I haven't celebrated Christmas in many years, but am always so intrigued by the idea of a wishlist; specifically to Santa. Asking Santa for stuff is better than asking real people because just like some sort of Miracle on 34th street...uh...miracle, the impossible might be possible. You want a dad and a house with a white picket fence? Ask Santa. You want Kajagoogoo to get back together? Dude, ask Santa.
Really, you should try it. It's like praying for stuff except more likely to come to fruition.

Dear Santa,

After much thought, this is what I would like to have come December 25th. Please note: I don't have a chimney or cookies and I'm alergic to milk, but help yourself to any beer left in the fridge or my ciggarettes, if that's your poison. The Maker's is in the kitchen and I have many unwashed thongs lying around if you're still looking for a last minute gift for a middle-aged middle-american white male.
Help yourself.

1. Season seven of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD.
2. A pack of Diana Rossa's from Italy.
3. A lighter that never gets stolen or runs out of fluid.
4. An Everlasting Gobstopper.
5. A pony. A white one with neon green mane and tail.
6. A subscription to Wallpaper and Ready-Made magazines.
7. My old cellphone.
8. My family in one room all at the same time for four hours (there are seven of us: Me, Peter, Peter, Sam, Jen, Eddie and Carrie. I would also like Ian, Alicia and Lyndsey Ann to be there if it's not too much trouble.)
9. Sarah to come home.
10. A home. A real one. This includes a city that I can really call home.
11. A remote control car. A pink one.
12. An airline.
13. Satisfaction.
14. Dinner with Sam, Kim Cattrall, and Cynthia Nixon. Excellent.
15. Fame.
16. Mind reading abilities that I could turn on and off and use over great distances. And to be able to fly andbe invisible and all at the same time if I want to (Like, so I could fly around all invisible and stuff while reading peoples minds naked. Note that it wouldn't matter if I was naked, 'cause I'd be invisible. I could also be masturbating at the same time and you'd never know, but I'd totally know what you're thinking. Solid.).
17. For all the children in the world to hold hands in song. No, wait! What I meant was alot of money. I mean alot. Like way more than god has.
18. Lots of talent, beauty and drive. In no particular order.
19. A pair of solid kelly slip-on canvas Vans, in men's 8. I'll do the monogrammming myself.
20. A Genie, in case I forgot anyhting.

So, thanks alot Santa. I hope you can come up with some of this stuff this year, 'cause I could really use it. Especially the airline. Oh, and whatever that elf said about me was totally untrue.
All my love,


[staring at the Castle again]

[edit: Upon re-reading this a couple hours later, I am reminded of a quote from my personal bible in response to a speech originally given my M.L.K.: "I guess I'm just ready to die." That of course being if there is nothing in this world you're truly willing to die for. I'm wondering which one I should be--ready to die for something grand, or just ready to die.]

As a windy road might break a mountainside
from base to crest,
so is our block situated between hilltop and valley.
The fog will roll into the crayola colored
chili scented Mission,
leaving us basked in sunshine,
narrow palms stretched out into
the open day,
sheilding numb eyes from one more tomorrow.
Blinking behind smiles
we, in socks and tees
are once more dangling in the windowsills;
but now we are ready to fall.

Hands to the sky,
digits extended to break the sunlight
lined in waves and bursts across our girlish faces.

One more glimpse reveals not the shaded
shrouded scenic sunlit view we so covet,
but the last inches,
the seconds before,
grasping and fighting
we reach the pavement.

Now, we will try to stand.

[I miss you already Sarah. Hope Boston brings you a speedy recovery, and a speedier return to my open arms. I love you. --M]

List, dammit.

This particular default has become somewhat of a crutch. Oh well.

1. I slept with my ex. This is bad on so many levels. Let's explore them.
1a. Sleeping with Sean totally negates my whole "hanging out with your exes is awesome" rationale. My previous reasons for believing this are that: a) you already know that they're awsome, 'cause you dated them. b) you can fart and pick your nose or be in your pj's around them 'cause they've seen you naked and it doesn't matter. c) you can give them awesome advice on thier new girlfriends 'cause you know what they're doing wrong.
1b. This is not my first relapse; the former ended in a short but uncomfortable conversation that paraphrases something like:
"Sean, are you okay?"
"Uh...we shouldn't have done that."
"Yeah, I know, I thought we were past that."
"Yeah. Okay. Cool."

1c. Both of my Sean relapses have turned into this post-coital pity party during which we lay around naked and bitch about the people we're currently seeing. Ironically enough, last Friday's events were spurned by the same people we were bitching about last time. The only difference is that we have both since broken up with them and gotten back together.

2. I have decided I need to put the brakes on/pull back from the Quinn situation. I have got to stop doing this to myself. I shouldn't have to sleep with my ex to cope with him.

3. I am wondering exactly what I do and do not deserve in this lifetime. I don't even want to eat the cake, I just want to be able to tell everyone I have it. Just want to know that cake exists. I just want the cake to want me to eat it.
edit: 3a. A comment I made on Davey's Blog: "You are consistent, once more, (don't give me the repetative lecture...) in reading my mind. I was just posting about this--this idea of longing, what should be valid about which are the things that at the end of days are requited or no. It's our glass houses, our floorplans, our gods, our cake. It's our real cake, our metaphorical cake, it's the vanilla and chocolate and yellow cakes that we have or have not or eat them or discard them. And what the fuck? where is all this goddamned cake and what the fuck does it look like? And why am I constantly longing after the preservative-filled-pre-packaged-twinkie-type cakes offn this world, and why am I satisfied with eating only this one crappy variety? I want Tiramiseau. I want German Chocolate. I may not even have to eat it, but one day goddamnit I'll at least recognize it. May cake help us all."


Good on Paper

Everyone should be as lucky as to to hear just one of our conversations. Just one. They're the perfect mix of sarcasm, humor and general smart-assedness that makes it not only almost near impossible for others to join the conversation, but also jealous that they cannot. This is why we are perfect.
We know that we can do this; we know that on crowded underground trains when the Suits are pretending to listen to thier iPods that they have in actuality removed one bright white earbud and begun to hear our rediculous yet deadpan banter. We know that the couple across the way who can't seem to stop touching each other has upped thier physical response in mock competition. We know that they know that they will lose.
And here, we are so good. At restaraunts, waiters are overly attentive to us, they love us, love what we have to say. We tip them exorbitantly because they are right. They are right to think they wish they had what comes so easily to us, to wish that they had a partner with which they could so easily converse, because, like us, this would make thier relationships valid. We are so awesome.
You should hear us. You should hear us speak at length on some foreign film or the worth of trail mix. On turning the life of Ashlee Simpson into a musical. On how easy it would be to sneak cocaine past security at the airport. About how neither of us does cocaine. It doesn't matter much, we're always just the same. Perfect stresses on syllables, lavishly peppering sentances with slightly archaic adjectives, mixing million dollar words with artfully placed modern profanity. The occasional laugh to mark the moment when one of us has indeed outdone the other, when the topic will have to change.

While there is daylight there is this. When there are still beers on the bar. When the crowd is still mingling around us in anticipation of what we'll say next. When I have not yet pressed my lips into the crook of his neck to make him speechless. When he has yet to place his palm under my t-shirt onto the bare skin of my back.

Here I have no words. I can never find any that seem quite right, seem as perfect. and caught in my throat, I let the ones I'd like to say mingle with those I never could and none of them come; I relent to listening to his halted breath, feel his hands grip me and wonder what it means and always fail to ask.

In the morning, there is daylight again, and blinking, yawning.


He says it in a way that does not have the gentle up and down of a smile, but this sort of pregnant defeat. as if he wishes not to speak it. I too would like to say something else.




[midday thought, bells toll over downtown]

In your perfect world of
perfect histories, bright futures,
your success seems mutable, shareable.
You've fought for little and
see no fight in me,
not the screaming rediculous
lusty will of venge seeking:
gently petting reason through repitition,
stroking idea,
laying some kind of self
serving foundation
broken I will be left with those I betrayed
you who I have so gallantly served,
will likely be
so gleefully absent.

Sunday Morning Bulge Breakfast

Ahhh...Sunday. Sunday means breakfast with the girls, our gay friends, and whoever was in bed with us when we wake up. Happy fucking Sunday.

Since Saturday saw copius amounts of whiskey drinking into the early hours of the morning @ 418 Pierce (Quinn and Krissy's house), This particular Sunday was quite the breakfast to behold. Plans were made. Troops were rallied. Eggs were wanted. Bulges were seen.

Wait...what was that?

Oh, yeah. Right. I s'pose I should explain.

So it starts when were all still waiting for a seven-top at the smallest breakfast joint in Lower Haight, and Quinn excuses himself to answer a phone call. As soon as he's out of earshot, James comes running across the sidewalk with something seemingly very important to say.

James: Omigod!! Miranda!! What the hell!! Quinn's Penis is fucking HUGE! Dude, I swear I can map out the veins on that thing through his frikken pants!
Me: Dude! He's gonna hear you!
Joe: Okay, Miranda, no offense to James or anything, because clearly Quinn is both straight and yours, but DUDE. THAT THING IS STARING AT ME.
Me: Okay, um...yeah. I mean, I know...
Sarah: Okay, I wasn't going to say anything, but I can't fucking look away. I mean, that thing is HAUNTING me. I mean, I'm not trying to stare at Quinn's crotch or anything, but I mean...GIRL...come on...
Kate: Omigod, that one's yours? Dude, you are one lucky fucking girl. No wonder you're smiling this morning.
Mindy: Yeah dude, I mean, you had told me about it, but DUDE. PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO EAT. Has he tried breifs?
Sarah: It's like...stuck in my head! I can't stop thinking about it! OMIGOD IT'S FUCKING REDICULOUS!

and on, and on and on...

And so, as Quinn and I continue to fight over whether or not his best friend should get beat up or not, at least everyone can agree on one thing.
Quinn's bulge makes Sunday breakfast memorable.


"...a rainbow, a unicorn, a frog on my chin and VAG"

Hey kittens. Time for a list.

1. Birthday weekend thwarted by sickness and un- or dis- or whathaveyou loyalty of some of my friends. Furthermore, they made me walk them home which be-latened me for my 4-am rendezvous with Animal Costello a.k.a. Quinn. It sucked dick.
1a. Was almost made better by Johnny's 5-am call for beer back in Lower Haight. I relented, and caught a cab back from the Tenderloin.
1b. Johnny was asleep when I got there, however, rendering me stranded on Peirce and Oak for about half an hour. Finally found another cab home.

2. Woke up in the morning alone, bougt a plane ticket.

3. Quinn, being the good samaritan that he is, took in some crack addict named Ben. Independantly of Quinn, Violet fucked Ben without protection, then let him break into Mindy's house and steal $700 and her wedding band on Halloween.

4. Quinn stopped returning my calls when he found out what happened to all of my girlfriends. Yay.

5. Went to Seattle. It was perfect. Stayed with Sam and Jen, hung with Crystal, Amanda, Hunts, and Peter Smith. Saw Bryan "Omigod, I love you! No wait, that's gross, I don't love you" Kreiger on several occasions. He all but demanded that he be able to eventually cash in on the "3-am Lower Haight Condom Caper Raincheck" in which I was seen running down Haight street in a pair of maroon track pants and Quinn's blue ski jacket to retreive condoms from 525c from 418 P. I am now sure that I accidently promised to have sex with Bry again that night.

6. Barely made my flight back.

7. Was still sick upon return, although Peter Counts still doesn't really seem to care. About anything. I finally had to scream at him to make him at least realize what was going on with Sam. Asked again for a divorce.

8. Ran into Quinn on Haight street last night. He apologized profusely for the Ben incedent. This is particularly funny because:
8a. He had virtually nothing to do with it.
8b. Peter has yet to apologize for my birthday weekend.

9. I finally got over my cold. It went out with a bang, i.e. a day and a half of puking.

10. Posted on my blog, and called Quinn because even George Lucas rested on the seventh day.