My Boyfriend, the Drunk

The branding works for both of us, but Erik puked, so he gets the crown.

: Friday :

Sushi with Erik after 9 hours of straight documentation.  My brain is still stinging when the miso arrives.  Pages and pages of paragraphs over paragraphs of function calls; top level design goals mixed in with understandable and precise explanations of architecture; an entire hour dedicated to restyling all five documents to look fresh and clean (instead of like they were designed in a time when Times and Arial were the only fonts in existence.)  Our code release is finished and out the virtual door - green tea mochi never tasted so good.

Mister Lorenzen meets us back at the house for a wine-oiled barrage of pikachu v sheik v ice climbers, followed by a world and a half of mushroom people endlessly tossing italians into molten rock.  He says he hadn't played smash in months, but Erik and I were trained in the himalayan mountains for years to master every form of destruction available and he was still keeping up, so score one for Josh being a complete liar.  Also, the post-death horn in mario bros continues being the best invention on the entire platform, second only to the "both toads died and I don't want to face bowser children alone" bubble reflex that Erik mastered so handily.
...

Joanna Newsom is playing.

(he says as if he didn't just learn about her from matt)

This isn't to those two, even though it says 'to' in the title.  That's mostly a misnomer I suppose.

This is more of a me thing, a testament to the idea of the fleeting relationships that pass through you, a monument to the fluidity and trivialness of those beings who shared a bit of you on this earth and then went along those always flowing currents.  The two dandelions who laughed at eachother before the wind blew their seeds astray.
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When I was in middle school I used to lay on our basement couch with a plastic sprayer, I think a refashioned Windex bottle, and just daydream.  I would lay my back on the crispy brown upholstery and spray huge clouds of water droplets straight up, gazing with dilated pupils at the wind currents blowing them in spirals and corkscrews and helicoids.  Sometimes they would be the effects of my weather dominance, myself willing the clouds to do their swan dance back onto my face with my magic.  I had the same power over the crashing of the waves, making my tensor tympani do the rumbling sound in my head as I taunted the ocean to bring it.  Other times the mist would be the beginnings of a genie, or a tornado elemental, or the explosion of a nearby star located completely within our cement walled downstairs.  I could see entire solar systems within the cloud, each slightly oblong sphere a distant spot in space with a million tiny earths holding boys downstairs with their own Windex bottles doing exactly what I was.
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Sunday night above a bright orange thai iced tea (filled with exquisite boba that kept getting stuck halfway up my oversized neon green straw) Erik decided to sorta stumble headfirst into:

...and I'm not even really sure where this relationship is going.

I don't think he intended for it to have the gravity it did, at the time I was daydreaming about the golden dragon prints in the back corner, and I think that it was more specifically about the living situation I am in and how he feels uncomfortable ever moving in here.  But the twang of familiarity sucked me out of my weird yellow bamboo and pea soup stucco haze into a "WHAT?"
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