July 27, 2002
Call me Dominique
When I crawled into bed last night I realized that my pillow and sheets smell like him. What a strange sensation that is, going to sleep submerged in the scent of someone who is not there. It gave everything between him and I an almost dream-like quality that was really rather nice. I did miss him these last two days and I am looking forward to seeing him tomorrow. What a horrid realization to stumble upon. I used to mock couples who missed each other when they�d only been apart a few days. I called them co-dependant and sad. But I�m not part of a couple and I�m far from being co-dependant.. and still I miss someone after just two days. Pathetic isn�t it?
But enough about the ever-present boy named Dash, for tonight he doesn�t exist. Tonight is all about me and Ayn Rand because I went out and bought "Anthem" and "Ayn Rand For The New Intellectual." I should be able to make it through both of them tonight so that I can leave them here for my mother to tackle. She�s just finished "The Fountainhead" and seems to be in the mood for more books on Objectivism. I also brought her a book on Cuchulain though so who knows?
A friend once said that he sees a lot of Dominique (from "The Fountainhead") in me. One example he sited was the fact that she married Peter Keating, a man she detests, in order to punish herself. He said I'm the only person he know that is capable of doing such a thing. I don't know whether I find the comparison highly complimentary or just somewhat disturbing.
10:51 p.m.