2.18.2012

The Bone Sabbath: Dear 23 Year Old Miranda

M--

I know things seem insane right now; you're a white-bikini-and-Sinead-O-Jeanskirt clad Miamian pining over some boy in Olympia. Right now, February 18th 2004, you are away from Florida and laying in his navy sheeted bed wondering if you could ever live without him. But things will change: your brand new skyline tattoo will bleed a bit with time and within a year you'll forget about that boy completely for a string of conquests found in Seattle bars and San Francisco lounges.  In a year you will meet a boy that seems inconsequential, and it's fine that you'll think so, but I'm telling you that right now it's been another 7 years and he's still in your head and your phone and sometimes over the years on planes to come visit you. Sometimes when he's not on planes to come visit you, you'll find yourself in some one's bed who's just your age now, and maybe mid this naked recline you'll realize that these two inconsequential boys bear a striking resemblance to each other.

There are a couple stories here, Miranda. There is the one where you capped an extended casual sex sabbatical with a very young New Yorker, and he sweetly asked for your phone number in the morning and you relented, and he walked you to your train on a sunny Saturday afternoon. You kissed him goodbye, in public, on the street, and none of it really felt like you. Phone numbers and strolls and PDA? It's just all so weird; it feels weird and you don't remember exactly how you like to handle these types of situations because you are finally out of an LTR, and then there is still the inconsequential boy you'll meet in a year and then a 23 year old version of him asks for your phone number. I suppose you aren't quite yet aquainted with the Miranda that you'll soon become: If I remember correctly then the notches on your bedpost are still in the single digits or maybe have just barely tipped past ten, but they will number in the hundreds by the time you are me and you will laugh at the time you didn't know if you should say goodbye to the sound guy you fucked on his tour bus parked out between Collins and the beach. This Miranda is a heartbreaker and a nametaker, a storymaker. A fucking listmaker. In a year or so you'll be her and you'll know because you'll be busy fucking all kinds of inappropriate people like your best friend's Dad's married bandmate, your roomates' ex-boyfriend, and every one who ever lived at Jeremaiah's house. Most of these people will never get your number, and few of them will you ever see again.

There is the other story where I just wish I could be you again and try this all over--maybe I could just not meet the inconsequential boy that has become of so, so much consequence; maybe this could make it all okay so that now I'm just some girl who wanted to sleep with some guy and later on nobody felt like there was a distinct possibility that some one is being replaced.

But wait, I can't be you--I don't envy what you're about to do, nor do I care to ever relive it. In a few months you will endure the single worst breakup (yes, still #1) of your life so far, and you will cry in bed for weeks, and then you will fill your bed with all kinds of boys until one will finally make you forget--and there's the flaw in the do-over plan because I suppose he had an immediate and lasting consequence right from the beginning. He'll fit in your little pink bed just like a puzzle piece and in a million years you'll be me, and you'll be writing this, and you'll be distracted from this very sentence because you're trying to think of a way to explain what color his eyes are and are stuck with "greenish".

I wish you could read this right now, because in a few hours you will go eat eggs at Beth's, and then it will start to rain, and you and your pretty young Olympian boyfriend will stand in that rain for an hour so very desperate to not let go, and then tomorrow you'll do exactly that. You'll fly home to Miami and it will all feel like some strange dream you had, and then you'll realize that you have no idea when you're going to see each other again. It's weird how little that will matter when you're me.

But hey, chin up 23 year old me! You'll be [relatively] fine, and fuck, you'll live in New York. That's cool, right? And one beautiful New York afternoon, you'll ride the train a long way home with a shit eating grin on your face because you just came six or seven times last night.

And a couple times this morning.
--M

3 comments:

Keenan said...

I am itching to write about my current situation, but A.) She said it would be a bad idea to make it public (on the internet) knowledge, and B.) I still don't know what the fuck is going on. "B" makes it all the more reason I want to write, just to purge my uncertainties, though that just starts a downward spiral which would probably create more clutter and detritus in my braincase.

In any case, I'm glad you are writing again. Love you!

Miranda Moure said...

And I am glad YOU are writing again.

Sex and the internet--it's the age old question, right? This morning I was writing my # down on the back of an envelope, and he was like "I wont call you right away or anything, don't worry" and I was like "calling is fine, but you might want to wait a while before you Google me" and then had to have that awkward "I'm a sex blogger" conversation that I'm prolly supposed to have BEFORE the sex, but never, ever do. Maybe once.

But cryptic internet venting is allowed, right? No last names, no first names for that matter--I say fuck it. Write away--just be sure to only out your enemies. And your really, really close friends.

And once more, Happy Bone Sabbath!
Love you big,
xoxo--M

Miranda Moure said...

OMG--this whole thing is SO reminding me of this: http://blog.mirandamoure.com/2007/12/revenge-is-beer-best-served-cold-part-3.html

The really funny part is that I don't remember ANY of his given names any more, but it was prolly David, or Joe, maybe Daniel.