7:46 p.m. | 2005-10-15
This Perfect Mess
You can always tell when it's really starting to get cold in Colorado.
I hate socks. Well, I don't hate socks, but I refuse to wear them when I'm not wearing shoes that require them. That includes slippers, booties, toe socks, and anything else strange in that realm. I hate the feeling.
I can always tell when it's getting close to that season when I brush a foot against my leg and I shiver at the touch. They're ice cold. (This is something I've been known to master; I can't have me rubbing cold feet against a guy, so I've gone through great lengths to find solutions for this besides wearing socks) There's the under the knee tuck, the corner of the couch shove, the hands as fast as you can rub, and most notably the feet in the bathtub real quick.
I can also tell the change in the season because of the chill in my soul. That two week fall we have here? It's ending. The leaves have all but fallen from the trees and there's not a drop of moisture (or even clouds for that matter) in the air.
I fucking hate that you're not here. And at this point I could give a fuck less who you are. I made you pizza tonight. Your favorite kind. Layered just the way you like it. And you know me and pizza, no matter what I can never eat more than two pieces. Ever. You were always there to finish it off and grin.
What the fuck am I going to do with 8 more pieces of pizza?
