Let's recap.


Listgames, for those of you who do not know, is when you take your list of your sexual partners, which everyone should have, and apply some sort of filter or modifier to it to try and statisfy it.

As my birthday looms, today is the day we will break it down by year, quantifying over ten years of my sexual history.
My birthday will describe the endpoint for every year, and only new partners will be noted. NEW PARTNERS.

16-17: 3
17-18: 0
18-19: 0
19-20: 0
20-21: 3
21-22: 5
22-23: 6
23-24: 15
24-25: 27
25-26: 20
26-27: 12

Go ahead, add it up. It's cool, homes.

Let's keep playing. Of those, how many had a significant other?

Those who had a...
Girlfriend: 11
Boyfriend: 2
Fiancee: 1
Wife: 3

And of those, how many of these significant others did I know personally?


Barring some kind of orgy situation where both members of the couple were involved?
Before last Saturday? None. Now?


It's weird finding out what you're capable of, especially when you can't remember your motivations, intent, drive, and about 99% of your actions.

Continued Wishlist:

1. To see Aubrey. I haven't seen her in years, and I'm dying to dish about Will, even though it was 2 years ago.
2. French fries and PBR's at The Canturbury with Mark.
3. Pumpkin Ale's at The Duck with Gavin and Mary.
4. Breakfast with my Niece and hopefully Amanda Mae.
5. Cake.

6 days.



From San Francisco to Toronto, with love: 10/07-10/18

I'm sorry about your writing/boy problems. Maybe you need a vacation up to Toronto, hint hint? We might not party as hardy as Mary, but I have a nice ass, AND I watch lots of movies. But seriously, do new things, maybe? Give you some inspiratziah. That's fake hebrew for inspiration. Apparently, if you add the suffix -atziah to a word, it becomes Hebrew.
I never finished the last poem I started. It's from December. No one has seen these lines, so consider yourself blessed.

Looking for some inspiration
Anything will do
Looking for some motivation
Anything but you

It's not much, but it's all I got.
Now YOU have to keep in touch.

Kay, I'll make you a deal. You write me a piece and give me a place tostay, I'll come visit.
In the meantime, can I finish that poem for you? Just a thought.
More soon--boy problems lingering in the text message inbox of my cellphone.

PLEASE finish the poem. I think my soul broke, so I can't finish it myself. I know the feeling of problems in the inbox. I hope it's not Jeaney McCrapJeans begging for a little nookie. That'd be just sad.


Looking for some inspiration,
anything will do.
Looking for some motivation,
anything but you;
for all these years and all these times
were built from my conviction,
but of them all that were the best
were those when you withdrew.


Update on the wishlist by the way:

1. To not give a damn about my bad reputation.
2. Hoegaarden, no lemon, please.
3. A surprise guest at my party. What do you mean who? Do you not know the meaning of the word surprise?
4. To work past the hangover and be able to get on the plane the next day.
Oct 30 Tue N/S 1219 Depart Oakland (OAK) at 6:20PM
Arrive in Portland (PDX) at 7:55PM
Car/Hotel Reservations: Car EZ Rent-A-Car - Economy car
Nov 5 Mon N/S 3589 Depart Seattle/Tacoma (SEA) at 6:25PM
Arrive in Oakland (OAK) at 8:30PM
5. Cake.
6. An apology.
7. Champagne.
8. Caviar.
9. PBR.
10. Cake. The best kind. The thick and moist melt-on-your-tongue kind that seems ever more elusive with every one of these I have.

10 days.


Until the day someone dies.

I was thinking about this years' NYCD, and what it will sound like, and the fact that I'm on a much earlier deadline than I've usually understood for something called "New Years CD". Actually, there will be one recipient of this mighty annual extravaganza at the early date of November 2nd. The rest of you--and I will leave you to determine whether this is fortunate or no--will have to wait until at least New Years Day.

Some of this was written Dec 27, 2006, and was to serve as the intro for NYCD2007, which merely ended up a scant "best of" compilation, and not near what NYCD is generally understood to be. I never posted or told anyone I wrote it, and then revisited it for my Blogoversary post, although most of the really explosive shit was removed, and a bunch of other sentimental shit was added.

Some of this piece is new; I have now taken the two and made them into this, and I hope you enjoy it.

Welcome to the sneak-peek introduction to NYCD 2008:

An Open Letter To My Family
by: MIranda Moure

I only ever wanted the best for us. Unfortunately, everything I did was never good enough.
I think I, unlike the rest of you, have tried so fucking hard to be something beyond what I should have become born to a single welfare mother in the projects of South Seattle, and that included seeing that we could build something beyond what we were handed. I thought you guys at least saw that.

I know you don't. I know that now, I mean, really. I do. And I can see myself every day in my mirror that I salvaged from a Jewish girl’s dwindling apartment in Miami, but I can barely recognize myself anymore. Trust me when I say it's easy not to be able to recognize yourself anymore when you are entering your late twenties and you are realizing that everything you fought for in this such auspicious decade has been merely a beautiful farce.

Ahh, and that mirror. It always reminds me of Miami. I loved it there. Hey, real quick, show of hands: who still thinks I wanted to leave? That many of you?

To everyone with a raised hand: Fuck you, but we'll revisit that later. Don't worry about it for now. For now, let's talk about...

Oh! I know, how about my only relative whom I truly consider part of my family--that's right, my Niece. My Niece who, at the age of two, was my best friend the first time I lost my home and everything I owned for sticking up for "My Family" and ended up homeless at 14 living in her basement, babysitting her every night and crying all the time.

As much as I hate it when my family leaves me, I never really realized how hard it must have been for her everytime I left, and when I finally knew that this must be true it hit me like a frieght train in a coffee shop by her highschool looking right into her eyes. The worst part? No really, this is the worst part.

I had to apologize for it, and when it came out it sounded stupid and flat, like a hoop you're jumping through, and we both knew that it was because I had given her up for a cast of characters that were all already so very long fucking gone, and the one person who was marginalized the most can hardly be expected to forgive me for it. I don't blame her, I mean, the day she forgives me is probably the day I stop respecting her.

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 the time she was 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 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. The only difference this time is that I will do it without you, because 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 demanded anyone fight for me.

Until now.

Oh, do you miss me?
Well get in the back of the fucking line, because 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 because I'm stuck in this quasi-post-adolecence that is sustained by my last dregs of optimism.

Do you wanna talk to me?
Well, that couldn't be more simple. Call me. Visit me. Do something else other than wait around for me to pick up the phone or rent a car or move across the fucking country to fix your fucking life. I've hung that hat up, and feel no sympathy for your indecision. Fuck you.

Do you wanna fuck me?
Again, get in the back of the line. Yeah, I might have fucked you. I might have loved you. I might have done both. The one thing I can promise you is that I've never lied to you as you have undoubtedly done to me, and I never promised you something I wasn't willing to deliver. Still wanna fuck me? Damn, there's that line again, but before you take your place in it, please remember that fucking me isn't some kind of quick fix. You can't fuck me hard enough to make me feel or revert back to who I was or make me forgive you. I'm just not that kind of girl.

Oh, and do you wanna make me feel again?
Then top that. Top the look in her eyes when I deperately tried to explain why I left; but I wouldn't be lying if I told you you probably can't. Want to keep trying against all odds? Well, if you'd like to look to my history for a possible outcome then you might as well not bother, because it will likely appear that your efforts have succeded in the short term, and then I will distance myself from you for whatever reason and be completely unappreciative for everything you've ever done for me. Plus, most of you are far too weak to try, anyway. Don't kid yourself, really. Just go rent a movie or something--that's what I do when I want to forget.

There's no more time for any of that anyway, and there's no time for tears. No time for weak wills or weaker knees, just down the hill, up the hill; here where I fucking live in the shadow of the cathedral there is this constant waging war, an uphill battle where senses are numbed and trenches are dug deeper every day and the front pushes ever northward. Up you go, onward to work, upward to laundry day, done with you. I won't cry for you anymore.

And fuck it, right? Yeah, fuck it. I have waited for so fucking long to be here alone—so why am I mourning a family that never really was that I may have never really wanted? No really—I fought so fucking hard for all of you, and what did I get? A string of goodbyes. Not one thank you. Twins I can’t have. Fuck you, and fuck you the most for that one look on my niece's face.

Oh, that's right. Miami. No, assholes, I didn't want to fucking leave. But I didn't just do it for her, but for all of you fuckers. So all of you might see my conviction for all of us and grow some fucking balls to start chipping in and doing your part, too. So here we go—


I’m only worse off because of you. You have only made me forget where I’ve come from while simultaneously made me fight your battles with this constant notion that if I don’t, you might wake up dead. Well fine then.

So be it.

Die. Send me your suicide notes begging for me to help and then just fucking kill yourself. Do it, I fucking dare you. Do you really think I'll be there at the very last second to knock the bottle from your hand? To loosen the noose from your neck? Do you think I'm still coming to the fucking rescue all the fucking time after what you've done to me?

Do you think I'm still stupid enough to think it would be my fault if you fucking died?

I’ll be right here, and I'll be fine without you. Seriously--me and my laundry and my laptop and my kitchen that smells like lemons and orchids and my record player and my art history books and all of my hair products with “oh so aptly named levels of hold” -–we will all be just fine without you. I’m sick of this weird combination of being pitied all the while I’m secretly pitying all of you and your many dependencies. That's right--all of these years I've been pitying that you have only ever used me when it’s convenient to you not because you’re selfish but rather because you don’t have the balls to do otherwise and I’m constantly wishing I ever had the guts to just tell you to do your pitying and squandering without me. To delete my number from your phone. To feign your love with someone else. To do your fucking cocaine without me even though, against my better judgment, I never even got on your fucking case for doing it. Goddamnit.

The worst part? No really, for real this time. This really is the worst part.

I enjoy being like this; I like marginalizing all of you for a change and saving my time for whatever I want.
Meaning? Meaning I’ll take a couple of goodbyes if they come with a fucking thank you, or even just some goddamn peace.

Think about it. Think really hard for a minute, and decide whether or not all of this applies to you.

If it doesn't, then be prepared to either fight with me, or never ask for more than you yourself would be willing to give, or it very well might apply to you one day.

If it does, then go to hell, because I’m not in the mood to wait around until I’m dead for you to realize that you love me.

I'm sorry, Lexi.





There is another open letter in the works.

Expect it today by seven.

If you don't see it, it purely means that I'm yet too scared to tell the truth.


10.15 edit:

Or it means that Comcast was out in my entire building for several days. All better.


Blogs and Bloodlust

Wow. Hey guys guess who I heard from? That's right--The Benjamin Singer Blogging Experience for the Ladies.

Don't know about Blog Wars 2005? Oh kiddos, if you have never dug around in my archives, now would be a good time. In fact, here are some links so you can easily chronicle the entire episode which were The Blog Wars.

The basic premise was to take 5 warring blogging highschoolers from Canada, add a San Franciscan sex blogger and writer (that would of course refer to myself) a couple of team blogs (our old gang blog, Team Tenderloin and our sister gang from SC of which half lives here now, Eggroll, Bagel, Cookie, Vengeance: The Four Ninja Food Groups) an Australian kid, and then sprinkle generously with bloggers from all over the country and hilarity ensued.

Here's your crash course, in chronological order. Do read the comments on each post.

1. It's a Blog Eat Blog World
Also note for this post: To Quote/Hack Mobb Deep, from Nicholas Mathisen.

2. The Slaughterhouse Five

3. Rally the Troops, Yo!

And then the entries cam pouring in...
4. Ben Singer

5. Michael Herman

6. Charles Firestone

7. David Fromstien

8. Lauren Silver

Then, the returns...
9. Early Returns

And finally...
10. A New Hope

Hope you enjoy this little trip down Blog Memory Lane. Worth the read. Trust.

Oh, and a big what's up to Ben. Thanks for droppin' a line.




It's about that time again. Just like last year, I'm starting early. Enjoy.

1. No more tears.
2. No more crying.
3. No more sighing, lying, or dying.
4. We're all one big band across this land and we should sing in tune, let's throw the balls to break the walls, we've got to do it soon.
5. Most of all, I want no more tears.
6. Oh, and Cake.

Three weeks.



"Cosmopolitan, up, with a twist."

My co-workers and I were reading a copy of--that's right--The Allmighty Cosmo.

You know what we found out?

That that magazine is fucking retarded. No really--they are touted as the #1 womens magazine in the country, and somehow they still can't manage to use the words 'penis' and 'vagina'. I am totally serious right now. Penises are called members, fucking is called love making, and vaginas are never even refered to at all but rather dematerialized into everything surrounding the actual glory hole i.e. clitorises, pubic mounds, and vulvas. When the vag is mentioned, it says something like "insert one finger inside of you." Where exactly is that? My fucking ear? No wonder women can't bring themselves to orgasm.

But I digress. The point is that my co-workers and I decided that we could totally write sex advice columns for Cosmo. Seriously! It would be so easy! Here's one I threw together. I'm gonna re-write it a few more times before I actually submit it, but it's really getting there. Enjoy.

How To Please a Man
An introductory lesson by Miss Moxie Moure

Hey kittens. Now I know what you're thinking. You're all like: "Omigod! I'm so old! I'm like 24 years old and I'm unmarried and ugly! Not to mention I'm super fat!"

Don't you worry your pretty little fat ass off, because all you really need to get ahead is get a man, and all you need to get a man are these 5 simple tips that will assure men will like you better than those other bitches at the gym or whatever.

1. Buy him beer.
Guys love beer, and they will love you if you buy it for them. Seriously ladies, let's shelve the Zinfandel for a night, plug in that Playstation, and invite the man of the week over to your pad. Then, all you have to do is buy the beer and have him drink it! Trust me, he'll be so stoked, he might just propose.

2. Put his member in your fucking mouth.
Don't be one of those corny bitches who supposedly "doesn't do that". You know what ladies? Girls who do that are married. To hot, rich men. With nice cars.

3. After you put his member in your mouth, suck really hard, and bob your head up and down.
I cannot stress this enough. It's not always enough just to merely put it in your mouth, you might actually have to suck on it a little or possibly even move. Now every man is different so don't take this as the absolute gospel, but his member is a very sensitive part of his body, and this will likely feel very, very good. He might even propose!

4. Sleep with him.
That's right ladies, it couldn't be easier. Let him put his member inside of you. Inside where? Well, you'd be surprised to know you actually have a lot of options. If you let him pick, he'll probably just propose to you.

5. Get the fuck out.
You never want to be too available because that would be stupid. You must leave his house in the middle of the night after your lovemaking and by no means should you ever call him again. I mean, if he doesn't call you, is he really marriage material? Of course not. If he does, just offer to put his member in your mouth again. Are those wedding bells I hear? I think so.

Trust me, this is all you need to know. Don't worry about how your body works or anything clinical like that. It's pretty unimportant. Really.

Good luck ladies!!!



The Carnie and the Crying Guy

The night I met The TSG, I was with Mary and Erica at the Allmighty Molotov's, and right as Spanish Bombs came on, I felt a jab in my side. I turned, verging on furious to see one who has only ever been known on this l'il blog as That One. Oh That One that I spurned so harshly so long ago, that in my post god-knows-what phase I all but refused when he handed me his phone number after what I assumed would be but a one night tet-a-tet.
As it turned out, he became more and more of a figure in my circle of friends, and the next couple of months found me avoiding his third-hand invitations to parties and the like, and then my head slowly began to clear. Unfortunately, my new found clarity only afforded me a view of something I could no longer have. This of course made me want it desperately.

Last week at Hemlock, shortly after Grace's boyfriends arrival, tiny tee and all, I looked across the bar to see the unmistakable image of--that's right--A Carnie. One of my fellow co-workers from the circus was right across the room, chain smoking holding a PBR in typical Carnie style.

I don't know why I hadn't expected it to happen earlier. I mean, the dive bar is The Carnies' natural habitat, but suddenly it seemed so very fucking odd. Then, it quickly got more odd.

Mid our reunion (read: omigod, how's Crystal? How's Kyle? Do you ever see Kevin?), who should call me over from across the bar? Oh shit--what's he doing here? That One only hangs out at 'Tovs, what's he doing at Hemlock?

He is drunk, and he is hugging me, and there are all manner of gestures and the like that lead me to believe that maybe, just maybe...

And just like that I realize that Lower Haight was so very fucking long ago, and there are new distractions right here in Lower Nob Hill, and there are new boys that make me want to reconcile what goes on in my own head, brand new boys that I can't have that I now realize I want so fucking desperately.

But there are holes, you know? Holes that I have poked in perfection that act as happiness control. This means that should we (and I mean right now the general we; this has happened many times) ever "be together", even though this would most likely happen shortly after the first snowball is thrown in hell, I already have a predetermined exit strategy in mind based on all the little inconsequential things that I don't like about them. That One's flaw? Ahh. I was lucky enough to be told in confidence by his ex-girfriend that on top of being a serial monogamist, she found out upon their demise that he is a perfect specimen of the much feared but rarely seen Crying Guy. Oh yes its true--he with black shaggy hair and tattooed hands bearing a PBR or two is the fucking Crying Guy. Eeew.

Oh, right. Now I am guided by neccesity to name the other ones' flaw. TNK? Yeah, as I've noted before, he's a veritable child. I saw him the other night, though. Bar-time antics involving store bought beer as per usual. He's doing good.

So. What to do now? I have 28 days left of being 26 years old and what am I left with? Roll call.

"Okay. Boy I can have but don't want?"


"Thanks, good to see you. Allright, boy I can't have and want really bad but see as a liability?"


"Great. Now is boy I didn't want but then did and now I guess I don't anymore but might be able to have here today?"

"Yeah, right here."

"Wow. Great turn out. Now...oh, I didn't expect that name on my list. I thought he dropped this class, but it seems we are supposed to have a boy I was supposed to love but never did? Are you with us today? Hello?"