2.21.2006

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.

Really?
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?

Yes.
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?

Yes.
That was dope. You should be a writer.

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

No.
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.

Clifford?
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?

Yes.
Yeah, me too.
--M

4 comments:

charles.bukowski.costanza said...

did you know that the word "whatafuckingramble" shares its latin root with "fanfuckingtabulous"?

i think that's really neat.

Nick said...

eating fried chicken, hoping you get laid, what are you up to?

Thaozee said...

I find sounding like a french person is close enough to speaking french

Queer Comandeer said...

not a big GORP fan, eh?