Sex Laws: Part Two.


This empty page feels like a nightmare, and there are so many reasons why.

Chief among them, that I've spent too, too many months letting men steal my voice, be it actively or passively, and I've let this feeling prevail midst all of my passions, save one.

And that one is getting on an airplane.

I spoke of this, to exactly you, some time ago. Too long ago.

I've been missing you for so long. And that's crazy because I just saw you, when all those months passed that I lived with you and we worked together in our old goddamned neighborhood. And fuck me, our old neighborhood, Lower Haight; it looks exactly the fucking same and yet somehow completely fucking different. And fuck me hard if that doesn't describe everything that's happened since the last time that I wrote to you.

I used to use these letters as a device; these letters 'back home'; and yeah, I know I've spoke of this before, but damned if I don't need to revisit it. These letters meant so much to me on the road, but now I'm here, in my hometown again, and fuck if it doesn't feel so good this time, and yet also just like all the same old stuff: so stagnant, so complacent, so goddamned familiar in the worst way. And it kills me because not a day passes that I don't wish you were here with me in this hellhole. And that might just be the worst thing a girlfriend could wish for another.

We walk, Mindy.

You walked to New Orleans and I walked to my goddamned hometown. And fuck if I didn't find something that was waiting here for me for all these years.  And you went to New Orleans and found nothing, and I wish I could trade places with you because at least, in nothing, there is something new than things that are familiar, and in the new is something yet to be found and yet to be reviled. Because fuck. I fucking hate this. I  fucking hate everything that has come before because goddamnit it has led me to this.

But of course that is defeatist, and of course I'm being hyperbolic, because of course there are things here that I love fiercely. I love walking these streets and knowing where I'm going, and I fucking love my goddamned girlfriends here, and of course I fucking love this intrinsic feeling of belonging; especially when no one even fucking belongs in this city anymore save us select few who were actually, literally born here. And yes, I delight in that, because this is the only place I have that.


That's not actually something that I value. That's just something that feels good.

We both have that, I know. Because San Francisco is one of those places for both of us. San Francisco is the place that makes me call this my hometown and it home, because I've spent the most years of my adult life there. Even combined. It feels like home when I'm there, when I walk it's narrow streets, when I turn and go crosstown, when I climb her fucking hills and goddamn it I miss it already. But I'm resigned to this because I can't not. And honestly, San Francisco feels like that too--it just has the added cred of being difficult, and so it's a city you can live in and write home about. If you will.

The weird part is that I have so many nomad friends around the world that would fucking kill to go to San Francisco or Seattle--they delight in my stories of both and are intensely jealous of my stature in them. And I'm unwavering in my entitlement to either but am also somehow stoic in my commitment to neither.

Because we fucking walk.

Goddamnit we walk! We walk all over the fucking world looking for something we may never find.

But Mindy, what do you do when you come so goddamned close to finding it but it's not quite right? what do you do when something seems just a bit off--it's just a bit too cold and just a bit too weird and maybe just a bit too familiar that you're too reticent to accept it? What the fuck are we supposed to do when things feel so fucking right and you know, you know that they're absolutely fucking wrong?

I once mused, the last time I wrote to you, that we were Manic Pixie Nightmares. And today I'm more convinced that we are than the day that I once joked that we were. Fuck us Mins--we are! What is it about us that men see as some passing curiosity rather than holistic women that are deserving of the things that we require? And yeah, I get it. This is the part where I'm supposed to make allowances for that, where I'm supposed to see this perfect photo of us in the rear view and say, decidedly, where we should go now. But, fuck. The only thing I'm sure of is that I am, despite the evidence, still deserving of all of those things that I last posed. And for no other reason than that we're here.

He told me, and I quote: "I FUCKING CARE ABOUT YOU, MIRANDA. I love you. The thought of saying goodbye to you in these scant months sucks the air out of me," and it's so fucked, because I want to believe this and I can't at all, yet I feel these exact sentiment for you, and for Sally, and for all of our other girlfriends spread across this vast goddamned small world. He's literally positing all of those things I once said we deserved, and yet I'm left with this feeling of inadequacy and I can't even accept these words as any kind of truth for me save what I feel for y'all.

And maybe it's because I love my voice the most when I'm speaking to you.

And maybe I'll never love my voice when I'm speaking to anyone who's unlike you.

Or maybe I just know what we're capable of, and maybe I know when to stick, and when to fucking walk. Maybe I do know when to fucking board a plane and when to return, and maybe I know when to change my plans completely. But dude, maybe I don't.

Tell me to walk, Mins. Because otherwise, I'm not sure what I'll do, just as I'm not sure what I'll accomplish. But fuck if I don't still know exactly what we deserve.

We may be nightmares, but we are the sort that I welcome. We are the ilk that are scary but poignant, that people wake from and never forget. And that, Mindy. That's what I really, truly value.

I love you.

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