4.22.2007

Night At Molotov's


It was just like old times--the best of them. Plus a camera. Damn, I hardly ever get out to LoHo anymore--and now that Mins lives in the Sunset? Hopefully, it will stay our halfway point. Second star on the right, first floor off the storefront, window with the M in it, straight on 'till morning.

S5000113
S5000118
S5000124

Fuck yeah.
--M
p.s.--How Blair Witch do we look in that last one? Maybe with a dash of Soylent Green. "Punk Rock Kids ARE PEOPLE!!! THEY'RE PEOPLE!!!!!"
And one more thing: Here is quite possibly the fifth best McSweeney's list I've ever seen, right behind Jewish Hipster Holidays, What Everyone Knows About the Little Teapot, Victoria's Secret, and If Poets Named Breakfast Cereals.

Snow White and the Seven Goths.

BY PAULINE BROWN, PAUL DOBSON,
LILLIAN CROMBIE, AND PAUL ZINKEL

- - - -

Pasty

Slouchy

Mopey

Sweaty

Morbid

Gloomy

Robert Smith

Now, just for shits and giggles, here's one of my own prompted by a conversation I had with Moto last night.

Nicknames I Have Had In Chronological Order
By: Miranda Moure

Panda
Ran
Ran-Pan
Mandy
Gergi
Poranda
Po
Puta Bitch
Consuelo
Whore-Face
Wanda
Tasty Dish
Fort Freak
Colored Folk
Spanky
Slutty-Slutty Bang-Bang
Milkshake
Milkshizzle

--M

4.19.2007

Note from home.

I recently e-mailed a link to Mark Hunstman garnered from Nicholas Mathisen forwarding to Miranda July's website for a collection of stories. It's fantastic. You can check it out, if you like. Any-who, I'd thought I'd share his response, because it made me laugh and for some reason kind of teary. A little background in case you need it: Huntsman is a writer, and more personally, I oft refer to him, for lack of a better (and not callous) way to put it as "the best ex I never had." Enjoy. First, this is what I wrote to him.

m--
From Nicholas, and I had to share.
Might be in town for one night--the 29th. Gavin Roberts is moving to
Louisville (I'm so jealous, I've always wanted to move there--this is
not a joke) and his going away party is at The Duck that night.
Last week, I told the story of meeting you from my boss' fifth story
balcony, and my co-worker didn't believe me. I guess that makes you
unbelieveable.
--M

And from Hunts:

mbctm : so, hi. i'm playing with making bct your middle name, like a mobster gets his nickname after he's knocked a couple of guys and been made. tommy "the gun" bucco, johnny "sack" imperioli, big "pussy" bompansiero, miranda "busier curve tool" moure, brendan "fuck face" filone, and etc.... see, you almost didn't notice your own name on that list, did you, because it essentially fit in, mbctm. this leads to my larger point---which i'm nervous about even positing, but i believe that you trust me, and the information is weighing on me so much---which is that i've figured out that you are a ganster. seriously, tell me everything. what do you do on these spaced out but regular trips north, these methodical "one-night only" visits to seattle? i mean, obviously, you're a gangster and you can't tell me, it was rhetorical; and anyway it must have to do with drugs and shutting people up. or making them pay. your "curve tool" will be very busy indeed, when, in the dead of the april 29th night, you slip into the markowski residence and make your way to the upstairs bedroom. silently, through the window, the pale moonlight glints off your curve tool as you raise it, poised to strike. poised to get busy. i would love to see you, please let's. i miss you a whole very lot. i just turned my phone on last night for the 1st time in a week; got your message, but then it was my turn at on the musical stage, and i got rather caught up and forgot to call. but look, nobody else was prepared to whip out full sebastian voice and rock under the sea on the karaoke microphone. we've got no troubles, life is the bubbles! under the sea, --m.

On a side note, the middle name thing is far more poignant in our history than you may realize. The morning following our first meeting (the balcony thing is true, by the way) he drove me from Capitol Hill back to my car on Elliot, and on the way I asked him his middle name. This is a common practice for me, as I feel that even from what I assume to be a one night stand, I should get at least one pertinent and somewhat intimate piece of imformation from said party. I usually opt for thier middle name. Anyway, we reached my car, and He wrote down his phone number for me on a piece of an old deposit slip. "Mark William" he wrote, using first and middle rather than first and last. It made me laugh, so instead of merely hopping out of the car to cross the street to my own, I wrote my phone number down in the same fashion: first and middle. Then phone number, of course.
In another recent e-mail to Mark, I realized we had known each other for almost three years now, something I would have never believed would have happened on that particular morning, that one where phone numbers were exchanged along with middle names. I decided to ask him if he remembered it.

"Hey, on a side note--do you remember my middle name?"
"Ha, you can't get me with your trick questions: you don't have a middle name."
"Haha. Yours is William, and I distincly remember writing mine down for you within our first 24 hours of meeting. BTW--it's Moxie."
"mbtcmm :: yes, yes : i remember it too, now, your writing it down for me. ah, for the days when my semi-regular booty-call-in-reverse could so immediately abound with significance and meaning."

Ahh, my middle name. It is in actuality a remnant of what was to be my given name: Mary, and is definitely not BCT. Or Moxie for that matter, although I wish it was.

It's Terese. Three e's, yes, but please only pronounce two.
--M
[p.s.--Dude, Mark--did you really think my middle name was Moxie? Damn, how dope would that be? I am now considering changing my name again. Ironically, that middle name (Terese) was one of my given ones.]

4.17.2007

Where credit's due.

One more thing today--

I was just organizing some archives in my computer, and came across this paper I wrote a year ago for Peter Counts' art history final, and thought I should finally take credit for it. Why? 'Cause it's fucking good, and as Peter Smith and Ed can attest to, it highlights my carefully honed ability to pull a paper out of my ass on subjects I know absolutely nothing about. And I mean nothing.

Enjoy; or rather, you probably wont, because this is a fucking art history paper and it's boring. If you start to fall asleep, you can peruse my archives for grander tales of doing it or drinking or something.

The cathedrals at Toulouse and Chartres, France are both Marvels in their own right. Although they show a visible stark contrast to each other upon first witness, further inspection proves them having much in common. They are visibly and historically quite individual, but both serve as a testament to how greatly faith can inspire both architecture and design; both have been and remain major centers for worship and pilgrimage.
Originally built on a different site as a smallish wooden chapel in 402 CE, it was Bishop Hilary who transferred the remains of Saint Sernin to begin construction of the church we know today. These remains as well as this site were exceedingly important to pilgrims of the eleventh and twelfth centuries as one of the stops on the way to Saint James of Compostella. Saint Sernini was a bishop and martyr, sentenced to death for not apostizing in 250 CE by Emperor Decius. His original name was Saturnini, but was changed upon becoming a saint.
The Cathedral of Saint Sernin was completed in 1095 and consecrated by Pope Urban II; its architecture at the time was unrivalled. Two primary doors adorn the south side; The Door of the Counts contains three reliefs, the center panel of this triptych containing the inscription “Sanctos Saturninus” after its namesake. This is flanked by a figure on either side representing Saturnini’s deacons Papoul and Honest. The Door of the Meigeville on the other hand, contains a masterful tympanum devoted to the Ascension of Christ. Mirroring the Counts reliefs, an angel flanks Christ on either side leading a viewer to use this visual cue to make the intended correlation between Christ and Saturnini as a Christ figure, this cathedrals namesake being a martyr and saint in his own right.
During the completion of Saint Sernin, another masterful cathedral was being constructed in Chartres, about 50 miles from Paris. Begun in 1145 and completed in 1220, the Cathedral at Chartres is a testament to high gothic architecture. Much like Saint Sernin, one of the primary portals of Chartres contains in its tympanum depictions of the Ascension of Christ, along with other scenes of his life. This scene is flanked by scenes of royalty, giving it the name: The Royal Portal.
These artful portals were exceedingly important to the roles of both Cathedrals, as they are host to a great many pilgrims; this is the main purpose of both sites. Year after year, people flood through these doors to be brought closer to god through the many religious relics housed there as well as simultaneously dwarfed by the enormity of their faith though their gothic construction. The large spaces filled with ornate detail, tall towers one might have once been imagined to stretch almost into the very heavens.
At the Cathedral of Saint Sernin we see one eight-sided bell tower, which with the addition of the spire in 1478 brings its total height to a dizzying 215 feet. Its construction was in several stages; the more basic 11th century base is topped with higher levels bearing mitered arches, the bell and spire at its peak. In its shadow, one can feel the weight of this mighty ornament, an architectural feat and beautiful memoriam to Saint Saturnini whose remains are housed within. The Cathedral at Chartres is host to two spires which, when combined with the Cathedral’s natural height of being built on the top of a hill, seem almost ridiculously tall compared to the sprawling city underneath. One is pyramid shaped and reaches 349 feet, while the other more closely mirrors the tower at Saint Sernin both in sight and construction. Like its Toulouse counterpart, this tower at Chartres was built in stages, reaching its final height of 377 feet during a second construction in the early 16th century eclipsing the former, shorter tower.
Unlike Saint Sernini, which holds the physical remains of a religious figure, The Cathedral at Chartres is home to a more detached but still highly significant relic. It is home to the Sancta Camisa, said to be tunic of the Virgin Mary. Retrieved in the crusades by Charlemagne, it is this item that spurned this cathedral original construction; the need to accommodate the massive numbers of pilgrims was becoming increasingly important.
It is this relic that is also at the center of the greatest contrast between these two French Gothic churches. The idea of Mariolatry at its spiritual core combined with the utilization of flying buttresses in its physical construction leads us to the absolute interior artistic focal point of this cathedral—its 186 stained glass windows, 156 of which have survived revolution and war and are installed in its apses to this day. The most memorable and fitting of these is that of The Virgin Mary herself; this window utilizes the stunning cobalt blue we oft associate with depictions of the Madonna and Child. Towering above the 427 foot long cruciform floor plan, these windows, aided by the advances in architecture, are the combination of light and art, and as the creators might have hoped, of beauty and faith.
Saint Sernin on the other hand uses ambient light to highlight reliefs and frescos; the meeting of beauty and faith if you will, rather than the combination. They are awe inspiring nonetheless, a full modern restoration making its sanctuaries frescoes as grand as they once were. These frescoes highlight the Ascension of Christ, the Resurrection and the Apocalypse rather than being centered on the Madonna.
The overall feeling of both cathedrals is similar. Upon visiting either, one might hope to be brought closer to the history of their faith and former pilgrims who have graced their vast and decorated interiors. This idea of faith through congregation is what one might argue is the main focal point of any church. Essentially, buildings of any faith are made to house people rather than art or artifacts. Yes, both sites are complete with vaulted ceilings, bell towers and priceless pieces of art and history, but neither would be complete without the history of their supporters, the people who inspired them and have been inspired by them. These Cathedrals, although magnificent pieces of Gothic Architecture, are mere buildings without the faith that is and has been practiced within its walls. They are nothing without the care that is taken to keep their stories alive.


Yeah that's right. I can read and write.
--M

Spoon II: A New Hope

Dude, I'm totally not done talking about this.

There is, right now, a boy in my shower. Seriously. Right now. And he happens to bear the same name as my ex boyfriend.

I mean, dude, what the hell is going on? It's now almost two in the afternoon, and I've been laying around all morning spooning with some bitch's boyfriend.

It's spring, and I've changed my sheets four times in the last week, and it hasn't been enough, and I've somehow brought the old idea of playing couple to dizzying new heights. Fuck. And I'm waking up from all of this cuddle-cuddle-pretend-coupledom and there are messages on my phone from previous installations of this, and there is a phone number in my bag from an old friend who, in our heydays, used to pretend couple famously with me. Hmm. Cliff, Nick, Shane.

And Shane--it's funny, you know? Like, when we used to do this, me in his bed when he was my little brother's roomate, I remember thinking then how much he was like Shaun, and I remembered the first time I met him and he made me breakfast in the morning, and damn--that kid can play couple amazingly.

And now? Well, this is great. This is a perfect example because the whole point is about whether sex indicitavely degrades friendship or no--and even if there is a possibility that it wont, is it worth it?

It's spring, and there are so many boys in this city, so why am I spooning with all of my fucking friends? It seems so unneccesary. It's not worth it. I mean, yeah. Sometimes there is recovery--Shaun and I for example. Sometimes I think Jonathan fits into this category. Moto is a perfect example of this.

Oh yeah. Moto. Moto who platonically sleeps in my bed on a weekly basis, and then complains that he's not meeting any women since he moved to San Francisco. I don't have the heart to tell him the same thing I tell myself all the time and never listen to--quit treating someone you're not sleeping with like you're in a relationship. It's not so much that I'm physically cock blocking him--but rather emotionally. Or rather--I think he does this to himself as I do all too often--like when I'm laying around naked, and I'm spooning some boy or another, I start picking him apart like Shaun might, weighing in my head whether or not this boy could really exist in my life under Shaun's scrutiny. For them, meeting Shaun is like meeting the parents. Or at least it should be.

Oh yeah, I have a point. Wait hold on...

Sorry. Had to go show the boy who was in my shower out. He has to work at four. Okay, now--

Wait, what was I saying?
--M

4.14.2007

Spoon.

In the last week I am ever so reminded of 88 lines.

Why?
Because it all seems that quantifyable lately--like, okay. Across the bar there is a boy, and if you say hi, and if you smile sweetly, that's all it takes to get him in your bed. That's it. Every spring I forget this--that the long days and sunny skys remove any challenge whatsoever; that be it me or all of them or some combination of ye ol' "it all", that the challenge of finding bedfellows in the winter is gone. Poof. I kind of miss it every year, and yet around August when the difficulty returns, when there is waiting and beers and complication and games again, I always regret wishing for something harder.

It is more rewarding though-- I mean, the last three people I've slept with, I've done them all before. Well not litterally...I mean, let's recap. Ricky from 222 Hyde? Oh yeah. The married guy. He is so reminicent of Justin it boggles the mind. Check. Brent from Amber? Need I say more thhan that he is a 23 y/o scorpio singer/songwriter? Oh I do? Oh okay. Yeah, I've done him before when his name was Matthew. They looked so alike it made my skin crawl in the morning when I realized. Oh, and that one.

I might owe someone an apology, bacause both last Monday and this morning when I got up to go to work, guess who was in my bed? Oh, a writer. Named Nicholas. True story. Yeah, I ve definitely been there before.

And so as during every spring when re-runs begin to be re-ran, when they all start looking the same, it's not that I'm regretful or disinterested or spiteful--I'm just wondering why if there all alike--why is this constant cuddling so uncomfortable? I mean, all this kissy-kissy sensitive sex and all of this goddamn cuddling--it seems kind of cheap, you know? Like--you shouldn't be here. Doing this. With me. Like there was someone before all of them that deserved all of this cuddling, and I can remember from years ago all of those whispered I love you's that used to come so easily from me and now is only reserved for my girlfriends. And Shaun.

I mean not that these boys are purely anecdotal, but I mean, where's the story in all of this?
--M
p.s.--Mathisen, as I'm sure you've guessed, that is not you, but unfortunately it is mostly just weird and not at all poignant.

4.06.2007

Superstition

These are all comments from ONE VIDEO found on YouTube. It doesn't even matter which one.
Typographic errors have been corrected and irreverent smiley's have been removed 'cause they drive me nuts.
Enjoy.

Now if you stared reading this don't stop its really scary! Okay, send this to five other videos in 143 minutes. When you are done press F6 and your crush's name will appear on the screen in big letters!!! This is weird because it does work. If you break this chance you wont have a crush in the next five years.

Its kinda scary at first but it really works!! Paste this message into 3 comments and press ALT F1 and your crush's name will appear on the screen!!! I'ts so weird!

This is a true thing that happens! It's not a chain letter! I'ts kinda scary at first but it really works!! Paste this message into 3 comments and press ALT F4 and your crush's name will appear on the screen!!! It's soo weird!

Now, what gets me isn't that people fall for this, and not that people that write these have too much spare time, but...okay. Here's an example.

Say you have a crush on a guy, let's call him John. Now say you repost this message a grillion times and press F1, ALT F4 and F6--and then it says JOHN on your screen. I mean, didn't you already know that? Wouldn't it be cooler if the name of the guy who likes you appeared on your screen like some sort of internet fortune teller? Here are some replies to these comments.

Don't do it I swear I did it and it closes the window!

Shut the fuck up you loser faggots with those fake gay-ass chain letter comment things. If you believe in them you're a moron who needs to get plowed down by a truck!

And yet in all the replies, no one points this out. NOT ONE PERSON.

And now, just for shits and giggles, here's the funniest thing I've ever seen on the internet except for that guy who spelled the word genius wrong.

In 1876, a young girl named Jenn was walking down a river, an insane man killed her by stabbing her in the back, raping her, and then hanging her in his closet. While he hanged her he said Bukakke Bukkake. Now that you have read this message, she will find you and her dead body will haunt your house for 5 years. Every night when you go to sleep she will appear in your closet, hanging their with her glowing red eyes. Repost 3 times to be saved.

--M

p.s.--Bukkake Bukkake.

4.03.2007

For Angelica: This one's so good.

Found this on a friend's you-know-what, then I changed the name of the platform and then added an additional five of my own to the end. Enjoy.

Down for a survey

1. You're seriously in debt to the Armenian mob. For some weird reason they'll forgive the debt if you kill one of your top eight. Who do you kill?
My blog top eight? Bengt. Definitely Bengt.

2. What Blogger friend knows the REAL you best?
If you mean naked me, then Nicholas.

3. Describe a typical Sunday for you:
Wake up hungover, go home, shower, and try to be at work by eleven.

4. Any odd routines you follow when you wake up?
I have to drink coffee. Lots of coffee.

5. If alcohol was banned worldwide, what would your reaction be?
"Oh my god...FUCK! Now all the retards I fuck will actually be retarded!"

6. When was the last time you cried?
On New Years when I got attacked.

7. Your CD collection is going to be repossessed. You may keep one.
Ryan Adams, Gold.

8. Do you believe world peace is possible?
No.

9. I'm a genie. Name your wish. (Money and Love cannot be granted).
A free apartment on top of the Castle building on Geary.

10. Name one thing about the OPPOSITE sex that automatically turns you off:
Pride.

11. Name one thing about the SAME sex that automatically turns you off of friendship.
"This album is from like...the 90's or something. Why do you still listen to it?"

12. Speaking of SAME sex, what do you think of Brokeback Mountain?
I would fuck either one of them.

13. What popular phrase do you find to be incredibly annoying?
"Do you know what you need to do?"

15. Leatherface is in the kitchen. Will you fight to victory, or hide?
Who the fuck is Leatherface? Is he like Hannibal Lector?

16. Do you feel that people underestimate you?
Not really. Although it oft happens that people don't realize my capacity top be mean to them. They for some reason think that they are excluded from that.

17. When you're in a bad mood, what will always put you in a better mood?
Power Pop.

18. Honestly, do you talk about Blogger in real life?
All the time. My ex used to refer to my ramblings rather than "blah bliddy-blah blah" as "blog bliddy-blah blah"

19. Have you met someone online in person?
Yup. I know my neighbors Pant and Kristen from thier old South Carolina based blog, Eggroll, Bagel, Cookie, Vengeance. Now they live three or foor doors down from me. Go figure.

20. When it comes to cybersex, are you game?
Gross. Totally gross. And that's coming from someone oft deemed a "sexual explorative".

21. Do you believe minimum wage should be raised?
Yes. In theory.

22. If someone at a bar gives you "the look" how do you respond to it?
I generally wonder, "Will he make a good story?"

23. Desperation happens. Do you take advantage of desperate people?
Mmm...maybe. I actually don't really know.

24. Pretend you're 15 deep in beers. Describe what you would be doing now?
Pushing some cute hipster against a wall and shoving my tongue in his throat. This is completely hypothetical, by the way.

25. Sometimes people get depressed. Are you the one they turn to?
Yes.

26. Describe your "style."
Goth Nouveau + Audiophile Chic + T-Shirt Couture.

28. Love and Sex go together. Would you have sex if no love was involved?
What do you mean sex and love? Like incest or something? Gross.

29. Does everyone in your life know the real you?
Hahaha. No. Somehow they don't even though I'm brutally honest about myself.

30. What is something you're afraid of?
Didn't we go over this? Bees, dude. Bees.

31. Did you fuck a married guy last night?
Now that you mention it, I did.

32. Was he extremely attractive?
Yes. Why yes, he was extremely attractive.

33. Was he verging on mentally retarded?
Oh my god, now that you mention it, he was verging on mentally retarded!

34. Did his wife call repeatedly while he continued to try and fuck you with his near flaccid penis which is, as it turned out, not really helped by your several pleas to 'please god answer your fucking phone'?
Oh my god, I think this survey is psychic. It happened just like that!

35. Did he finally answer his phone and say 'Omigod, baby I'm so wasted. Sarah! Sarah! No, I'm sorry. Yeah I'm with Crash. I'm coming home right now, seriously, I'll be home soon. Bye baby, I love you.' and then did not leave, but tried again to fuck you, flaccid penis and all for another half hour before finally putting on all his clothes, save one sock he couldn't find, putting a copy of your card in his wallet, and mid one final finger-bang plead with you to please be his mistress because you give way better head than his teeny blonde and apparently equally as retarded wife, and then leave and turn the wrong way out your front door reeking of whiskey and pussy?
That totally happened. Wow. Erica was right. It really is a great story.

Happy birthday, Meredith.
--M

4.02.2007

For My Blogoversary: What I Learned From Television

Yes, I know. I'm over a month past my actual blogoversary, but it took me a while to figure out what I wanted to say this year.

Two years ago, we started out with the idea of Television and Drugs and Sex...and Love. What Love is. What it means.

Now? Well right now I just finished listening to TAL's What I Learned From Television featuring David Rakoff, Sarah Vowell, and none other than the illustrious Dan Savage.

I came out when I was fourteen to my then best friend Laura. It was late at night on a Sunday, and she had spent the night at my house as we had then recently started doing every Sunday. "Didn't you have school in the morning?" you're now most probably asking, and yes. Yes we always did. Both of us had fairly strict mothers, and how we swung this weekly ritual is now beyond me--I have no idea how we ever got the permission to have not just one, but weekly school night sleepovers. Why Sunday's? Ahh...well, because back in those days, Savage Love Live was in it's premier days, and aired on the radio every Sunday night at 10. Laura and I were devout listeners, and were known to call in bi-weekly or so. Back then, you could always get on the air, because this is before Savage Love, both the column and the show, were in syndication, back when Dan Savage was something merely Seattleites could covet, and most oddly, we knew it. It felt like, well, you know: Grundge was over, and here was this shining beacon of wisdom that made my undying want to make out with my best friend okay. He made everything okay. And he was on the Radio--let me repeat that: he was on the radio--and then, in Seattle, when I was fourteen and my mother couldn't stand me and my one male relative would as soon punch me or throw a chair at me as he would wish me a happy birthday, Dan Savage seemed like mine. Like ours. Like we could have him. Learn from him.

Know that I am absolutely serious when I say this next part:

For lack of any other, Dan Savage, and his column, and his radio show, and all of the Queer Youth events that I attended that he too attended; this man that I have only ever briefly met in actual real life, was the closest thing I ever had to a Dad.

That being said, I took his word as the gospel.

What did you think I'd turn out to be if my main male role model in my adolecence was a gay sex columnist?

A fucking saint?

Do you know who else is fourteen right now?

Oh, yes. My only relative who I truly consider part of my family, and who, in fact, was at the time I was 14, my actual best friend. She was captivating and playful, and I wanted to be with her every possible moment I had. She was only two.

And now? Fuck, now I'm supposed to be a role model. When the fuck did that happen? I mean, seriously, what the fuck?

Tomorrow she will be 15, and the following day I will have lived in San Francisco for two years, and what have I learned from all of it? What have I really gained from my family and all of this Love that is real and feigned and pretend and true and a trial?

I have no idea. None.

But I know that two years ago I mused on the idea that Television and Love and Sex could all be vices should you let them be--that even in thier absence a vice it remaines through the want that you have for it. I know that I have, in the last two years, wallowed in and grown too comfortable with my inability to deem lovers viable for actual Love. I know that I am serious when I say that she has grown from a toddler into someone who is so like me it's scary; and I know that when, on the radio, I hear Dan Savage speak of his young son and thier dog and his lovely life on Capitol Hill that all I can think is I miss you. You don't even know me, but I miss you.

I miss lots of things. I miss thunderstorms in Miami. I miss taking the steps two at a time in the town house I grew up in in Wallingford. I miss driving. I missed watching my niece grow up, and looking into her eyes and apologizing for that was the first real adult moment I feel I've ever had. Ever. I guess I finally realized that I somehow seemed to miss my childhood and growing up all at the same time, and now...

I guess I just keep missing.

Keep hopping into the same beds, same flights, same rental cars that never feel quite like a car that is your own--and for what? So that I keep missing things that are right fucking here. Right here in San Francisco.

I had dinner with Shaun tonight, and I was telling some story about highschool, trying to explain what it felt like, and I made some crack about private school.

"You went to private school?" he asks, completely nonchalantly.
I haven't been spending enough time with my friends here, but rather have returned home this weird and fearful contemplative loner, and here, right here is the proof, and all I can think is Shaun, I miss you. You don't even know me but I miss you, and I'm dying to tell him everything so that he finally knows everything that all of the people so aptly far away from me know, so that he and here can finally be static and real. I mean, everyone knows I went to private school.
Well, I 'spose not everyone, as tonight proved.

I guess that's my point--that what I really miss is being seen as a personality rather than a character, miss not having to explain that everything I am comes from somewhere, that I was carefully and surreptitiously nurtured into the loudmouthed trainwreck tattooed slut we all know and love--meaning that this isn't made up, this isn't a front; you think I'm this way to try and build something? Have you any fucking idea what I've already built and kept and walked from? You think me at times unfeeling? Damn straight--most days I feel jaded past the point of reconciliation and am constantly wondering when exactly it is I'll be able to feel anything ever again. Normal challenges are no longer challenging and I miss when they were, when I could feel all sorts of long reaching consequences should I make another mistake. I guess now I'm just like FUCK IT.

So fuck it--let my histories fade into a dim non reality here, and let me just be me. Just me with anecdotes about all the places I've been and people I've known, and the spider webs of intertwining events that make me like this. And fuck it--fuck TV, I don't fucking need it, and no, just as it was two years ago, I don't not watch TV to please you, this is all for me.

I call you for me, and I fuck you for me, and I may or may not love you all for me--and you don't like it? Then make me feel it, 'cause you can't call me enough or fuck me hard enough to make me feel anymore.

What I failed to mention two years ago is that I once used Television to get away from all the overwhelming things I felt I couldn't fix and knew how desperatley I had to find a way to do so. I could watch an entire I-Love-the-Blank marathon on VH1 and be briefly entranced and distanced from all of the many ways the world I thought I had so carefully shaped around myself was crumbling under the reality that it wasn't intrinsically strong enough--but fear as it seems, is a feeling. and feelings are few and far between in my world as of late. There's no more need for TV, nor for all of those wildly emotive songs that filled my head and my five disc changer as they have both been replaced with driving guitar and lots and lots of walking and thinking and being. I no longer fear being.

I remember what it felt like to be so so young and scared to death of what it might mean that this girl was in my bed every Sunday, of how much I loved her; fearing both making the advance I so desperately wanted to make and also the consequences of me never doing so, and all of those little butterflies in my stomach surrounding just living in my own skin and hating so much all of the ways I couldn't help but feel. I remember how deperate I was to make a man I had never met so important to me to make everything allright. I remember fourteen.

What can I feel now?

I can still feel the weight of that one apology, can still feel her sigh that seems to say that she thinks I'm not sorry at all, that sorry means nothing if I'd do the same things again given the opportunity, that from about four to fourteen I was gone, and I can't expect to fly to town and pick her up in some fucking rental car and regain everything we once had when I was fourteen, and she was two, and we'd wrestle in the backyard in the warm grass with all of our curly hair tousled about our wide stretched giggling mouths. I can still feel the way she looked at me like all of that was gone, and that I am an idiot even in my seniority to think otherwise.
I can still feel the day I met my father at sixteen, and how after half and hour or so I blew him off for a coffee and a Stranger at Bauhaus, damning the day he chose to try and get me back after all these years of his absence.

And Goddamnit--it sucks. It sucks that I gave her up to build loves with people who were largely little more than Television--a distraction from everything going on that I can't fix. Well, fuck it.

Fuck it 'cause I'm still gonna try--I'm still going to find all of those things that tie together to define love, to look and hopefully find and even more hopefully make some more mistakes, and goddamnit I will learn something from them because even in her standoffishness and principle there is still one person who looks up to me.

And you?
I am tired of you being a distraction, and I hate that I don't even care that I've realized that above everything, past the ciggarettes and coffee, past sex and rock and roll and television and whiskey and domestic lagers that my one vice is Love. I've fought for it far too hard and never demnded anyone fight for me.
Until now.

Do you miss me want me wanna fuck me talk with me love me hurt me be me?

Then top that. Top the look in her eyes when I deperately try and explain why I left.

Make me feel.

--M