Those who know me well know that I have an unholy obsession with zombies and the end of the world. Movie series like Resident Evil and 28 Days Later thoroughly satisfies that need in me only slightly more than a good round of Gears of War or House of the Dead 1, 2, 3, and 4. Grindhouse, which was everything a girl could ask for, left me salivating for more. The old thing better is having a too-big-to-fit-in-my-mouth cheeseburger to enjoy alongside. Last night, I had the pleasure of consuming both. All thanks to my super boyfriend Larry Ge. Who, by the way is one of the few who accepts this unusual side of me in a stride and even rented first two Resident Evil DVDs for me in preparation for the upcoming finale. Hell yea.
It was moments like those that makes me wonder, really wonder, if true love is here. Which brings me to the point of this entry: moving in with you boyfriend is a big deal. Stupid me, I hadn't realize that. I assumed it would be one big sleepover, but living with someone means dealing with all the things you could walk away from before, or not had ever even seen. You see the good and the bad and you end up disagreeing on a lot of things. It means spending every free waking moment with each other. And sometimes, even at night when your eyes finally close, you find him invading your dreams and into every unconscious thought. And one moment you wonder how and when this came to be, and the next you can't remember what life was like before this.
I have no epiphany or wise conclusive thought for this. All I know is that at 2 in the morning, when I'm thoroughly drunk in a foreign city on the other side of the earth, there's is nothing I'd rather do than beat House of the Dead 4 in a shiny arcade with this boy, who just might be the love of my life.
And then we'd roam the streets of Shinjuku in victory with our loot tucked in the front of my shirt
