2.20.2009

For, um..."Andrew".

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do know where Jeremiah is tending bar these days: nowhere. But fret you not, that will all change in 3-4 weeks when the Pillager's Pub opens on 87th and Greenwood. J-Ru will be the General Manager there. I will also be there busy warming a barstool all the way from Rainier Valley.

You can friend him if you are so inclined, and he'll likely post a bulletin about the grand opening.

And dude...who are you? I've already called like...five people to try and figure out which Andrew you are.

--M

2.19.2009

Finally fuckers, finally, finally.

[2.19.09: 1:16am]
K + L--
There has been talk of moving lately, and I was struck with an instant deep pang of memory, but the kind that feels so vivid as if I could open a door here in the Great North and walk into a Balmy California, call you guys, and drink wine into the wee hours with you in front of my open bay windows.

Wait, let's start at the beginning.

Yes, it's been so long, and don't think my absence from my blog means creative proliferation in other pursuits for me, because unless you count moving, it does not. Lakricia has seen naught but MySpace and bus-schedule-checking since I got my internet service connected last week. I checked, and I haven't modified a word document in thirteen days. Thirteen days.

Being so transitory has been hell on my poor little head--my bag got stolen (along with lisence, bank card, and most importantly, moleskine) so I keep lists of important dates and lists of things I need and lists of things I need to replace and lists of places I need to be all in my head, and as I fill it with more and more lists of things I can't accomplish everything I want to accomplish seems eo fall out of my opposite ear. Huh. And so it should come to pass that while all of this is happening--this jumble of pressures and priorities--there also happens to be oh-so-very much to say.
So I suppose it's time.

My alarm went off at quarter to eight this morning, the same one I used to set for you, Keenan, when you'd be hightailing it to work straight from my apartment, and yes, when I sleep with a partner I still sleep on the inside, away from the door, albeit now the inside is the left, not the right by my closet wall. Same bed, though. Different sheets, flannel now, it's very cold here. But they are still, of course, my favorite color of sheets: navy blue.
This morning when the alarm went off, I was laying quite naked in my navy blue sheets and I let the tattooed arm be the one to reach over to my desk and hit the snooze button. Then there was an arm about my waist. Then a hand on my nipple. Then some rustling and a pair of blue eyes staring me full in the face, pink lips speaking goodmorning.
And it's a little weird, you guys. It's so different. I don't shoot awake like a light in the morning to play hostess, to offer my shower and lock the door behind him when he goes to work--and I mean this for both romantic and platonic bedpartners alike. It's just so different, you know?
And here I am, smiling in the face of his goodmorning, and promptly going back to sleep while he showers. I do this because it's his shower too and I don't have to show him how to use it, and he has his own key so I've nothing to lock behond him.
And do you now that after he showers and dresses in the morning he gets the lunch I've packed for him from the fridge? It's true, I do that like a very good and wholesome girlfriend, and much in that vein I always whisper something sweet in his ear from the comfort of my nude recline when he comes to kiss me goodbuy.

All of this, by the way, still somehow feels very much like me. Why?

Don't you wonder what I'm whispering?

Miss you guys.
--M

p.s.--of course i was going to tell you. this morning it was "i'm gonna fuck you so hard when you get home". The moving thing we'll discuss on my blogoversary, which is on the 23rd.