Heather

I like girls named Heather. One of the first girls I ever had a crush on had that name. She was tiny and blonde, and so was her intelligence. But she had a wicked smile that made my stomach flutter on cue. She was 10 and I was 12. She's married now. I hear he's wealthy.

I am also wealthy, but not from material riches like money or jewels or those gold nickels that you pay thirty bucks for off the television. Yeah, those.

I'm on the phone with Heather -- another Heather -- and we're talking about the shots people with diabetes must take. She's making noises as she injects herself. They are moans stemmed from the pain of the needle, but over the phone they sound like they could be moans about anything. Anything. It's pretty hot.

She knows I'm writing all this down as it happens which makes it funny. I shouldn't write about a friend in a sexual matter but because it's done to be humorous, it is acceptable. At least, that is my rationale. I don't know if I spelled that correctly but I don't feel like spell checking. It's nearly three in the morning and I'm lazy.

The cat, meanwhile, is beneath my right foot. With every noise Heather makes, the cat looks around like there's someone else in the room ... I just creeped myself out and looked around the room.

We've already discussed how wimpy hurricane Emily became. At first she was a scary category III badass storm, then she piddled down to tropical storm status the second she touched land and just generally made things very wet. I suddenly giggle to the thought of "making Emily wet".

Anyway, Heather is removing herself from the phone to go to bed. It is, afterall, nearlly three in the morning. She just used the word "interim" in a sentence. Heather is also blonde, but unlike the married Heather, this one uses big words. I hear she reads alot.

Me likey.