Mad Styles.

Chris Martin must have had a considerable brain fart to have written the not-so-new, I just started listening to it now, Coldplay album. The lyrical content of it is one gigantic compilation of similies. I suppose I wouldn't find it that bad if he had the sense to not use the same comparison in two different songs on the same album.

This album is shit.

I don't really mind that Coldplay is sucking ass now. I got my worth out of them during my obscure teenager years when they were still humble little men from the UK. I do like the name Apple though.

I did get fumed out on Wednesday.
I can still feel the paint under my skin.
I don't think people know the definition of ick until they've stood in a room of aresol for five hours. It's nasty. Not only do you feel absolutely wrong from inhaling so much bad air, you also feel like you've been rolling around in lard for forty minutes. Even my hair feels disgusting.
The wall turned out alright. It irks me that it's not centered, but who am I to point out such a thing? The scheme had a white fill with red 3d, highlighed with orange chips. It was sick. The background was black and tiny squiggles of electricity are blowing out of the piece, leaving a faint touch of baby and royal blue behind them.
My Uncle, who is a naturally scary man, was elated. I have never seen him bust so many smiles out of his stone cold mug. When him and I originally talked about the payment for the work, he had wanted to pay them with beer. By the end of the day, he had gone through a case of beer, half a bottle of crown royal, a large pizza, a box of wings, and even X amount of cash for their efforts. Everyone was happy, including me because everyone was sucking on my ass for hooking up the talent with the cash and vice versa.

Seeing Andrew again was a lot more natural than I thought it would be. Thankfully his bitch of a girlfriend wasn't there, so we were free to act a little more openly towards eachother. Ever since Lindsy came into his life, I've had to act ridgid and uninterested whenever he was around. Long gone are the days of excited art conversations, silly movie trips and graffiti jams in the big cities. I sincerely miss that. Too much I think.
It was rad though, seeing Mike and Blake again too. Mike has mellowed out a lot. I don't know if it's because I've gotten hotter over the past year or if it's 'cause he's matured. Either way, he was a lot more interested in talking to me, and a lot cooler to be around. He still is a perfectionist and a bit of an anal retentive brat, but much, much better.
Blake is still a spacecadet. He lives to get drunk, cries when he can't get laid and is funny as fucking hell. His graf styles are so random, they reflect his personality rather well.

After the graffiti, I went back to St. Catharines with the boys to rent some movies and chill. Somewhere in the midst of our numerous conversations about sex, there was mention of beat boxing vag's and some asinine question about letting my man pee on me during sex. I can usually hold my own with explicit conversation amoungst the best of men, but when the conversation turns to licking box, I freeze. Maybe because I don't have much experience with the procedure, probably because Jeff made me feel so awful about it that the smallest mention of the activity makes me feel guilty and gross. Jeff is such a fucker.
Anyway, the conversation was far too akward for my liking. Andrew took notice and decided to change it's flow to,

"So Anna, want to have sex with Blake?"

Gross.

Blake is a strange little man with twisted fingers and a serious lack of mental health. The idea of allowing him to insert his penis in me makes me want to die. I calmly replied with,

"Talk to my six foot five, two hundred and seventy-five pound boyfriend about it, and if he thinks it appropriate, I might consider it."

They all laughed, and I seem to remember Andrew saying something like,

"I think Anna would do most of the fucking, she's into some sort of kinky shit"

or something like that. Either way, Blake was mighty red, which bothers me too much. There really wasn't a reason for him to blush unless he was mentioning in the car how much he'd like to fuck me. If that's the case, I need to stay as far away as possible from Blake.

We hungout in the Essar's kitchen and painted something for Lindsy's Dad's birthday. Andrew ended up talking to her on the phone, and got into a mild fight over her not being lovey-dovey and in the midst of the lover's quarrel, Andrew dumped the phone in the sink full of water. He got really paranoid about pissing off his dad and immediately got terribly stressed. That was the Andrew I remember. A man-boy with little to no clue of what's going on, constantly miserable, constantly upset and constantly stressed about the smallest of things, which eventually blow up to be the biggest of problems. I then remembered, why I moved out of our appartment.

I ended up leaving Andrew's house at around one thirty am. I only had two hours of sleep, and the ride home was absolutely awful. We promised we would talk before he left, and I said something about talking to John, my most favourite graffiti writer of all time and he promised we would get in touch, which excites me.

I really do miss Andrew. It sucks that he lives so far away, with his wicked girlfriend. I hope he moves back here someday so we can be close. I hope he dumps his girlfriend so he can be happy again.

I hope he comes back so he can teach me how to write.