"1, 2, 3, 4...I'm going off!"

I just saw it.

Wait, let me rephrase that...

I just saw it.

That's right guys, at 12:01 it officially became May 30th, and I, like so many other women in this world, went to see it.

Now in leiu of the normal crap I put on this blog as well as the crap I've been putting on this blog lately, it's time for two lists. Two lists of a kind that I never put on this blog.

Things I should have in order to not feel deeply imperfect, specifically in the way that they would make me more like most people.

1. A ladle.
2. A bedroom. One that isn't a closet.
3. A desk that wasn't always covered in crap so I wouldn't be typing this on my kitchen table which isn't even in my kitchen right now but rather is in my living room because I don't own another table for various living room pursuits such as sewing, typing, etc. because my desk is covered in crap.
4. A table in my living room so I can put my kitchen table back in my kitchen.
5. The will to change my sheets, put away my laundry, and clean my desk. That or a maid. Whatever.


Some predictions on the events of the next few weeks.

1. I will receive a phone call in the next few days, work schedule providing. Not my work schedule, mind you. When I answer the phone, I will say all the wrong things. I may regret some of them. Some of the things I say will make it to ears that I would rather not hear them. Then, I will receive another phone call, and I will not talk much, but rather listen for fear that I will seem like someone they wouldn't want to be calling and I really want him to be calling. On this most auspicious and second call, I will refrain from saying two things: "I love you" and "you're wrong and I'm right." I should say both of these things although I wont.

2. In the next month, I will purchase five flight segments. I should not be purchasing two of these, as they will ruin the latter three.

3. I will fuck someone and regret it. I will regret it because sex is not meant to render you silent, but rather is supposed to open a dialogue. This sex will render me catatonic because I am well aware of my penchant for talking myself into a corner. This corner, however, will be my only retreat because I will choose silence far before I will flat out lie.

4. I will find out that I have nothing to regret because I never had anything to lose.

5. I will drink a beer from the comfort of my kitchen linoleum. With pillows. And a flexi straw. While I am drinking these beers, I will be watching episodes of some crap that I would usually never watch like Grey's Anatomy or The Real World simply because one of my girlfriends recommended it and I trust them. I will not answer my phone[s].


Now I would just like to take the time to say that I don't really need a ladle, and I really don't want any of those things to come to pass.

I'm just frightfully afraid that they will.

I invite you to check them off with me, because against all of my better hopes, I can almost guarantee you at least three of the five.


Make with the details already.

When Wood first got here on Thursday, he met me at my store and I introduced him to my co-workers. Jokingly, he asked me if they approved. I replied, "Wood, I'm not friends with Sam anymore. They don't have to approve."


The truth is, yes. I want all of your approval. I pretty much always want all of my friends to love each other, but I am glad that you in particular, and I quote: "Love, LOVE LOVE the boy".
He's pretty great, right? I know. I really do, and it's right about now that I wish I didn't.
You know, I usually do that whole Ally-Sheedy-trainwreck-drunkenly-draped-on-jock-chic thing really well, but this time it just doesn't feel right at all. Being around him makes me feel deeply imperfect--and before you make with all the "You're great Miranda!" and "You're awesome!", you should know in advance that that's not really the issue.

I know I'm great, and I know that I'm fun and awesome and that I aspire to be even better, but I also know what I'm not capable of, and all of the things that other people seem to get that I don't. I just don't get it, and when his chest is rising and falling under my palm and I am awake drawing invisible lines in the stubble on his chin like connect the dots and I'm wondering if this is even real or just something I've invented in my head as a distraction from all of those things that I don't get. I don't even get why I would even entertain the thought of emotion as invention save that I would like it to be and why the fuck do I want it not to be real?

I hate myself right now. I hate me because we were in the elevator when he was leaving and I turned and I hugged him, and he asked me point blank if I was sad. Just like that, like: "Are you sad?" And I hate myself because I tried for several seconds to wrap my mouth around an artful white lie and all that came out was just yes. Point blank. Just like that, like: "Yes." Not even a sing-song "yeah" but the kind with a firm 's' at the end and a period that follows when one speaks in single word sentances. I'm so stupid for telling him the truth, for always having at least one less secret than he, for being a constant one step behind, the one that doesn't know what to say and yet somehow just barely manages to constantly say the wrong thing.

I guess it's just that I know that at the end of the day, I am the one that's not approved of, and Lisa, I hate myself the most for being jealous of the approval he commands.

You don't have to sit on that one long to know how fucked up that is.

My sheets still smell like him and I don't have the will to change them, as if I would if I didn't even have the will to tell him not to come in the first place like I should have.

Please. Please. Say something to make this better.

So They Say It's Your Birthday: Beer and Space Needle[s]

I haven't drank this much since last time I was in Seattle. Why you ask? Oh, yeah. That makes sense. A visitor from Seattle. Here's some pics.

Dude--you see that? Oh yeah, that's right. There's another one of them out there: Someone with the Space Needle tattooed on thier arm.

Unfortunately, I'm pretty much the only grown ass woman with her finger in her nose.

[more later.]


Worst. Morning. Ever.

I just got out of bed. It's 6:45 in the morning, I'm exhausted, I have to go open my store, and there is a boy in my bed that I would give most things right now not to leave.

I would love to make with the details, but I'm way too pissed to think straight this early.

Sorry Lisa.

Oh, and Mark? Look at me! I'm all growed up!


My initial response.

As anyone knows who has met me, I'm obsessed with my first initial. Which is also my last initial. I have five M's adorning one wall in my apartment. I have eight M's tattooed on myself. I have two in my full name.

And it was time for an update.

I used to change my header every...oh, I don't know. Six months or so. I had had the Cake header for over a year.

It was time for a new one.

I would love to parlay that into a hearty "it's time for a new lot of things, yeah?" but I suppose that remains to be seen. The truth is that as much as I am loving hanging out with Balls-Out-Miranda, I am often scared of what she is capable of. Specifically of what she will say out of turn.

Remember the third Open Letter? In that one, I used the line "If you can't figure out which fork to use, don't eat at the grown-ups table." Dude.

I mean, this is me doing the same thing--trying to pry myself from the breakfast nook with the rest of the kids and propping myself up in the formal dining hall with a silver spoon, a paper plate, and a napkin that keeps falling off my lap. I've been entertaining the most painful fight or flight fantasies lately--painful because I don't rationally want to do either.

Three days.


M for Moxie

The weirdest thing just happened to me on the way home from work.

So there I was, on Powell and O'Farrell, and a group of anti war protesters walk by holding signs and all wearing Guy Fawkes masks.

Then I realized what song the saxophonist on the corner was playing--

Cry Me a River.




"Boo ya! Let's go the Library!"

Okay. Fine. I s'pose we'll clear this up again.

Please, please, please do not walk through my glass house on the sly, throwing rocks aimlessly without at least leaving me a little note telling me you were there. Yeah, yeah--most likely this doesn't apply to you. That's true. But check this shit out.

Somebody in my rainy little hometown has decided to peruse my archives for a total of several hours in the last week or so. Would it kill you to let me know you stopped by? Apparently.

Fine. Don't tell me. Lie to me. Whatever, because here's what I realized:

I should be perusing my own archives. Why? Well, there are some rather poignant posts you visited that in revisiting myself, has led me to realize a tragic string of events that I never really wanted myself to see. Okay let's see. Let's start with the ones you read like:

Worst. Sex. Ever. Damn, that was a great post. What's weird is that I kind of forgot I had written it. I once said, right after the first Open Letter, that I had become scared of what I write down, lest it become true. I'm suddenly so pissed at myself for that post (albeit super funny) because I clearly nailed my own coffin shut. I set my own stage for a hermit-like sexless winter in which I largely scrooged my way through every post and pined over a boy that I had several months previous had early morning punk rock pillowtalk with on Mary's birthday who was two states away, much like you, in my hometown. Fuck, I gotta stop writing this shit down. It always comes true.

Oh, and:

Oh, I'm afraid I left something out. This post was great--and was one of those, like this one, where I am speaking to someone unnamed but point blank through the blogosphere. In that post, I was speaking to Sam, who had recently decided to write me a series of e-mails in which she conveniently forgot the past and came just a little to close for my taste to comparing herself to Jesus.

I guess that brings me to my point. There are some I think you missed.

Like Okay. Got it. No really. My favorite excerpt of this is: "I don't know, I just miss him, and you know: I miss him. I'm so freakin' wasted you guys. Omigod, I'm so FREAKIN' wasted. I'll just go home with that Jason guy. Jake. What the hell! Whatever! I don't love anybody! Fuck you! Omigod, I love you so much, Mindy."

The unfortunate part I left out of this post is a conversation I once had with Samantha. I had spent Labor Day Weekend '06 in Seattle, and took over her room in the wharehouse while she stayed at Ian's. A couple weeks later, she called me. This is not paraphrased at all. I remember this conversation vividly.

"Hello?" This is how I and the rest of the world answer the phone. Lest you not believe me, there was no pause between me answering the phone and her next sentance.
I laughed out loud to this, finally composed myself, and then answered.
"Yeah, dude. Totally. Didn't you already know that?"
"No, you didn't tell me!"
"I didn't? I thought we just weren't talking about it 'cause it was boring."
"How is that boring?"
"Because I had just fucked Abara the day before."
Then she laughed out loud.

Oh! and there's also this one. A response, in repose. This is the one I wrote because Samantha insisted I was being retarded, that I needed to slap some sense into myself before it all got out of control. I thought that if I wrote it all down, it would all make sense in my head, and I could fucking move on. It makes me furious to think of this.

I have been, several times recently by many people, posed with the notion of making good with Samantha, up to and including being told that "If I could just get you guys in the same room, maybe you guys could be friends again." My response? This too, I also remember vividly.

"Yeah, but it's more complicated than you know. We were more than best friends. We were closer than sisters, we were better than lovers. She really hurt me. To the point where it will never be the same."

What I wanted to say?

"You have no idea what she says about you behind your back. If it weren't for her and everything she told me, I would have been here, both the litteral and the proverbial 'naked in your bed', for a long time now. I mean, you wouldn't believe some of the stuff I've said about you, but you seriously would not believe the shit she says about you. To her credit, she might have just said all that shit to suit her own purposes, keep me single and for herself. Also to her credit, it sounded like shit Ian was telling her and she was merely repeating, as she's often known to do when she loves some boy or another. I hate myself for ever believing her, but more importantly, I hate myself for thinking all of this and not telling you, for letting you lay there and hold me and defend her because you think it's the right thing to do. It's not. She would never offer you the same courtesy."

It's true, though. She wouldn't. Not you or me. And yeah, this whole idea of "You" in this post is getting a bit skewed, and I may not know who "You" even are, but I think I do. More importantly, it doesn't matter if I do--google away. Search and find some tidbit you think illicit and secret--but know that it's not.

If there's something you really want to know, just call me. I'll tell you. It's 415.567.7339.

If you want to just read my blog, drop me a line. Leave a comment. That way, we can both make sure you don't miss anything next time.

And thanks, because since you've forced me to take a frank look at my past, it's all so very clear to me now. It just sucks that all of this time that's gone by has to be added to the short list of things I truly regret.


p.s.--there is a nav bar on the top of thus blog. on the left, you can search just my blog by entering keywords. try it out by entering the title of this post and reading the other entry that comes up. this will be fun for everyone, by the way.


Post 350: A Brief Letter From My New Little Nephew

Thanks for the bitchin' onesies Aunt Miranda. You can't leave it up to these guys to dress me. They put me in crap that has ducks on them. Honest to God ducks. Anyway, thanks.


Congrats to Eddy and Carrie Wilhelme on thier new little bundle o' joy, Owen Andrew Wilhelme.

I have known Eddy and Peter Smith since my first day of highschool almost fourteen years ago now, and it's weird to think where we are now.

1. Eddy has a freakin' baby.
2. Peter Smith just moved in with Mares in Portland yesterday. They're totally in love.
3. I too am totally in love, and the object of my affection will be coming here to SF on the 22nd for his birthday. I'll keep you all updated on the requitedness of said in-love-ness, haha.

On a side note, I saw Other-Nick-The-Writer last night.

Let's just say that old habits die harder than I thought.


[p.s.--I really got that e-mail from Owen. True story. It's word for word, and makes me smile.]


An Open Letter to the Boy Whom I Let Fuck Me In a Manner I Thought I Had Forgotten

As I’m sure you know by now, there are many things I’m not good at, but I was always really good at math, so let’s start there.

Forty-two from ninety-eight is fifty-six—and this number represents the amount of cocks I’ve sucked since the first time I had yours in my mouth until the day I realized I loved you. I mean, I s’pose I don’t know for sure if I’ve actually sucked that much cock in three years, but I do have a penchant for opening with my best move. Of two things, though, I am sure:
1. I’ve definitely fucked that many people since then.
2. Thirteen from 150 is 137—and that is how much I now weigh.

Let’s chat for a bit about the latter, as the former is not near as interesting as it may sound.

Yeah, it’s true. I have an eating disorder. When I tell most people, they’re like “which one?” as if it’s that simple. Truth be told, I have neither one. Of those, anyway. What I am is an under-eater.
This is a bit of a simplistic definition, but just as overeaters over eat, well…you get the picture. The comments that always bother me are the people who think this is some kind of manic weight loss technique. It’s not. Do you think overeaters want to be fat? I guess I couldn’t really say, but I can assure you that it’s not very exciting for me for all of my jeans to be baggy in the ass while my hip bones would be more likely than my boobs to fill out my already not-so-substantial bras.

The closest thing I can really equate it to that people seem to readily understand is alcoholism. It’s not something you can contract or catch, it’s not even exactly tangible. It is a physical manifestation of a mental recession. Or maybe a mental overload. Maybe both. On me, it makes my ribs do grotesque things and makes my hips more likely to pop out of socket when I’m having sex. I’m glad it didn’t make a noise, as it often does—my hip, that is. It is both loud, and usually scary for the other participant, and regardless it is very, very painful the next day.

Like alcoholism, it is a behavior you can commit to changing, which I have many times over the years. Unfortunately the other similarity is that you always retain both a mental and a physical memory of what it’s like to be caught in the throws of a relapse.

The first day seems like no big deal. You can convince yourself you forgot to eat, that you’re just stressed, that your stomach hurts and you don’t have much of an appetite, that’s all. The second day, you begin to remember. Everything you are remembers, from your head to your hips, and your stomach easily reverts back to the way it used to act when you never filled it, your tongue has no want or need to taste anything save beer and coffee. Maybe whiskey. The third day is the best day—you can suddenly think very clearly, things like logic and lists and plans are very easy for you on the third day. This is likely from the incredible nights sleep you got the day before, as not eating leaves you completely physically exhausted. This is the day that makes us do it, and when times are such that we can’t wrap our heads around it, we starve ourselves for this one day where everything makes sense.

The fourth day, you just feel incredibly sick, whether or not you’ve finally eaten.

The point is that I feel out of control now that I've realized that I'm in love with you--so unfortunately this has been the recourse.

It's not really about whether or not it is requited, but rather I am proud of myself just for the simple act of being capable of something I thought I was too jaded and irresponsible to feel.

I am in love with you.

Wow. I love being able to say that--and whatever weight I am, I welcome being out of control if this is the payoff.

I don’t know who exactly you’ve deemed I am, but trust me when I say that even the most jaded of us, the most ridiculous, the sluttiest and most seemingly flighty still have our convictions. I’m not kidding or joking, and I’m not just some siren who’s song you can’t seem to escape like you’ve dubbed me—I’m just me, and I have words to say that I wont let you take from me again.

Regardless of what you feel in rerturn, I'm happy with how much I love you. I'm settled in the feeling that this is an emotion I'm capable of. I'm happy with what I will be handed.

You can have me if you want me, but believe me when I say that I can never let you just fuck me. Not like that. Not ever again.

Listen, I will never dissuade you from having the feeling you have. You are entitled to them just as I am to mine--but I want things for myself, things that I may not deserve. But regardless, I will fight for them until the day I deem them not worthy of fighting for.

All my love,