"Ass, ass, titty, titty!"

A recap:

"I don't want no part o' yo' tired-ass cunt-ry club, ya freak bitch!"
--Arrested Development

What that is recapping I'm not quite sure, but I did watch some Undeclared on DVD last night--so maybe that's more like a shout out to quality comedies. And to Ron. And to Sleepovers. Oh, speaking of having sleepovers with Ron and watching Arrested Development:

"This is my boyfriend Damien. Of course, I use the term boyfriend loosely as clearly, Damien is a homosexual."
--Sex and the City

Ahh. SATC--the official program of my wives and I. The reason Sam and I used to oft call Jen "Carrie" and Amanda "Charlotte" so they wouldn't feel left out.

I have no idea where this is going, but if you have never heard the song "Ass Ass Titty Titty" (written by fellow Carnie Erica Cryer) then I will gladly sing it for you @ NYCD release party (finally) on Saturday, Apr. 1, 2006. It's @ my house, 891 Post #307--don't bother w/ the buzzer, it doesn't work.

I'll call y'all to confirm tomorrow.

ETA on Jen is now five days. Sweet. When she gets here, she will no doubt note that the topless picture of me in my new header clearly has my ex-boyfriend photoshopped out of it. She's quite familiar with the original--in fact, I think she was the one who took that pic many moons ago in a smoky guitar-laden apartment in Olympia.

I should take this time to point out that the word "Carnie" is much like the word "Dyke". While I can say both, you will most likely have to say "Circus Worker" and "Lesbian". Ha ha. I can also say "Fag", "Nigger", "Cracker", "Honkey", "Oreo", "Coconut", "Slut", "White Power" and "Jew". It is most likely that you cannot.

All my ass, my titty, my other titty, my ass, and my love,

[edit: 4.2.06--Davey sent me this. Listen to this song, then insert the line "Carnies like to work it bitch!" and you'll pretty much have an idea of what "ass ass titty titty" was like. Also imagine me and Erica shaking our frikken asses and titties with an abandon that can only come with Sunday night at the Circus.]


G's and Geniuses

Just so you know, no--I have not broken down--I, Milkshake Moure, will never support MySpace because it is a cheater blog. I have, however, decided to blogroll my homies who, are indeed very pretty, but are not quite cool enough to pick a better platform for all of thier online-time-wasting pursuits.

Don't miss my fellow gang members, Ron and Shaun (Queer Comandeer and Boy Wonder), as well as former associate member David. Lauren and Meir are both homies from Miami, Ed is my oldest friend and his wife Carrie is the awesomest thing since sliced bread and Mr. Plow. Ed and I both went to highscool with Laura. Jeff is an old friend of mine from Sea-Town who has enough sense to have a livejournal.

Update on my goddamn $5:

~PhoenixRising said...
In all my searching, the best I could come up with is here:
The Free Dictionary
Please take a moment to consider definition number 7. While refering to airplanes, we are still talking targets. Plus, if we must, we can stretch out some metaphors, and, I mean really, last time you were at an airport weren't all those planes and runways just symbolic of passes completed? Thus, despite the notion of the passee/passer, I'm saying you get 5$.

But we'll leave this up to Mathisen. :P

March 29, 2006 8:45 PM

I also checked the Urban Dictionary, but it served to be not much more illuminating.

Basically, I totally think that I definitely deserve the $5, because small-amount-of-make-out or no, Mathisen is both a gentleman, and a scholar, which was my initial point when the bet was made. Unless Mathisen says otherwise, I am so getting my money.

Also, My Wife is coming in six days. Shit, I gotta go call her.


Let them eat...um...me.

Davey and I were chatting the other day, and in among conversation of starting a formidable (read: drunken) Wordsmith Revolution, we decided that should there ever be a Wordsmith Olympics, my event would be "Narrative Non-Fiction, 3000-4000".
Indeed the new piece is, true to form, about 3500 words. I have also decided that's too fucking long to post here, but if you want a copy, give me a holler. Also true to form, there are three story lines, two introduced in the beginning and one in the middle. This selection is taken from the introduction of the tertiary story line. Enjoy.

--excerpts from: Cake--

“Hey. There you are. I’ve been missing you for days.”
“Hey baby. Come here.”
We are at the bar. By ‘we’ I mean the boy I am seeing in California and myself, although my new girlfriends are also and most definitely in attendance. They were fun enough for one night, but an appearance by Quinn was the icing on the cake.
“Good to see you. How’s tricks?” His hands are on my waist as he says this, where they should be.
“Not so good. Your Dad keeps calling me. Seriously, I mean, he’s wasting all my daytime minutes. I’m not that good in bed, am I?”
This is how we are. These are the rules so we can keep everything cool. We make jokes about our non-monogamy so that we don’t immediately have to have the talk in which we would be forced to be so. We are sarcastic and trite. We never catch each other off guard, these kinds of things are expected. He will likely retort with something equally funny and seemingly insulting.
“No, you’re not very good at all, but my Mom’s been out of town and you know how that goes. He’ll take whatever he can get.”
I wouldn’t expect anything less. He’s so good at this. Good at this protocol, our old rules, and by ‘our’ I mean my girlfriend and I, the one I moved away from, and I mean all of the rules that we so carefully honed among different regulars at a bar far away. I smile, and he kisses me, and we are perfect. He is perfect—he is cake, and not the crappy grocery store variety, but some kind that must hail from the east coast, some bakery in Jersey, some kind so moist and inviting and wrapped in a half an inch of creamy pink and white buttercream frosting on most every side. He is that corner piece you dream of getting at a birthday party as a little girl. He is the piece with all of those sculpted frosting roses on top in a variety of colors, the ones you pluck from the surface one by one and savor individually. He is that piece that you have sought so long, that you have waited through hours of Pin the Tail on the Donkey and Apple Bobbing for so that when the candles are finally blown out, you can’t help but protect it from anyone else snagging a bite. He is that cake. The best kind. I’m not that girl, not the one who settles. I hate that girl.

“Hey, I have a question.” I say this tentatively.
“What. What’s up?”
We are at our apartment back home. This is before I left, and ‘we’ most definitely means my girlfriend and I. Our apartment is messy and scattered with empty cans of Miller, and she has just crawled out of bed to find me in the living room perched on an ergonomic chair in front of her laptop which sits next to an overflowing ashtray. I am leaving in a couple of weeks. We don’t talk about that often even though the city is beginning to peek into beauty, the winter frost of the streets and of John has given way to sunnier days and many, many more boys. Many of them baby faced.
“You know Jake, right?” Again, I am tentative.
“Course I do, he was over last night.”
“His real name is Jonathan. Did you know that? Jake is an old English nickname for Jonathan, but as Americans, we often name boys Jake. But it’s lame, it’s like naming a boy Greg or Bob. I never knew that.”
“Why are you telling me this? I don’t get it. Let me make some fucking coffee. Want one?”
“Yeah.” I did. Mine was already gone.
“Wait. What’s wrong with naming a boy Greg?”
“You can’t do that. It’s short for Gregory.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I wouldn’t name my son Rick or something.” See, she is not the only one who’s always right. Sometimes it is me, too.
“So Jonathan…”
“Are we calling him Jonathan now?” She is sarcastic and smiling. It’s cool, were just like that. We know the rules.
“No, just me. Just I call him that. Anyway, so Jonathan. How bad would it be if, you know; how bad would it be if I slept with him?”
“He’s John’s bandmate. That’s probably not kosher. But it depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On whether or not you already have.”
She sets a cup of black coffee in front of me. I’m sitting at the bar that separates our living room and the kitchen. She has an elbow on the counter, her chin in her palm; she is meeting my gaze fiercely. I hadn’t expected this kind of intensity from her as soon as she woke up.
“He left twenty minutes ago.”
She looks at me and we both know that I am that girl.
But I’m not really a heartbreaker. It wasn’t like that, it’s just that Jonathan was cake. He was that kind so rich and forbidden, the kind you can’t help but order after an expensive meal at a restaurant you wore high heels to. He is that kind that is deceivingly bitter-sweet and doused in liqueur and served with some crimson fruity compote dressed across the top. He is the kind so thick with imported chocolate, so perfect on your tongue; the kind that isn’t completely savored until you’ve lit a cigarette when it’s over. What I mean is that he was worth it. He is still worth it. Everything’s cool, you know? Friendly; but not casual. We are intensely close friends. Even now. Even before that. Maybe forever. I had to have it.

[update on my goddamn $5--Ron agrees with me that there is no pass without expressed intent of deal sealing, although, this one may very well go to Counts who is quick to point out that a pass is defined in the eyes of the pass-er, not the pass-ee. So, in the end, Mathisen will have to decide. According to the rules, that is.]

All my love and buttercream frosting,


"We can rebuild him; we have the technology."

"You hang out with that girl Karen Kelly?"
"But she does it."
"Does what?"
"She fornicates it."
--Freaks and Geeks

First, Lets Recap:

Nick said...

I found your wallet. And you owe Counts $5, because I totally made a pass on you. You just didn't catch it.

March 26, 2006 9:42 PM

~PhoenixRising said...


March 27, 2006 8:25 AM

Now before blogs, again in the long long ago, we had not comments but quotes. Enter me and Sam's old quote log: this is just a notebook I have that we wrote down all the funny stuff people said at our old apartment. You see, although some context is given, they're almost funnier when taken out of context, much like Gary Bojangles, another (not my own) delightful list of quotes from some biology students at Shorewood High several years ago. Also, check out the Eat This Massive Lexicon Archives if this kind of thing makes you giggle. Oh, I miss my old gang. Anyway, enjoy.

"We put penises in our mouths—why are we supposed to be worried about using other people's toothbrushes?" --Miranda to Sam

"The 'H' stands for hard." --Sam to Miranda in ref. to Jon "Flaccid Pants" Sparks.

"Googleability." --Jen to Miranda in ref. to sleeping with famous people.
Also note: "He's totally googleable" and "keywords".

"Righteous toe!" --Miranda in ref. to RateMyCamelToe.com

"I thought he was gay, but then he was all 'I'm not gay' and I was like: 'What?!?! I thought you were GAY' but I guess he's not gay!" --Sam after making out with Cabbie Mike for a doughnut.

"Dude, you gonna go lace a phat Cornut?" --Gavin talking about god knows what.

"Based on what? Huh? Based on what?" --Some Lesbian to some guy at the Duck that we turned into a drinking game called 'based on what'.

"Did I take care of it? What? There is no pill that will make Eric not freak out!" --Miranda in ref. to The Puker a.k.a. Freak Out.

"A Cornut is gonna be a Cornut. It's not going to be a pussy." --Miranda in ref. to the Cornut or Pussy game. Also note: "NO. That is not how it fucking works. By that definition, a bag of fucking Cornuts is a fucking pussy" --Miranda in ref to Gavin saying that anything with a hole in it is deemed a pussy.

"Maybe if he hadn't flipped out so bad, he could have learned something." --Sam to Miranda in ref. to #32. Also note: "Well, Freak Out is already taken." Sam in ref. to picking a nickname for #32, which we never did.

"At least then you'll know that's it's not your bed that's cursed, just your vagina." --Sam to Miranda in ref. to visiting Miami.

"You're like a straight man's casual sex trial size sample." --Sam to Miranda in ref. to then recent conquests.

"Your mom tastes like a hotdog, Neckface!" --Crystal during our Neckface phase.

"Yeah, but it's not time to get up in Spanish." --RCU to Miranda half asleep trying to rationalize why he could hit the snooze button one more time. Also note: "It's very confusing, isn't it? You see Miranda, you and I have to move to a different time zone. The Spaniards are of no use to us here. Maybe we should try Hawaii."

"Miranda Gillanders! Hahahahahaha!" --Sam to Miranda in ref. to Miranda taking her ex's last name.

"80's Pirate is the best sex game ever!" --Sam to Miranda in ref. to her discarded accessories and clothing all over the apartment.

"No Road Cone Man! Get your arm off Window Man! He's got a girlfriend!" --Miranda about looking at pictures of Ian and Bike Josh on the internet.

"What? The Chi-Mo staircase?" --Davey in ref. to the Chi-Mo staircase down the street, and the game that is much like 'Cornut or Pussy' but is called 'Chi-Mo staircase or Chi-Mo Robot'.

"Hottie McHotpants is definitely a potential Freak Out." --Jen to Miranda in ref. to whether she should pursue some guy.

"So I'm thinking like, yes you do know him, I was just looking at pictures of you guys together on the internet." --Miranda to Sam about Bike Josh and Ian two weeks later when Josh said he didn't know Ian.

"Caution! Falling magnets!" --Sam to Miranda about the refrigerator.

"I just hurt myself with my gun." --Sam to Miranda about amazingly enough, exactly that.

"Chin Irish or Pube Irish." --Miranda in ref. to yet another variation on the Cornut or Pussy game.

"I mean, that's cool that his name is Rex, but it should be short for something…like Disrexia." --Sam to Miranda in ref. to Rex Thomas.

"Boo-Ya! Let's go to the Library!" --Miranda in ref. to breaking the ashtray on the deck and sleeping with Woody.

and finally…

"Wait…what do we call it again when we don't wear pants?" --Miranda to Sam in ref. to the game 'Pants Rebellion'.

So there you go. By writing all this stuff down, you are, if you are like me and keep all of your old notebooks, forced to remember it for ever and ever. Even if some guy puked off of your deck after you had sex with him, or some other guy gave you scabies. Even if Mark is nonsensical and talking in his sleep. Even if it means admitting that apparently, you and your girlfriends think about things differently than everyone else in the world.

Eight days and counting. I can't wait till my Wife gets here. I'll even move my laptop to my desk so we can have a sleepover. Fuck—that means I have to clean my desk. Miranda is a messy wordsmith.
The matter of the $5 is still in debate, however. The result is infringing upon the meaning of "pass", what "it" is, and if so, who's pass that was to offer, because if that's a pass, then I still win, because that one was mine. The point is, I am, for the first time in a long time, adding to the quote log:
"That's not a pass! It only counts if made with the intention of deal sealing!" --Miranda to Counts in ref. to getting her goddamn $5.
This also serves as a prelude to a forthcoming post. May Cake help us all.


Sexual History Barbeque

Let me explain to you all the idea of the Sexual History Barbeque coined by Sam, Jen and I over a year ago:

1. You get together with your girlfriends, lists in hand, and each pick ten people you slept with that you can still stand being around.
2. You invite them all to a barbeque.
3. You watch hilarity ensue.
4. You somehow use this experience to 'grow as a person' or something.

Now, we never actually did this, but there was the night of my going away party at the Duck whan there were in attendance, 12 people I had slept with. Jen still laughs about that.

Anyway, I'm finally starting to get to my point.
Wait, hold on, let me tell this other story first.

So one of the people at my going away party was Theodore. Now, one time, in the long long ago, I was at the duck with Sam and Gavin and Ben Greedy and etc. and as Ben and Gavin were leaving, Sam said something to the effect of "Miranda's husband in San Francisco". Ben was like, "What? Omigod, what? Oh fuck, Ted's gonna be pissed." And I was like "Who the fuck is Ted?" and he was like "That guy you kissed here last week". Oops. I still don't remember that happening. Anyway, like a month later I'm at the Cha Cha with the Carnies and I see this rediculously hot guy sitting at the bar. So I sit next to him, order a whiskey diet, and yada yada yada, we end up in his bedroom. So were sitting there and he's like "I really like you're tatoos" and I'm like "Thanks" and he's like "Omigod, I know this girl that my bandmate has a huge crush on that has the exact same Soul Coughing tattoo you have. Isn't that weird?" and I was like, "That's not weird, that's Samantha, my best friend" and he was like "Oh my god...YOU'RE THAT MIRANDA?"

Yup. That's me. And that was Ted Greedie of the Greedie$. The point of this story is that not only had we made out a month previous and not realized it, but that the city was getting so small that we could be running into people we had slept with even in the darkest most scenestery parts of Capital Hill.

The point is...wait. Hold on. Let me tell this story too.

Speaking of Ted Greedie, The San Franciscans never believe me about my history of having a penchant for musicians, because I have supposedly sworn them off. In SF, I have only relapsed twice--Sean and Zane. That's pretty good for an entire year. Let's recap on my illustrious past from Seattle:
Out of the 16 musicians I have slept with, 12 were in bands, 4 singer songwriters. Of the 12, 3 were lead singers, 5 were drummers, 2 were guitarists (no vocals), 1 bassist and 1 sound guy. Two of these were in the same band. Oops.

Anyway. The point. um...wait. Hold on, one more.

I was hanging out with my little brother and Jess the other night and Anderson came to meet us. Aaron was like "Damn Miranda, I don't know how you do that. You hang out with your exes all the time. How do you do that? Why do you do that?" Yeah, I don't know. I just do. It's easy, you know? It's like--okay, we went out or we had sex. That part is probably over for whatever reason, but whatever. Let's drink beer, and get wasted, and I can do things like pick my nose and change in front of you 'cause I mean...we've done it. Also, in the abscence of Ed, Meir and Peter Smith, I am allowed to hold your hand in public, let you buy me drinks, and hug you whenever I feel that neccesary. I can also tell you when you need a hair cut, and what jeans to wear. Those are the rules. I need boys like that.

Okay. Really. The point is...

Fuck. The point is that Jen is coming to help me sort this whole thing out.
Nine days and counting.


"I've fallen and I can't get up!"

So, Thursday night was David Rayner's final going away party at Lucid, and what do I do? Sprain my ankle. Weak.
Anyway, after being stuck in my house for two days, I finally had a little romp around the neighborhood last night.

It was me, Counts, Kristin, Mathisen, Boy Wonder a.k.a. Shaun (not to be confused with Sean Olmstead), Claudia, and the allmighty Queer Comandeer a.k.a. Ron. I remember pretty much everything, but some things are still unclear, like:

*who found my wallet
*how to say beast in pig latin
*exactly who is on the dialed call log on my cell phone
*exactly where my cellphone is
*where my $5 from Counts is for winning the bet that Mathisen wouldn't make a pass on me (he's a perfect gentleman, as Davey would say: "...everything you're looking for in a boy.")
*why I was up so late
*why there's Guinness on my kitchen floor
*where Ron went
*why girls wet beds
*why Sean can't be more like Shaun
*exactly why Shaun is so determined to be anything but American (meaning he speaks with a British accent and claims to be Italian)
*why I would want Sean to speak in a British accent and claim to be Italian.

Hmmm...I think that's it. For now.


Best of Craig's List

Two *TACO BELL* spicy chicken burrito **FREE** (financial district)

Reply to: sale-144607796@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-23, 1:49PM PST

I have two spicy chicken burrito from taco bell
i m too full to finish these
if someone want these shoot me an email, they should still be good for you to heat up in the microwave in the next hour or two

I work in Embercadero 2

to: sale-144607796@craigslist.org
from: satteliteseattleite@Gmail.com
date: 2006-03-23, 2:14 PST

Dude, I really really really want your burritos. call me @ 415.370.0825.
My name’s Miranda. I totally want your burritos bad.

incoming call from: 415.861.8032 to 415.370.0825 @ 3:27 PST

“This is Milkshake”
“Uhh…is Miranda there?”
“Right. This is her.”
“Okay, yeah, well if you want these burritos, you should come get them at my work. I work at the Slanted Door in the ferry building. My name’s Eduardo; I’m a server. You’ll see me.”
“Okay. Great, ‘cause like, I’m pretty hungry, you know? Do you think these burritos will fill me up?”
“You know, because I’m pretty hungry. I mean, I haven’t eaten yet today ‘cause I’ve been all-kindsa busy and stuff, I mean, I’m pretty much looking for a meal. Are the burritos pretty big?”
“What? Dude, just come get the burritos.”
“Oh, also: I’m allergic to milk proteins and can’t have any dairy. Is there cheese on them?”
“Okay, listen. I’m and work and can’t really talk. Just come get my burritos, okay? I’ll be here for two more hours.”
“Okay cool. But real quick—are they wrapped in a whole wheat or a white tortilla? Is there refined sugar in the sauce that’s on the burritos?”
“Seriously. I really gotta go.”
“Okay fine. I’ll come down in an hour.”

Two FREE spicy chicken burritos—TOTALLY FREE!! (downtown/civic/van ness)

Reply to: satteliteseattleite@gmail.com
Date: 2006-03-23, 5:19PM PST

I got these burritos today from a guy off Craig’s list but I can’t eat them ‘cause I don’t eat refined grains, dairy, refined sugar or fast food.
They smell super yummy though!
Also if you have a tuna sandwich or a salad or something that’d be awesome ‘cause I’m pretty hungry. If you make me a sandwich, please use rye because all other kinds of bread have dairy product in them. I also don’t want mayonaisse and like extra tomatoes.
E-mail me back and I’ll give you these burritos. They’re pretty big, and they’re probably still good.


When I said Play Me, I meant in a good way.

Oh my god. A year's worth of work wasted.

I thought I was totally cured, you know? I haven't been given so much as a shiver from not one guitar-toting-black-glasses-wearing-emaciated-pretty-boy in god knows how long--but this one. Goddamnit.

It's always like this, it's like, "Oh look! Sean and Miranda are friends! Watch them Merrily drink beer together! Tra-la-la-la-la!" and then next thing you know it's like, "Oh! Look how well Miranda's errant thong matches the carpet in Sean's room! Wow! They have jungle fever! Excellent!" except not so excellent.

Let me explain to you all my head right now:
Sex=bad=complicated=ruins friendships. So, I tried to lay it all out, dig? Well, Sean didn't. I have taken some licenses with this conversation (drank far too much whiskey), but it was something like this:

"Hey Sean, this seems a little unnecessary, maybe we shouldn't do this."
"What! Why?"
"I mean, well, if we don't do this it wouldn't be like...complicated."
"Okay. But if we do do this, it would be like...fun."
"Yeah, thanks for that Sean. You're totally right! I was totally unaware of that!"
"Shut up. Fuck me."
"Fine. Put your guitar away."



"I just slept with the flying guy. Score."

Ahhhh...what a beautiful Saturday. The sun is out, the birds are chirping...and TAL was awesome.

Now, I have a few hours to hang out at the coffee shop downstairs, a few hours for an uber groom, and then I'm going to GO GET REALLY FUCKED UP. I don't have to be on the floor tomorrow, just a bunch of paperwork my manager has flaked on, so that means that I'M GONNA DRINK MYSELF SILLY.

Who's with me? Mathisen?

I've already recruited the allmighty Queer Comandeer, and Sarah with her bevy of friends from San Diego currently in town will, most likely, be down.
Current plan of attack? Pops. Yes, Pops on 24th. I hope they have enough Hamm's in stock, 'cause I'm gonna need about 30.

[That's what I was thinking!]

Um...[insert something important here] and that's all.



According to the TAL website, one of my favorite episodes of This American Life is airing this weekend. San Franciscans can listen on NPR, Saturday at noon or on San Francisco Public Radio Sunday at one. Seattleites (as I fondly remember from Saturday mornings in Sam and I's old apartment) can catch it on NPR at 11:00AM.

The point?

I suppose there are many. Time for a you-know-what.

1. Just the thought of gaining the power of flight or invisibility sounds awesome. Of the many times that I've flip-flopped on which one I would choose, I've decided that I would just be lucky to be gifted either one.

2. I remember Sam and I debating this so many times. It even became a popular discussion at the bar to try and wean ourselves off such un-bar-worthy topics such as religion and politics.

3. Speaking of politics at bars: please, for the love of god, don't ever do this. It leads to bad things. This is how I started dating John, as I met him in a seriously drunken haze at the Duck on the night of the last presidential election. As soon as I realized Bush was probably going to win, that's when I started pounding Lagunitas and making out with the lead singer of a frikken' edu-metal band. Oh my god.

4. I wish I had heard this when I was about twelve. That way, I could have modeled the rest of my life around becoming like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You'll know more what this means when you hear it.

5. I first heard this episode on Huntsman's laptop, when I was first introduced to the fact that you can stream any episode ever off of thier website. This practice has been the bane of my existance ever since.

Please do yourself a favor and listen this weekend. That being said, NYCD release party has been rescheduled again. We're trying to figure out a time when Sarah and Aaron and Jess can all come. Maybe next Monday or Wednesday?



For Ron--Why I Might Not Go Out Tonight

Things I Said to All My Exes All The Time When They Would Call Me

By: Miranda Moure

“But it’s three in the morning…okay, I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

“It’s raining out and…you’re right, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

“I really think we should break up, but on the other hand it shouldn’t take me longer than fifteen or twenty minutes to get over to your house.”

“Well, it’ll only take me like twenty minutes. What? Fine, time me then asshole.”


It's official, I'm homesick. I know because I took an online quiz (read: %100 accurate).

You Are Miami

Sexy and beautiful, you turn heads wherever you go.
A little spicy and a little exotic, you're fully aware of your unique appeal.
Totally high energy, you keep the party going early into the morning.

Famous Miami residents: Anna Kournikova, OJ Simpson, Enrique Iglesias


For Thao--My Favorite Things

“I don’t remember it being this hard.” I don’t. I don’t remember it being like this.
“Wow, you are really pushing it with that one. You have to be kidding me. I mean—I remember waking up in the middle of the night to you sniffling and trying to sleep. You know when you cry so hard you’re shaking? Yeah—you had a really squeaky mattress back then.”
She’s right, it was really squeaky, but I only remember that happening once, maybe twice. It was different though—it was one of those cathartic break-ups where you’re glad to be crying, glad to be free. Excited about the opportunity to find something better or many, many things that don’t matter.
“I really don’t. I mean I cried…”
“A lot. You cried a lot.”
“Yeah, I did. But it was different; it was like…look, I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”
“Do it. With as many people as possible. Just do it.”
I want so badly to take this advice, to dive right back in and regain the ability to place some boy in my bed using little more than the curve of my brow and the choreography of my eyelashes. I miss this; miss the glance and the chase, the sense of control, the methodical way in which they’re chosen and acquired. I miss the way they quiver under my command.
“I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can, I’ve seen you. You’ve seen you, and furthermore, you want to.”
“No, I don’t. What I want is…well…” I can’t even say this out loud. It’s so cruel—it’s cruel to her. She’ll have to deal with it just as much as me if I get what I want. She’s the one who will bear the load of my frustration if I fall back down that path.
“Oh my fucking God, no. Don’t say what I think you’re about to.”
“I do. I really do. I want to call him. See him again.” She is so beautiful, and possibly more so when she’s angry at me.
“What the fuck! Why this? Why this all the time? Let’s…you know what? Let’s do this. Let’s just think about, for two fucking seconds, what round three might actually be like. Just for two seconds. Can we do this? Can we do this for me? I mean, why are you always back here? It doesn’t make sense anymore. Furthermore, he doesn’t make sense anymore so I don’t even know why we’re talking about this.”
It pisses me off when she’s right.
“Look, I know. I know all of that, but maybe I did something wrong? Maybe I wasn’t clear and now I’ll never…”
“You’ll never call me again if it’s going to be like before. I can’t handle this shit anymore.”
“What I was saying is that I’ll never know. I’ll never know because everything I decided about him was a series of educated guesses.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he was never very open with me.”
“And why did we stop seeing him again?”
“Because he was not very op…you know, there was other stuff. There was good stuff too, and not just the sex.”
“Welcome to adulthood sweetie. It’s not always going to be like in eighth grade when he puts gum in your hair and you don’t like him anymore. You’re 25. You’re going to break up with people you like sometimes. Like a lot. Love.”
“But it really, really sucks.”
“Yes it does.”
“No, I mean, it really sucks. I mean, I don’t even know…I don’t know if I should have. I think I was wrong.”
“You said that last time.”
I had. I had said that exact thing before, and at all of the little events in between when he’d piss me off and yet find some way to get me naked again.
“Look, I know. I know I can’t expect things to ever be different, It’s just that I don’t care. Even that was better than this. It was better.”
“Yeah, but tomorrow will be better than today.”
“This is so stupid! Don’t do this, don’t even try. You know he’s not right for you, how many times is it going to take to make this clear?”
She’s right. She’s always right—but I’m getting to the point where I can’t afford my new martini habit and need some kind of better solution.
“Maybe I wasn’t accommodating enough. Maybe I expected too much.”
“What? You wish you were more accommodating? What more could you have done? I mean, in order to make this better you’d have to live in his closet and be ready to suck his fucking dick and do his dishes at a moments notice. It’s never going to work. Goddamnit! I mean, c’mon, this situation does not make you happy! You’ve said that to me more times than you could count and I heard you, why can’t you hear me?”
I fucking hate her when she thinks it’s all somehow that easy. I fucking hate that. I just fucking want everything to be like I saw it in my head and I’m pissed and torn that I can’t have that, and I still don’t quite understand why.
“He wont sacrifice anything. Ever. I hate that—but maybe I could be…”
“C’mon. What are you willing to give up really? Everything you’ve ever wanted, your dignity, your sanity—I mean think about it—you wouldn’t even really be willing to share your bed with him, and you expect him to give up his bachelorhood for you?”
“You’re right. I’m not good enough for that. Wait…what do you mean I wouldn’t share my bed with him? Yes I would! That’s all I ever wanted, that and…you know, all the other stuff that is supposed to go with that.”
“You’re not good enough? You know what, I’m not even going there. Not even touching that. The point is—you know you wouldn’t—you know you’d hate it if he was the one in your space, I mean…”
“No I wouldn’t, I fucking wouldn’t! All I ever wanted, all I want is the opportunity to share…”
“Oh yeah? You wouldn’t mind at all? You sure about that?”
“Yeah! I’m fucking sure!”
“Oh really? Then tell me, if this boy was in your bathroom and using your coffee maker and sleeping in your bed then you tell me…”
“Tell me. If half your bed was his, then where the fuck would you put this? How pissed off would you be if this was not the first thing you held in the morning?”
I hate how she holds it. Like it’s some kind of plaything. It’s beautiful and fragile, 12”x10”, an inch and a quarter thick, and a luminous white that is so much prettier than the boyish titanium of the other models. It holds everything I know, everything I really love.
“It’d be okay. I could handle it.”
“No. No you couldn’t, and no one expects you to. Here…”
Take your fucking laptop back.”



Word to Your Mac

Let me explain something to you guys about Microsoft Word for Mac.

If you copy something from one program (let's just say...like Safari or something, like maybe you're copying your blog), and paste it into Word for Mac, all of the original file information (like formating, font and font color...) will be FOREVER SAVED INTO THAT FILE even if you change it. Then, sometimes, the STUPID AUTO FORMATTING will revert it back to the original way that it was before you changed it.

The point? The point is that the font color on my old blog template was white. WHITE. Compiling NYCD taught me a very powerful lesson about what people have to go through to have the cutest computer in the coffee shop. Also, as blinged out as my old template was, it's 'bout time for a change.

So I hope you guys enjoy.

Oh, and don't expect a bunch of new pieces anytime soon, I tend to take some time off every year after finishing NYCD. My brain hurts.


It's done.

New Year's CD 2006 is done.

It just needs to be replicated, bound, and sent to all corners of the country. Yay.

San Franciscans--NYCD release party will be a week from today, at my place, 891 Post #307. That means that Wednesday, March 15th @ 10:00, all of your dreams will come true. Nicholas, I expect you there.

Finally. Man, this is the best NYCD ever.


Against Me!

I have zero to Jen's five hot sex stories.

Davey wholeheartedly promises that I'll get my mojo back.

I got a note from Nick touting he's hoping I get laid.

My girlfriends are taking me out tonight to oggle hot ex-cons.

No really guys, I am fucking serious. I AM NOT HAVING SEX. EVER AGAIN. You don't have to try so hard to convince me otherwise.

But really though, take off that 'ever again' part and you have the honest to god truth. What, you think pretty boys and girls aren't glancing my way? They do everytime I leave the house (which, yes you're right, is not that often). Why I don't look back? Because all of them fucking make me sick. They are all fucking retarded (save one, but I think we've already been over that).

addendum to now ongoing new years resolution list:
9. I will not start sentances with the word 'because'.