2005-04-26 - 11:32 a.m.
I was reading another diary and there's a picture of her friend wearing a T-shirt that says "No Stranger to Danger" on the front and "Grainger" on the back. I think that's his last name, and either way, that's funny. Reminds me of a computer networking friend, a mild-mannered enough guy, who when he goes out to the bar and gets all looped up on scotch, turns into Steve Denim. Steve Denim has a voice and a walk and a story involving denim somehow. When I first heard of this one I came up with my own: Slim Pickins. I am a slim person. It's been a while, but he had something to do with leaning pelvis-out when he was drunk and generally being sort of loud and harmlessly flirtatious. The girl I was dating the one and only time Slim made an appearance did not like him very much.
I went on a date last night and saw "Millions" and later had tacos. It went well. Turns out the thing from Friday night was not a dream, that I had in fact been a little more forward than I orginally thought. Makes sense. If it had been a dream, it would have been an exceptionally world-class awesome vivid dream, with textures and perfumes. We laughed about it and had a beer and we kissed goodnight, twice. She has a cat named Butter, but which I keep calling Rusty because I can't get it out of there. Like how I can't keep the two Quaids straight. Or Bill Paxton and Bill Pullman. No way.
This girl is the prettiest girl I've ever potentially dated and she has a great laugh (she kind of covers up her mouth sometimes when she does this laugh) and she's smart and well-read and I'd like to know more things about her.
This week I must print out copies of my thesis for the registrar and for my own dispersing pleasure. It's expensive. I have to buy a specific kind of paper and each binding costs something like twelve dollars. The paper's called 100% bond and I don't know to what that number refers but I'd like to think it's fucking hand-pounded cotton pulp flown in from the Andes or something.
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