Yeah, yeah. I know. You're used to reading my blog, and you think you know what it's about.

It's not about that.

What I'm saying today is that sometimes when you feel the most down, the most disenfranchised and the most alone, a little three-way is all you need. I refer, of course, to a three-call; specifically with Samantha and Jennifer.

The topic of conversation today? Oh, you know.

M: "I feel like a fucking moron."
S: "You are a fucking moron."
J: "Hahahaha! Oh wifey."
S: "Come on, I mean, why? That's dumb. And I mean, it's not like it wouldn't have happened eventually anyway."
M: "Tru dat, homes. You're right; I know. But I'm fucking sick of this! Seriously--guys? Seriously. I'm beginning to feel like there's something intrinsically deniable about me."
J: "Hahahahaha!"
S: "Yeah, I second Jen. That's dumb, and you know it."
M: "Well...what about Gabe?"
J: "Gabe? Who the fuck..."
S: "You mean the Rev? The Rev? That was like a grillion years ago."
J: "Omigod...Gabriel? That was like...two years ago."
M: "Yeah, and Gavin still talks about it. It's one of those cult classic stories like...'oh hey guys, member that time when Miranda threw herself at The Rev and got flat out denied?' That's what I'm saying. Witnesses."
J: "They only tell that story 'cause it never happens. They tell it 'cause that was the one time that ever happened."
M: "..."
S: "I got the awesomest couch today."
M: "Really?"
S: "Yeah, it's brown and old and it folds into a bed. It's super hot and awesome. I freakin' love it. Oh, and Ian's being a dick."
J: "What? I thought you guys broke up?"
S: "We did, but also we kind of did it the other night, and now we're broken up plus doing it."
M: "Minus penis."
S+J: "Hahahahaha!"
M: "Wait...so, are you guys going to get back together?"
S: "No. But I'm just not interested in trying to find more sex on the regular. I've had it for so long and now getting different sex seems like too much fucking work."
J: "I hate you. I don't even have sex on the familiar."
M: "I have sex on the familiar, but not very regularly. Also, I think it's too familiar. It's great but..."
J: "There are no fucking buts, Miranda. Just do it. As often as possible."
S: "Yeah dude."
M: "For reals, though. I'm serious. It's like...what if I do find that ever illusive 'sex on the regular', and what if that comes with monogamy? And then what will that conversation sound like when I'm all like 'yeah, we can't do it anymore'. That seems so callous to say to a friend of yours."
S: "Whatever."
J: "You're too sensitive."
M: "Am not."
S: "Are too, are too!"
J: "That's okay--my north node's in Cancer so I feel ya. No really--it's like, okay. First and foremost we're friends. And then we're also doing it. So there's like...no natural end point that isn't callous--like, it might be bad. The two are kind of one in the same and indicitavely callous--like..."
S: "Like whatever."
J: "Right."
M: "Yeah, you guys are totally right."
J: "I need to get laid. But I'm on my fucking period and because and yet despite the fact that Mike and I broke up, we don't do it and finding a doing it buddy seems complicated. I might have to shave. Shaving is fucking dead to me."
M: "Boys are dead to me."
S: "Well, this couch is definitely not dead to me. Oh, but um...Oh! 'Kay--work is dead to me."
M: "Yeah totally. Let's make a list of everything that's dead to us."
J: "Yeah! Like boys who cry in closets and..."
M: "And sleep on bunkbeds and..."
S: "And move to Denver and...
J: "And sleep with other chicks while we're going out and..."
M: "And ask me out for Margaritas via e-mail and..."
S: "Act like children! Yes! All of those things are so dead to me."
J: "Here, here."
M: "Let's do this once a week. Every Thursday."
J: "Thursday's good for me. Sam?"
S: "Yeah totally. At 2:00 or so."
J: "Dope. We can think of more stuff that's dead to us every week."
M: "Solid."
J: "Hey, has anyone talked to Davey?"



Miranda Time

How many times have each of you heard of something beautifully mysterious called "Miranda Time"? A lot? Well, yes. That would make sense. Haven't yet? One day, you will. You will hear me say something like: "Do I have to explain to you about my time and how important that is?" I will oft say this while naked. Specifically if you are still at my house.

Is it so bad though? I mean, I'm not a complete bitch just because I want everything on my time, when I want it, at my convenience, am I?

Fine. I'm a total bitch then.
p.s.--What I mean is that when the Tenderloin caravan is leaving Lower Haight, I'm more than happy to hop in the cab, but when the Lower Haters are leaving the 'Loin? WHAT? You're leaving? BULLSHIT! Furthermore, that also applies to calling Davey at all hours of the night (sorry).


From Lauren: Seattle Pics

Peter Smith

My Wife Jennifer

Gavin and I at the Duck Island Alehouse

Alexis Woody Lopez, Peter Smith and I at Jules Maes

Me at Jules Maes

My Wife Samantha

Yep. And not only the terror of confronting the future, but uncertainty itself. Fear isn't gonna change anything, it's just gonna cost you sleep. We live on a ball of dirt hurtling through space, buses and trucks are everywhere, bird flu may be imminent; every day is an act of faith.

Why is an endorsement of spiritual consciousness by nature smug? "This milkshake tastes great." "Fuck you for praising a milkshake that I don't have!"
--Mike Doughty

Jourinalism at it's finest.

Ms. Moure?
Yes…um, where’s that other guy?

I’m afraid your last conversation with him left somewhat of a bad taste in his mouth. You’ve been re-assigned to me. May I?
You may. Starbucks, like the rest of the world, is a free country.

Right. I thought you were a writer; you are a self proclaimed “wordsmith”, and yet you just said that Starbucks is a country and the entire world is free. Clearly you are unaware of Cuba.
Whatever. I’m so freakin’ hung over. And I wondered why he wanted to meet here. Fucking Starbucks—look at them. They’re fucking retarded. Like look at that barista right there, the one at the bar—he has no concept of call order whatsoever. He just called out a tall-decaf-iced-two-pump-nonfat-mocha.

And he just served an iced-decaf-tall-nonfat-no-whip-two-pump-mocha.

Alan told me of your impeccable memory.
Who the fuck is Alan?

Ha ha. The gentleman from our publication that has interviewed you twice previously. Apparently your memory is not as good as I was told.
Damnit. Now you’ve gone and tried to make me look stupid and are forcing me to admit that I was just trying to avoid that whole topic.

Your memory?

I thought that was just a rumor around the office.
Nope. One hundred percent true.

Doesn’t that strike you as a bit unprofessional?
Dude, I seriously don’t like you. Alan was funny, and wasn’t judgemental. And really good in bed. You strike me as someone who I would never ever sleep with.

Fantastic. Can we move on?

Tell me about David Hodson.
What is this, some kind of tabloid? You are fucking retarded. And goddamnit! That fucking barista just called out a grande-no-foam-nonfat-latte. Goddamnit that is so fucking irritating.

Why would you assume this is some kind of tabloid if I ask about David?
Because that is an inherently boring line of questioning; because you think it’s sensational and it’s not. Davey is my ex-boyfriend’s best friend’s ex-boyfriend.

He’s what?
Oh my god—keep up, please? I dated Matthew a grillion years ago. His best friend is Katie. Katie is Davey’s ex girlfriend. Dig?

And Nicholas Mathisen?
Same deal. There is a string of people involving the three of us.

Samantha Oldfield?
Dude, is this a tabloid or a yearbook? What’s your point.

I’m using a journalistic device to try and bring you to a greater truth. To get the real story.
Yeah, that’s not working. I also think you meant Jour-in-al-istic. Haha.

You know, people want to know. They want to know the end of all of this. Do you think it’s already happened?
No. I don’t think so. It’s too good for the end to have happened.

You’re going to have to spit it out eventually.
Wait…aren’t you going to ask about something important? Recent conquests? Stuff on the horizon? Whether words are real or not? Dude, I miss Alan. You fucking suck at this, and you want to meet at fucking Starbucks. This place irritates the fuck out of me.

Because you used to work here.

That’s how you met your mom, right?
Right. She was one of my customers. She’s freakin’ amazing. I should call her.

Your sister called you yesterday.
Yeah, how did you know? That fucking bitch hasn’t called back yet.

Which sister was it?
Well, I thought it was fucking Mirchelle, but now that she hasn’t called back I’m wondering who it was. She was like ‘hey it’s your sister’ so I figured it was her ‘cause she’s too thick to realize that could be like…thirty people. She still thinks she’s special. She’s not. She’s just a mid thirties unmarried conserva-whore.

Whoa. Okay. Conservawhore?
Talk to Nick about that one. He’s good at stuff like that. If you aren’t getting it, I’m not gonna define it for you.

It was Mirchelle.
What was?

That called. I checked your call logs.
Oh. Okay. How did you do that?

Very carefully.
Ahh. And what else did you learn?

You’ve been talking to Matthew.
WHAT? Dude, you’re really not good at this. I haven’t spoken to him since my 24th birthday. His 21st.

Then who are you speaking to in Olympia?
Uhh…no one.

Oh. Oh, I totally get it. Yeah, you’re pretty off dude. 360 is a big place buddy.

Ah, well, it was worth a shot.
No, no it wasn’t. You’re completely stupid and have no concept of how this should go. Tell Alan I’m not dealing with anyone but him from now on. Seriously. Seriously.

That’s awfully convenient.
Yes. Yes it is.



"Okay, we can do it, but you have to be very, very quiet. We're hunting rabbits."


I swear to god, every time it's all like "be quiet, we're in your gay boyfriend's bed" or "my roomate's dad is in town" or "your best friend is sleeping five feet away" or whatever.

I'm fucking sick of this.

I want some screaming rediculous no holds barred sweaty loud animal style sex. Note the loud part. LOUD.
p.s. -- I am at work. Props today go to Mathisen for driving me to work, and Sarah for trying to interperet what Mathisen was saying on the phone this morning.


Me and Lakricia need to break up.

So I'm at the coffee shop downstairs from my house, and Adrian, who works at the party supply store down the street walks in.

"You can design websites and stuff, right?"
"Don't even ask dude--I have a contract right now."
"Oh. Okay. Well, how 'bout in a few weeks?"

Yeah, I'd fucking love to. I could use the $500, but Lakricia keeps tossing me the "Rotating Rainbow of Death" [as Shaun would call it]whenever I have Word, Safari, and Photoshop open. It's fucking Bullshit. Plus, I looked at their current site's code--it looks like html oatmeal. I don't know who originally wrote it, but it is clearly fucked.

The point? I need a new laptop.

And for Davey to take this one off my hands.




So...how many matching tattoos do you guys have again?

S-A-Mantha was in town. It was awesome. As well as give all y'all a few pics from her visit, here's a list of stuff that happened between Counts and Pant picking her up at the airport on Friday and me dropping her off last Monday.

1. Went to the ol' LoHo for some midday PBR's with Brodeur and Mindy. Ahh...Molotovs.
2. Rocked Ye Ol' Whiskey Thieves for some Oly's in true Sea-Town style.
3. Got really really really drunk to the point where we were forced to coin the term: Bone, Thugs and Harmony.
--3a. I should explain. When a Bone Queen gets drunk, things happen.
--3b. Samantha and I used to live in a basement where 'walls' provided privacy but not soundproofing. We learned to deal with each others Bone Fests, including but not limited to the famed Baby Faced Techie and Surly Bartender Night.
--3c. She totally slept through it, but unfortunately my phone rang mid bone at 4am, forcing us to coin the term Bone Phone. Don't worry, this information will be submitted to the Urban Dictionary as soon as possible.
4. Oh! and we danced to: 99 Red Baloons--Goldfinger; Fully Retractable--Soul Coughing; Everything's Not Lost--Coldplay; and I think some Ramones or something. Dude, I was DRUNK.
5. Went to Summer Place and had some crazy/beautiful cocktails. Don't even know what the hell we were drinking. Apparently, it was enough to thwart the purpose of the Bone Sabbath (Saturday night) as 4am found me with a killer champagne headache looking for a bowl for Sam to puke in. I found a bowl.
5. "Generals gathering their masses. Can you hear me? Are you from my brain?" (This is called War Pigs: Dale's Version. Sam and I sing it drunk on every available occasion.)
6. "And these things, it stands to reason these things won't kill me." (from "Fully Retractable". Again with the singing and dancing.)
7. "Danananadananana...BONE PHONE!" (this is to the tune of the Batman theme.)
8. Went to Amber with Counts, Shaun (Boy Wonder) and Sally-boo of LoHo fame. Samantha agreed that Shaun is indeed prettier than most women.
9. Woke up on Monday like lethargic little alchoholics, but still managed to make it to Cafe LaOnda in the Mission, Upper Playground in LoHo, and just about a grillion stores up the way near Ashbury looking for a very specific hat for her boyfriend Ian. We did not find the hat.
10. We donned our matching red track jackets, grabbed her stuff, and hopped on the BART for a little underwater adventure to the Oakland airport. I hate airplanes when they work in the opposite way that they are intended--when they steal from you everything you've ever loved.

[I love you. Oh, and BONE PHONE]

[p.s.--to answer your question, I have exactly 6 tattoos that somebody else in this world has. A star and two chinese characters on my stomach, A line from a song on my back, and a red balloon, another line from a song, and a bird on my arm. The three on my arm I share with Sam. "Is Chicago/is not Chicago" courtesy of Mike Doughty, "I'll be coming home soon" courtesy of the Walkmen (and Jenny-Bean, of course) and soon to come: "Chasing after stories that have already been told" to be shortly around my left wrist courtesy of Gomez and that ever illusive Rythm and Blues Alibi.]


I am one of those people for which the word "Novel" is a verb.

Have been thinking about how rough it is to make the word "Novel" a present progressive verb (read: "Noveling").

I wont lie: I'm behind. Really. Nicholas, Davey--I'm sorry.

But mostly I'm sorry to me.

I need a schedule.

And Cake.

What's the point of all this? Well kids, it comes down to "Muses".

While "Cake" is the all important title piece in the collection, "Muses" is the last-all-encompassing-wrap-up-piece. To further complicate matters, it's not just about a bunch of fuck-ups I dated (read: fucked), but rather about people I really care about. Like Mathisen. And Hodson. And Samantha (BONE PHONE!).

Samantha says:
You forget the other side of the equasion, M.I.Randa. Or maybe you just don't write it down... I've been thinking about this since I saw your face when we were talking about Ian and I the other day.

I'm wondering if I get cake, or if I get a curse. I love you more than anyone, and I want a man in my life to love too (oh, and also, to observe the bone sabbath with). I'm still trying to figure out how to have both at the same time. Maybe it can't work to have both in the same city (for now) but sacrificing time with either one of you to live in the city with the other one is crazy.

Do I get to have cake and eat it too? I'm wondering if I actually get to have cake, or if I'm stuck in the cake shop window looking back and forth between two different cakes and can't have both the way I want them.

Maybe I should hook up with Betty Crocker, at least for a one night stand.

Oh, and also, I'm sorry for puking in your bed on the bone sabbath. That was a major deflation of the bone.

There are all kinds of Cake in this world, but are they limited? Meaning--do we have to pick just one?

Shouldn't our Muses and our Cake be one in the same? Can we love and fuck at the same time?

p.s.--Pics and wrap up of Sam's trip to SF to follow. Daved Hodson, expect an e-mail. Thanks for calling this morning. Don't die in a hurricane. No day but today.


Samantha Is Awesome!

This is Perfect.

I am sitting next to Samantha at Cafe Royale, and even though I totally lost my ID, we are soon to embark on an awesome Sunday night adventure. SWEET.

I really need to find my ID.


I Give Up


SAMANTHA IS COMING TO TOWN. Like, right now. Or very close to that.

I am almost litterally shitting my pants right now--this will be the first time Sam has visited me here in SF. But there's just one thing--

I've been contemplating the idea lately (okay, for a pretty long time now) that there may very well be no one in this world who will ever love me as much as her--and I feel selfish when I kinda don't like that. She's the lovliest, purest,vtruest thing I have; and I'm dissatisfied?

Is she my only Cake? Why isn't that okay anyway?

So, she'll be here. Soon. And then SF will know who she is and all of you here will know us as an "us" like we should be all the time...and then? And then she will leave, and I will be here and then everyone here will know that I already have my Cake and I don't deserve any more. You would all be right. I will stay here boning all my fucking friends and slapping people at will, and she will go home to Ian. Her boyfriend. And I will be jealous. And I completely shouldn't be.

One day.
No day but today.


Prada, Versace, Bvlgari...Oh My!

As many of you may know, I will rock a pair of Chuck's with a t-shirt I found on the ground. I don't give a shit. But there are a few things in this world that I MUST have the real thing (read: expensive). Those are:

1. Denim.
2. Shoes (Don't be fooled--I won't wear fake leather or brands--that goes for everything from the Steve Madden knock-off of a very famous [SATC anyone?] pair of Minolo Blahniks that I won't wear down to the Punkrose faux Van's I won't wear).
3. Watches
4. Eyewear. On that last point, I remain firm.

Anyway, so I went to the Optometrist today, and $600 later, I got the Bvulgari 4508 in Black. And also Pink. And also Rhinestones.

They are so bling+money they boggle the mind.

They are Cake.
Davey's gonna be proud.


July, July.

~PhoenixRising said...

12:11 am(12 hours ago)
Holy shit! This month is JUNE! You might have to bump me to July. :(

Posted by ~PhoenixRising to i am a jelly doughnut at 6/11/2006 12:11:47 AM



But I'm just putting this out there that I could really use a little Bobby Fischer in my life as of late--between the rampant sleeping-with-friends streak that I'm on and the incessant drinking and crying, maybe Milkshale just needs a nice drunken shower and some nice drunken dials. Just not to my Ex-Boyfriend in Oly.


Ex-Boyfriend/Ex-Boyfriend Minus Penis/Penis [now with 30% more Cakes/Cake]

Cakes Mr. No Rules, Taken in the womens bathroom at Bauhuas 5.28.06, Pine and Melrose, Seattle.

Title supplied by Samantha Oldfield. This is the type of shit that comes out of our mouths, which brings me to a very important topic of conversation: My Family. Never met them? Let me give you a quick rundown.

My Mom
Jill Bauer

My Wives:
Samantha Oldfield
Jennifer Gerking
Crystal Wren

My Husbands:
Peter Counts
Peter Smith

My Girls:
Lauren Morlock
Amanda Dellinger
Carrie Wilhelme
Sally Schwed
Melinda Buhl
Radost Pavlova

My Boys:
Edwin Wilhelme
David Hodson
Aaron Gerking
Robert Scheppy
Ron Almgren
Meir Hurwitz

and? And this is just the short version. Just who I can think of off the top of my head right now.

We are not perfect. We're messed up and beautiful and clumsy and drunk and I love us. All of us together, and I love that we fight for that through all of our miles and mistakes.

I talked to Sam today. Told her about all the crying this week. You know what she said?

"Miranda, you know, our family: we're just not like that. We don't have all this propriety and rules: we just try to do good stuff and we don't judge each other--so there's never any harm in any of us knowing everything about each other. I don't mean to start some kind of nomad pity party--but man, our real families are all fucked. Why would we want to ruin the one we have with all of these secrets and bullshit and drama--we already fight for each other hard enough. We don't need more to fight about."

Samantha noted how Peter and I were married, but we're not like boyfriend/girlfriend.
"It's like how we're married, but you know, we're not like boyfriend/girlfriend. You know?" I laughed at this.
"Well, I should sure hope we're not boyfriend/girlfriend 'cause your boobs are too big to hide so I'd end up being the boy." She laughed at this.
"I meant like girlfriend/girlfriend. 'Cause you don't have a penis and I don't have a penis so if we were boys then we'd have to be boyfriend/boyfriend minus penis/penis."
"Whatever. Don't put your gender issues on me, bitch! That's it! We are breaking up. We are sooo not boyfriend/boyfriend minus penis/penis anymore."

And what happens when our [Addams?] family values collide with more traditional ones?

There are rules, Mr. No Rules. Get them apologies. Try to hear. Offer your heart. Give them Cake.
And as Nicholas is always so apt to point out, you can't order people to say please and thank you. You must say Please first. And then Thank You.


Ahhh. Guinness.

Cafe Royale on a Sunday.

I only made it through today because I kept reminding myself that I'd already worked well over 40 hours this week, and even though I must have spent fifteen-bucks-on-coffee today, I was still making twenty-bucks-an-hour. Oh what humans will do for money (speaking of, if anyone has $400, a half rack of PBR and wants to fly my wife down here...).

I had something very important to say earlier...OH! Right.

Apparently it's open letter time, since some people want to copy me. Why not everyone? Roll call bitches: I wanna see your open letters.


Here, just for shits and giggles, I'll do another one.

An Open Letter To All Y'all Bitches

Y'all be Bullshit. I'm-a-fuckin kill all y'all 'cause Aaron Keene's phone be pissin' me the fuck off and Counts and his goddamn alarm and shit. Whateva. Bitch, I was motha fuckin' wrecked at work today an' fuckin' Union Strizzeet be pissin' me the fuck off an' all those bitches be triflin'. Return this, bitch. Yo' fuckin' tiny ass needs ta chickety-check yo'self before I bust up yo' phony ass grill. Bitch got mo' veneers than a '70's kitchen. Bitch.



An Open Letter To the Number Three, Which Is a Magic Number

First, Let's recap.

Because Sometimes Apologies Are Needed (Part 1)

The sudden shock of eyes locked
the chill of raised flesh when realizing
much more will come between us
than of us.
Sense stretched taut,
snapping shut,
time will reveal the fault in our skin to skin,
day to days,
a tactile pain I see in your gait,
crooked smile and
reserved wave.
Your absence proves
repose so futile
as if thought could undo
what we thought so fleeting.


Because Sometimes Apologies are Needed (Part 2)

Forgive me Quinn. I am sorry.

and finally...
6.2.06 (1:38 AM)
Because Sometimes Apologies Are Needed (Part 3)

#1: I put too much faith in you. I hold you at arms length because I have no idea how else to treat you, because it takes so much time to turn that next leaf on that next layer and I never seem to have the patience. That you love this is inconsequential--I am being disingenuous to you and am oft known to treat our friendship like some kind of punch card--that being said I still think Davey was wrong; I think this slow process of whatever is happening inside my head and with my relationships with men is far more tearing (not teer-ing, tare-ing) than any kind of irrational heartbreak. Forgive me for ignoring you when you say that I am talented.

#2: I knew I could have you, so I did. It's really not much more complicated than that. Forgive me for ignoring you when you say that you miss me.

#3: I feel like I've said this so many times before, but trust that I meant it when I said "I can only say how you feel small inside my arms when I know that you are lonely and I know that I have missed you." Don't get me wrong--I still can't tell why exactly you keep me around you, whether all of what you say is some mindless double-talk to occasionally get my panties on your bedroom floor rather than where they belong when I'm in your bedroom--in my pants--but sometimes I swear that there is something that has kept you circulating in my...um...circle (It's late as I write this. Forgive my vocabulary) for so long. On Independence Day, it will have been a year since I woke up, rolled over, and found it to be my day off and you in my bed. Haven't we come to something better than all of that? Forgive me for ignoring you when you say that we have, and yet have not.

#4: We are not friends. That being said, we probably should have stayed that way in the first place. Forgive me for...you know what? I've already done this and I'm not doing it anymore. It's like yelling at someone in English who speaks Romanian.

#5: Hmm. Okay, start.

What I remember of the past year is this blur of terribly karmic events and all of my San Francisco straw-grasping in the wake of my best friends' waning health. Now she's better, and I've seen her with my own eyes and ran my finger over her scars and noted how much they look like mine from my infantile hernia surgery (I am suddenly realizing we need to add that to the twins list). She's fine, and where am I? Apparently up to my old tricks, or something that kind of means that but far less tricky. When I say something like "we're so much better than all of that now," I believe that. I mean it--I don't say things like that aimlessly and whenever I have had the [opportunity] to say that, there is something there that I value.
Too often since my last birthday I have found myself saying this exact same stuff to far too many people who had been my dear friends--and then? Well, then there is event and loneliness and some kind of deep-seated fear that that's all they ever wanted from me--that after all of this time and beers and phone calls and late night laughs and games of pool and renting movies and all of these things that make a platonic friendship work--that all of it was just a patient attempt to get me naked again. Is it really? Probably. But I would like to believe that this time I'm wrong. Badly. Almost to the point where I prefer you just lie to me. That's a terrible thing to say, I know.
You are my oldest (but not eldest) friend in San Francisco minus the the other Seattle ex-pats, and you are one of my dearest friends on the globe--and all of your apologies aren't keeping the tears from spilling over my lashes at work when I remember telling you that you're ruining everything and you responding that we had nothing to ruin, so no harm could be done. Nothing. None. All of that time and nothing. You wonder why I'm upset.
Sometimes one must make a split second decision when faced with a scenario that goes against everything you had previously believed--and what were my choices? Run? Right, that's not awkward at all. Or...maybe gain some small amount of solace in a "brief hormonal freedom".
Bingo. Too bad it didn't work.
Now? Are we "better than all of that"? Well, let me ask you this--do you have a pair of my panties? Yeah, so probably not. Watch--just watch. I will be forced by propriety to clip my tongue around you, to censor what I do and say as to assure we're not going down the same path again, and eventually I will be forced to forget the last few months of drinking Makers Mark and giggling and traipsing over to your apartment in my PJ's just to hang out with you for a while before I went to sleep. Why? Because as much as promises can be made, as much as deals are done and as many times as I can ask you if "we're okay now", it will come down to the proverbial "you have a pair of my panties."
And maybe if I had said all of these apologies properly long ago, the last dregs of karma's reach would not be lashing at my heels, and maybe I could have already learned this lesson well enough to make it a hard fast rule. Unfortunately I have not, but I'm trying to follow rule #12. Make amends.

Forgive me for ignoring you when you call me beautiful.

I love you.

(2:36 AM)