6.01.2007

Nuptuals, and also other asst.

Erica and Miguel got married last Tuesday.

It was absolutely beautiful.

The rest?

Ask my sister Roxie, she'll tell you the whole thing, but for now, I can't even talk about it.
Funny, huh? Miranda Moure doesn't want to talk about it. Go fucking figure.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go contemplate the events of the past week with a Henry's Private Reserve bearing a flexi-straw from the comfort of my kitchen floor for a month.

That's right--a month. Last time I did this? Jesus, it seems so long since Independance day so long ago in the summer in Seattle, dusk finding me with fireworks blazing overhead as I was driving my Volvo south on I-5 balling my fucking eyes out. And now I'm like fuck--here I am, about to retire to the cold linolem again over something that started my first Fourth of July right here in San Francisco; my unbelievable hangover, my drive to Berkely to retrieve my cellphone, all of my traipsing about the old neighborhood from barbeque to barbeque, but safely tucked into bed by 10. Huh.
And I'm like--FUCK, I mean...

Oh fuck, now I'm fucking talking about it.

Okay, here's the fucking thing: I was supposed to have given up all of this "each one save one" bullshit. Why? Because it never fucking works out right. Because [I think] I do it for the wrong reasons. Because after giving up a year and a half of my life to all of that shit and finally making it to Lower Haight, I barely escaped to The Tenderloin with only a couple of hundred dollars, two pairs of underwear, a jacket and my notebooks.

And I guess I was just looking around now--looking at my fantastic fucking apartment, and all of my "stuff" and whatever I've fucking managed to build back since then, and I was like "Fuck it. I'm awesome--and I have something to offer."

I was right--I do. I have alot to offer. I just never thought I would end up giving away what I did.

If you'd like to know, my apartment is still intact. Same cat, same laptop, same bees, same silent expansive space with only me to fill it--all of that is here. What's gone?

I don't know. Resolve. Drive. A bunch of things I haven't thought of yet.
My little brother will be furious with me.
At least my sister will listen.
And who gets to town tomorrow?
That's right--Mary Star--and so we will drink wine and take Vicodin well into the wee hours when everything is so static and it feels as if this night might go on forever with me in the good graces of someone I love so fucking much, so very fucking much.

Thank god she's home to share my kitchen floor with me.
--M

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