525,600 minutes: For Davey on my blogoversary


Miranda: "Okay, so...hold on. Let me get this."

Samantha: "Get what?"

M: "The fucking instructions."

S: "How hard can this fucking be? C'mon, I mean, put it on, pull it off. Done."

M: "Dude. It can't be that easy. Just..."

S: "Just do it."

M: "No dude. Just let me read the goddamn directions. Kay, first you have to remove the oil from the area."

S: "What? What does that even mean?"

M: "That means you have to take this fucking cotton ball, put some alcohol on it and clean the surface first. Trust me, you wanna get this right the first time. It's gonna hurt."

S: "It doesn't hurt."

M: "Are you kidding me? How can it not hurt? You're pulling several hairs at a time out of your skin. That sounds like something that hurts."

S: "You know what I mean. I mean, it only hurts like a tattoo or something; like, you can handle it. Plus there's like magic fucking rainforest crap in this stuff that makes it hurt less than that other shit you get at Bartell's."

M: "Fine. Ready?"

S: "Yeah."

M: Okay. So...now use the applicator to spread an even thin layer of the product in the direction of hair growth."

S: "You're right. This is hella hard."

M: "You know what? Just shut the fuck up and take this fucking tounge depressor."

S: "Damn. Okay, okay. Chill. How much do you put on?"

M: "Well, it says 'an even thin layer', so I'm guessing that's how much you put on."

S: "You know what? You're being a fucking bitch. I'm just saying that something like that can be interpreted many ways, okay? I'm just wondering..."

M: "Fine, whatever, Just do it, and then take this piece of linen."

S: "Kay. Got it."

M: "Dude hold this for a sec."

S: "Hold on, I gotta pull this off."

M: "Wait! No! We'll do it together, I can't do this by myself!"

S: "Damn, okay. Just...wait...okay. Got it. Just put your strip on. You have to press it firmly."

M: "Oh really? How 'firm' should I be with it?"

S: "Shut the fuck up and take the directions back."

M: "Fine. Ready?

S: "Wait...'kay. Ready."

M: "Allright, on three. One, two..."

*The sounds of two women screaming in unbeleivable pain echo through the tiny bathroom. They are both shaking thier fists and screeching, hairy pieces of wax covered linen dangling from thier clenched fingers.*

M: "Oh my fucking god."

S: "Yeah, I can't do that to myself again."

M: "Well, what are we fucking going to do? We have to finish now! It's gonna be all lopsided."

S: "Well, it won't be that bad. We can just shave the rest, right?"

M: No. We can't just shave the rest, it's gonna look weird.

S: "Well, I'm not fucking doing that again."

M: "Okay, wait. Wait, wait. What if I do you, and you do me? We'll trade off. And just do it quick. Like a band-aid."

S: "That is one sadistic fucking band-aid."

M: "C'mon, what else are we gonna do? We're meeting all those kids at the bar in an hour and a half, and we've just started grooming. We gotta do this, c'mon."

S: "Fine. But I'm just putting this out there that I would only do this for you. And that I'm doing you first."

M: "Fine. Whatever. Let's just get this done."

S: "Fine. But I'm totally not doing my legs after this."

[Davey, I think I know what love is now. --M]


Young, Dumb, and Full of Cum

Thanks for meeting me here today.
Yes, of course.

So, first off, you go by ‘m moure’. I’ll note that you never capitalize your name and rarely place a period after your first initial. Is there something to this?
Yes, there is. That’s my name.

You’re saying that is says “m moure” on your birth certificate? I’ve been informed that this is a nom de plume.
Actually, my birth certificate reads “Miranda Terese Myricks.” It also says however, that I don’t have a father but clearly there was some sort of sperm involved in my conception. I wouldn’t put too much stock in my birth certificate, passport or drivers license. That being said, I don’t speak French.

Right. Okay. So you’re a very talented writer.
Yes. I am. Oh yeah, thank you.

And apparently confident as well.
No, not really. My only real talent lies in my proclivity for growth and knowledge of English words. Did you know the word ‘proclivity’ comes from the same latin root as the word ‘clitoris’?

I didn’t know that.
Yeah, it’s totally true. I remember that from Mrs. Nottingham’s class in sixth grade. Some vocabulary assignment. Oh, and also, I have a photographic memory.

No. Not really.

Oh, okay.
Ha ha! Just kidding. I really do.

Right. So you seem to write predominately about your sex life.
Yes. It creeps in. Ha ha! You were just all like—‘speaking of clitoris…’

Yes. Well, I pride myself on being ‘all like’ many things. How do you think your audiences appreciate this? Your partners?
My audiences? Are you kidding me? No really, is that question some kind of joke?

It was not intended as one, no.
Right, okay. Well, as one might have guessed, my audience is pretty stoked. I mean, dude--they’re the ones who get to hear about some girl nailing like, a whole bunch of dudes. I appear vulnerable and easy. People like that. My partners generally never find out, however.

Are you sure about that?
Well, one of them found out. A couple of them I told. One I never wrote about ‘cause he was a writer too—it just didn’t feel right.

No, I mean, are you sure that everyone is as ‘stoked’ as you say?
Did you know that ‘acclivity’ and ‘declivity’ also come from the same root as the word ‘clitoris’?

I didn’t know that. Are you avoiding the question?
This is some seriously hard-hitting journalism. There is actually no ‘urinal’ in that word, but I like to add the extra ‘i’ for shits and giggles. You know what I mean?

Speaking of urinals, you’re writing seems to be going downhill lately.
You’ve followed my work? Whoa. I barely do that, and I have a photographic memory. And it’s my work.

You have no intention to go anywhere near this line of questioning, do you?
Sorry, I’m not good at stuff like this ‘cause I was born a couple of days before Halloween. During an eclipse. On a Wednesday. As they say, ‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe.’ To answer your question…wait, what was the question?

I thought you had a photographic memory.
Ha ha! Gotcha again. You asked me if I was going to go anywhere near this line of questioning. Hey dude, do you know what the word ‘filibuster’ means? Oh my god, this one time, true story, my friend Sally when she was like ten, she wrote this song to the tune of the old Sprite commercial; remember that? It was all, ‘I like the Sprite in you’? Yeah anyway, so hers was ‘I like the sperm in you’. She taught it to me; it goes: I like the way you make me pump, I like the horny things you do…

Really. That’s enough.
Right. You know what that word means though, right?

Yeah, me too.

Right. So who do you consider your inspiration?
Didn’t we go over this? All the dudes I bang.

I meant more like your contemporaries. Other writers.
Yeah, some of them were writers.

I thought you didn’t write about that one.
Ahhhh…right. Fool me twice…shame on…uh, whatever. Can’t you just do this yourself? I’m getting confused. And bored.

No. I can’t--that’s what the word ‘interview’ means—‘inter’ coming from the latin root meaning ‘between two’. Two. Not one.
You just kinda made that up, didn’t you?

That was dope. You should be a writer.

I am a writer. I’m a journalist.
Don’t you mean jur-i-nal-ist?

Right. Well, if you were a writer, then I could say that you inspire me. Or do me. Or whatever. I mean, I guess you don’t have to do me.

That’s right, isn’t it? I heard you weren’t ‘doing’ much of anyone right now.
That’s a dirty fucking lie.

Oh really? Then why is your writing suffering? Who was the last person you slept with?
I don’t really call that sleeping.

Come on.
Fine. There was a boy. He was pretty and witty. Then we talked about trail mix and then I freaked out. Then I cried and lost a bunch of weight. I haven’t seen him since and am self conscious about how thin I am and don’t want anyone to see me naked. Fine there you go.

Trail mix?
Yes. It’s my biggest pet peeve.

I believe you wrote about this in a piece called ‘Good on Paper’.
The trail mix, yes.

And that he wasn’t right for you. Said ‘pretty and witty’ boy, I mean.
Oh yeah, right. I guess that yeah, I wrote that.

Again, I thought you had a photographic memory.
I guess it doesn’t work when it comes to him. I can never seem to remember all the bad stuff, only the way he looked when he wakes up in the morning and the way his neck smells next to his jaw and the way he’d say my name.

Did he call you m moure?
Of course not. He called me Miranda. Or kiddo. Or baby. Clifford called me kitten. I liked that.

My wordsmith ex. The one I never wrote about.

Right. Anyone new on the horizon? New inspiration?
Yes. Kind of.

And who is this?
Well, they don’t call him m moure, that’s for sure.

Then what do they call him?
Funny you should ask that.

Why is that so funny?
Because you think that I would answer. I would never jinx something so awesome like that. Nothing’s even happened…exactly. Well, not really that much for a long time. But it’s different now, it’s easy and good and friendly, and I don’t want to mess this up for no good reason. I mean, it’s like, if I spew, and he bails, then it was never meant to be, you know? I mean, he’s a really good kisser. And he’s tall.

How tall?
Like, six-five.

I always wish I were taller. Tall men always seem to carry themselves with a certain jois de vive, know what I mean?
Not really. I still don’t speak French. Oooh!! Wait! I take that back. You know what ‘menage a trios’ means?

Yeah, me too.



You know that feeling when you're digging in your pockets--maybe at the checkout stand or a public restroom--and you hear something fall out and hit the ground but you have no idea what it was or where it is now and you're standing there staring at the floor twirling in place looking for it and you still can't find it and there are sevgeral people waiting for you to hurry up and find it and move?


Oh. Allright then.

One more thing--
Midst casual sex sabbatical, I've come to the realization that I might be very, very scared of boys. Maybe. On any account, there is a boy that likes me and I grippa like him but for some reason I can't just holla back and he's startin' ta chill.


It’s strange to think
that once I thought
the srangest thing
that one could do
was eat a pear
down to the stem.


[p.s.--Seattleites, for the love of god, don't miss this.]


Updates: Mwuhahahahaha!!!

Ahh...the loin has been full of the laughter of ninjas lately, which makes me happy.

Also, NYCD2006 release party is currently scheduled to coincide with my one year Blogoversary, Thurs Feb 23rd. Floridians, Arizonians and Washingtonians can expect thiers a bit later.

Blogoversary? Yes. Very soon. I can't believe I've had nothing better to do than blog all frikken' year.

Lately much time has been spent in the following pursuits:
1. Writing to the point of nausea.
2. Re-arranging my entire apartment.
3. Organizing, categorizing, labeling and filing ten years of notebooks and photos.
4. Wishing Mark would call me at 3:15 in the morning and ask me what I was doing in an hour.

Later kittens.


"OMG, WTF!!! Meet @ bar 10:30, k?"

Happy 200th!

So apparently after 200 received text messages, my phone will store no more. It seems kind of sad, you know? I mean, I have five months of history in those saved messages! Just think—All the parties I was invited to, the notes from friends when I’m at a loud bar, the SEA-SF alcohol inspired inside jokes…it’s a lot to give up.

So before I hit that all magical ‘delete all’ button, I’ve decided to record a few of my favorites here. From the oldest to the most recent, enjoy.

“Where are you Milkshake?” Violet, 9/17
“Thug on the bus sez’ it’s a big world and I got a big dick, lets both fuck this bitch and steal her money, goddamned SF, I love this shit!” Bryan, 9/19
“I need the whole how to meet bomb girls lesson…” Davey, 9/24
“Roses are red, Violet’s not blue because sugar is sweet but not as sweet as you! I love you Milkshake!” Violet, 10/1
“What you sittin’ on?” Sally, 10/7
“Bling!!!!!” Counts, 10/9
“Ugh! I lost my job, and some hippy hugged me on the train and called me a human. Today I’m doing fuck all blegh yup!” Mindie, 10/12
“Whoa, dude. Rosa Parks just died.” Counts, 10/25
“I just saw an Elephant buy a sausage! Happy Halloween!” James, 10/31
“Lets get naked…drink drink don’t think!” Bryan, 11/3
“Finally heading back to SF!! Miss you, love you!” Sarah, 11/7
“My dearest lover: Oh how I love you. But for real, you’re awesome. Stuck at work, but just wanted to say hi. Oh, and boner.” Davey, 11/11
“These airports fill me full of rage…oh sweet! A bar!” Mindie, 11/19
“Bring chocolate please!” Ron, 12/5
“Beau is here. Just threw some olives at me and called me a cunt.” Mindie, 12/12
“A bunch of alcoholics with great hair: that’s who lives in Lower Haight.” James, 12/15
“Remember strip air hockey? Hahahaha!” Crystal, 12/18
“Merry Christmas! Yay! I’m so blessed to have you as my friend!” Amanda, 12/25
“Be back from Canada ‘round midnight bitches! Molotovs!” Benny, 1/3
“I like the way you make me pump.” Sally, 1/4
“Violet is back and staying at the Hostel. Whore.” Mindie, 1/08
“M—I tried making it out but am having trouble leaving the neighborhood. I hate the rain, wanna see you! Love –Q xoxoxoxo” Quinn, 1/10
“Where’s my new years cd Shanika?” Gavin, 1/18
“You’re just jealous ‘cause I’ve been talkin’ to HOTTT grrrls all day on the net.” Alexis, 1/19
“You know it’s gonna be good!” Crystal, 1/24
“Antiques road show. Fuck yeah! Okay, I’m bored.” Mindie, 1/28
“1 2 3 4, I declare a text war.” James, 2/3