Why so contemplative? Let's rethink.

I worked at the cafe today. It was very, very slow. I made three drinks. I poured two beers. Opened two more. Served four glasses of wine. I made fifteen dollars in three hours aside from my salary. Cake.

The point is that I had a lot of time to think.

As I told Nick last week, there are many boys. There are complicated boys. To this complicated boy rule, there are two exceptions, and one is out of town. The other? Well, it's time I talk about that one.

Last October, I found myself at my new place, vehemently optimistic, and very, very frightened of my good fortune. Yes, I know, there are better things to fear (like bees), but you'll have to bear with me and understand that I've already discussed that part of my life. That part that was October when everything was so new new new and for some reason so very fucking scary.

And so it was that my birthday came and it was, as they all seem to be, so very fucking crazy; and so it was that it was made crazier by the addition of my best friend, Samantha Oldfield.
Yes, she was in town. And yes, that is the last time I've seen her.

And now? Now we have new tattoos. New "best friends", whatever the fuck that means anymore.
What I mean is that Monday is Mary's birthday, and I will spend it in my and Sam's hometown, and Mary will sit in Sam's stool at The Duck and then I will introduce her to everyone as my best friend and as not to complicate things, I will leave out the part when Sam left me--dropped me and left Mary to pick up the pieces of all of our mutual trainwreck bullshit and all of our all over the country traipsing and everything we've left behind in Maui and Seattle and Miami and Portland and Los Angeles and everywhere we were seperately before we were "Mares and Mirans".

My niece, who's name is Alexis and who is amazing, had a best friend named Amanda Mae. One day, Amanda Mae slept with Lexi's ex-boyfriend, and they didn't speak for a very long time. Last week, I get a bulletin from Lexi proclaiming "Amanda Mae and I are tight again!!!!!!" and I fear mentioning to her: "Oh really? for how long?"

Yes, yes I know. I did this too. Amanda, Miranda, Mary, Samantha Carrie Erica Charlotte Crystal Meredith Jennifer Angelica Radost and we are all the same. Time for the story.

Last October, after Ian and Samantha fought so very fucking vehemently, there was, as there always is, the day after my birthday. And on this auspicious day, there was to be heard via my open window and the way sound is ambiently carried through my courtyard, the musical stylings of some horrible bassist playing Manson and Green Day breaching my windowsill. This is not an uncommon occurance, and since that day I have been known to scream "GET A METRONOME!" from my open window in a matter that makes it seem as if I myself can play the bass better than he. Here's how Sam and I sounded that morning.

"Dude, are you fucking kidding me? For the love of god, don't rush the intro to Longview. Get a fucking metronome for chrissakes."
"Yeah, dude. I mean, Miranda? Does that guy play all the time? 'Cause I mean, maybe you're apartment's not really worth it."
"Yeah. I'm considering that. Oh lord, now he's butchering Beautiful People. Oh god, no. No, no, no."
"Yeah, I liked the bad Green Day better. At least that reminded me of good music."
"Nicely put. One day--one day I'll find the courtyard bassist, and he will know a fury previously unseen in the Tendernob as I furiously point out that Plateau is not meant to be played on a bass."

The point of this story?

I have been, unbeknownst to me until last night, sleeping with the courtyard bassist. That's right, it's him. The young little thing from 402 who I've been naked with on a handfull of occasions out of convenience and my reluctance to leave my block as of late. Tall, lanky Drew who's bass is propped against his television in his mirror-image of mine apartment one floor down and one door over; Drew who like me, lacks the support of a traditional family and is so so fucking desperate to find some kind of link here in San Francisco. Some kind of support that wont fucking leave this time for some town up north, some outlying city, some boy, some other fucking girl.

Today, I was dying to tell Samantha this.

But then Mary called.

I told her instead. What was her reply?

"Damn, I had such a crush on that kid when I lived there. You're my fucking hero--I always wanted to hit that. Dude--he's that kid that you can hear playing bass in the courtyard?"


p.s.--Happy birthday, Moto.

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