Lars Raars to The Maximum

I got back from visiting the wonderful Eva Cohen yesterday with the necessary reminder that, yes, she exists. It feels sometimes like she is a voice on the phone, some words in a letter and a picture by my bed and nothing more. Without actual contact it's hard to see her as anything but a dream, and that is not pleasant. It's weird to think sometimes that maybe I just invented this girl, that she is just in my imagination. All that was tossed out the proverbial window when I arrived in Providence. I had an incredible time just spending time with her in the flesh. I can't think of anyone else I have so much fun with doing just anything, even if it be nothing.

We, by the way, are the most hardcore motherfuckers ever. I'd like to see any of you assholes last over 3 years together when a large chunk of that is not actually spent together. And through all that we've got nothing but stronger together, bitches, so you and your pid-diddly "we've been going out for almost fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive weeks" bullshit can step off. The cynic in me has turned its doubts from the futility of our love to the pettyness of yours, non-particular reader. Don't fuck with this. We're talking 80 year olds on the porch sippin' wine with a dozen cats kinda shit. We're talking romantic cruise where we run into the contestants of Shipmates and cold slap them in their lush faces. We're talking cinema-style happy endings where love conquers all and you secretly delight in the fact that everything sappily worked out in the end. We're talking cinema-style sex scenes, where hot button celebrities finally let a little nip show and where entire rooms shake by our sheer choreography. We're talking Shakespeare sonnets and shit, all iambic pentameter and shmancy-ass affluences. Our love is the final boss of Mushihimesama Futari: confident in victory, frustrating to geeks everywhere, and suffocatingly purple.