questioned this all a few dozen times too many. I'm running out of excuses.
Gary just came over to say hello, and helped himself to opening up my bedroom door to find me and Christophe laying on my bed. This wouldn't be a problem, but Christophe doesn't have jeans on (for reasons not worth explaining), so Gary just opened the door, looked at us, and then closed the door again. He hasn't come back in. I suppose he's run off. I don't know how to explain this one without it sounding odd.
I guess what takes away from Damien's normality is the fact that he's over 7 feet tall and occasionally, you can find him sporting horns. But other than that he's alright.
I spend a good amount of my time getting along with the son of Satan, yet I've yet to experience him bash religion of any kind, unlike the unholy amount of religious bashing I hear come from the hicks of this town on a daily basis. The son of Satan is in a relationship with the most Mormon person I have ever met, and their respect for one another trumps all else. If you go around town bashing people for their religious views, you're quite literally less tolerant than the son of Satan.
I hardly speak French. What I know is what I've learned from Christophe, which means I cannot actually trust what I'm saying is right. I just say it and hope no one tries to tell me that I'm wrong, or that I just insulted someone's mother.
Gary is over, reading passages from the Book Of Mormon out loud on my bed. It’s 2 AM. I do wish he’d stop. He’s not even specifically reading them to me. He is just muttering them to himself just loud enough for it to annoy me.