The pen is mightier than the sword
So here's my schedule since my little…ahem…mistake at the classics convention:
1. Never ever tell my mother that I kissed Jess. (Kissed? More like ate his face!) Again. Damn.
2. Ram my head through a brick wall to make sure that my plea of temporary insanity holds up.
3. Contact Jess and explain the whole temporary insanity concept…better write to him, ringing him is too risky. After all, it wouldn't exactly help me to explain the situation if I end up as a puddle of Rory jelly on the floor at the sound of his voice, would it?
4. Stop reading books-they make me do crazy things!…Actually, scratch that one. I couldn't survive without books.
All of a sudden, I'm reminded of my summer in Washington. Dear Jess. Page upon page of my notebook filled with his name. The letter I couldn't write. Because I wasn't sure? Because I was so sure. Because I didn't want him? Because I wanted him too much. Because I shouldn't have kissed him? Because I had to kiss him. Because it wasn't what I expected? Because it was all that and more.
I couldn't write it because I was so fucking terrified. It scared me just how much I needed to be around him. My addiction.
Letters to Dean were easy. Letters to Dean were safe. I was supposed to kiss Dean. I didn't have to tell him not to say anything. Very flattering, by the way.
But Jess? Well, as past and recent evidence suggests, Jess' presence does things to me that makes me lose both my mind and my sense of judgement. I can't catch my breath!
Ok, here goes. I don't want to hurt him, though. After all, the pen is mightier than the sword, isn't it?
I wonder what sort of effect I have on him. Do I have any?
I don't know what I want to say. Oh well, I guess I'll figure something out.
Dear Jess…
