27 June 2011 at 4:24 pm
My Sunday mornings begin at 7am, when I crawl downstairs to survey the damage from the night before prior to jumping on my bike to go clean the yoga studio.
Clothes are strewn everywhere; we tore them off of each other after we got home from the wine festival.
Coconut oil was pulled down from the top shelf: sex in the kitchen is better with all natural lube.
The bottle of chardonnay: not sure why we decided to finish that after tasting wines from 40+ wineries.
The pile of tissues: from my 11pm hysterical crying fit in the middle of sex when it hit me that he'd be gone for months and months.
I ignored the mess and road down the hill along the beach, tinges of hangover and cold ocean air blurring my vision, smiling at the early morning joggers, coasting to a comfortable routine.
mod l post-mod
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.