i am a jelly doughnut

Bay the lust comes into phase, but you're down in Marrietta.

2012-01-25T17:31:00.000-08:00

I'm somewhere in Georgia and the most interesting thing has been going on in my head.

I used to do this a lot, obviously. I've spoken of this recently even, of both the need to do this again and also of how three years off has rendered me wary of what is fit to print and what is not.

My brother in law Rashei and I spoke of this while swilling cheap PBR's in East Atlanta on Saturday, questioning how honest honesty is. My blog is honest, yes, but that only goes so far as it's also meant to be entertaining. This means that while honest, I tend to admit the things that are poignant (like when my boyfriend grabs me in the street and chases me home, twice) and omit the things that are boring (like going to the pharmacy to buy tampons). If you have read me for some time, you'll also note that it's somewhat thematic (XXX).

But see, it's not like I'm trying to keep anything from anyone, I just feel like maybe all of this--everything going through my head right now--maybe it's just boring. And I've told this story before, haven't I? Several states away from some boy or another, hanging all my hopes on seeing him for a few days convinced that it will be enough to right me and it never is, and then someone moves (usually me) and it all goes to shit. This is what happens when you live your days in several states, I'm sure of it. Okay, fine. Maybe it's just me.

Regardless, there is some shit going on in my head right now that you would not believe. Wait, okay. Disclosure. I mean t say that there is some really explicit shit going on in my head right now, and I'm unsure how careful I have to be with everyones feelings that are both in and out of my head, and I don't remember worrying about this ever before, so it doesn't seem fair that I should feel guilty. It's not fair! And this is where it gets boring because I'm caught in this ultra weird cycle of guilt and horniness and stagnation that could all be cleared up with a conversation that I can't have because we don't have that conversation. Ever.

Wait, that's not entirely true. We did have that conversation once, and I was all like "I don't want to do this anymore" and he was like "I don't really give a shit" and I was like "No for serials I'm breaking up with you" and he was all like "that doesn't really work for me." I just don't want to do all of this again. We only want each other because...because why not? And we only really want each other when we really can't have each other--so isn't the memory enough? Do we really have to go through all of these motions and airplanes and me posting all of this cryptic nonsense on the internet over and over and no. No, I'm sorry. This is all bullshit, and it sounds like vagina. You see? This is exactly why I didn't want to write about this.

But there is still all of this stuff in my head, stuff that will come to fruition if I simply let it happen. But if I feel guilty already, how will I feel when I shove him back on a plane with no plans to reciprocate? No plans to even plan reciprocating? I just mean that in my head there are two things happening: there is the part where I'm ranking the top five best times we've ever had sex and can't break the tie for #1 between Labor Day Georgetown Horseshoe Warehouse '06 and Last Afternoon of His Birthday Week In SF '08, and there is also the part where I'm trying to forget that I am not be the one who is the most invested this time.

The point, I suppose, is that I'm now somewhere in the Carolinas and that the sex part is winning.
--M

Sweetness, part 2.

2012-01-23T13:32:00.000-08:00

from: ["miranda moure" m@mirandamoure.com]
sent --- 15:43:12, 01.23.12 to: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]

Alan,

You are quite possibly my favorite device, and I miss having you around. For sure.

We can talk. We can talk as much as you like, but you're right that I am still struggling with putting myself out there again both on the internet and in real life. Thankfully being me in print has been helping me to be me in real life.

Oh, Hunts. I wish you hadn't reminded me. It was so painful to lose him, possibly made more so as he had strung me along for over a year claiming to be busy or whatever. I thought we weren't hanging out because I wasn't reaching out enough or that it was somehow my fault and I felt like he led me to believe this on purpose. When I read his letter I cried halfway through it, and it hurt even more that it was so, so well written. Now I peruse this blog and every other comment is his, and I miss the way he observes things, and I still desperately miss my friend.

The Hunts situation especially seems so ultra ironic now--I remember feeling so cheated out of my friend by his wife, but now I wonder who's responsibility it is to keep your partner from cheating--is it her job? Was she doing it properly? I mean, is this a thing people do?

I know we have never spoke of him Alan, but I can't get this vision of Chase's hand in some other girls crotch out of my head, and it's not just the act, Alan. It's the way he did it so casually, as if it weren't already fucking disgusting to be fingering some girl in a bar let alone in front of your girlfriend, your wife, your best friend, and your housemate. I wonder now if this isn't what Laura kept imagining in her head and I now know how bankrupt people's promises can be, and I also know how very much easier it can be to just force your partner to do as you say because I let Chase do it to me for three long years.

I went out with my brother in law last night and we chatted about things that we regret. Losing Hunts is one of those things, but for the life of me I can't figure out a way to go back and do it over and I know that my promises mean shit in the eyes of someone who's probably been hurt before. I miss him. I miss him more than I miss you or most people and it hurts to think of him today.

We can talk more soon. But probably never ever about Mark ever again. I admired him and loved him and I loved the way he made me feel talented even when it was unwarranted or no one else cared. I valued his opinion more than pretty much anyone else, and I guess it hurt so much because I knew deep down that he was right, that I never deserved to know him anyway. I was just some silly girl in a grey skirt and circus makeup padding about an Alaskan Way apartment complex and I never really went past that for him. In fact, I have no idea who I was to him, but I'm fairly certain I don't want to know.

And Alan, I'm not her. So please. Please don't make me her again.

--M

The OLD Guerrilla Illuminati.

2012-01-22T22:28:00.001-08:00

from: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]
sent --- 9:18:54, 01.22.12 to: ["miranda moure" m@mirandamoure.com]

Miranda,
I check this every few months, and I was more than surprised to see several new posts recently. I'm happy for you yet I'm indifferent; I'm dumfounded as to why you've waited so long. It's been so long! And I, your conscience, am not delighted nor saddened--I'm really just straight up moved. How long have we been telling you to revisit this? Have you even taken the time to consider who you were without this semi-daily outlet?

Can we speak again? I mean, I know. We're even farther from each other than last time we spoke, but how are we?

I heard about Huntsman--I mean, no. I didn't hear. I gathered, and I asked [him], and I, as I assume you also did, felt the weight of his departure from your life and from your writing--and I know that this is weird. I fully understand that there is obviously a much huger situation happening right now, but I also know that we, together, we never knew of Chase. That just wasn't our thing. We never spoke of him together and I fear that by not mentioning Hunts' departure from your...well, everything, then we'll really be negating the last few years when what I'm really trying to do is recapture it.

But you get this, right? I think I am right from what I'm gathering from this is that there is an old/new illicit boy that you're..."entertaining".

Am I included?
I miss you.
A lot.

All my love from Grace Cathedral Hill,
Alan
415.626.7849

p.s.-- Call late. Haha. That's so old school.

[edit per MM: Ironically, my Blogoversary is a month from today. I will not fare the same fate as I did 3 years ago.]

I do as my baby bids me do part 2: It's Keenan's Birthday

2012-01-20T00:13:00.000-08:00

Wait. I'm not done. And I'm still talking to you, as I was in the last post.

It's late, I'm up so late.

It's Keenan's birthday, and he's made me exceedingly sentimental tonight, and I'm leaving tomorrow and it is reminding me of our once or twice monthly tet-a-tets that we used to schedule between SF and Seattle. It's not so much the trip that is reminding me--but the solitude before; me alone in my immaculate apartment, anticipating traveling alone. It's scary how much I've missed this.

There is something else I've missed.

This is so hard. That's weird right? Coming from the person who wrote this and well, this which I actually wrote about you and your friends reading me on the sly. I'm historically not shy about this sort of thing, but I find myself wanting to click-click-click out elipses on my keyboard, and I'm finding the words stuck in my throat.

What is that saying about a band-aid?

Everything else aside, I want you in my bed.
I'm sorry, I want this to be exceedingly clear--I need you to fuck me like a memory.
I need you to fuck me like in a fucking movie where it looks like it's somehow occurring in a room with a strobe light, like it's being carefully edited to only include all the awesome parts; I need you to fuck me like you always do when it's been a while. I need you to fuck me like a song; I need you to fuck me like it should be set to some Americana rock song with an acre long screeching guitar riff.
Fuck me like if someone were for some reason to paint a representative painting of this fucking that it would depict some broken fucking glass strewn across some barbed wire and an eagle and with a flaming fucking sword in his talons. Can you please just fucking fuck me like I'm the last person on earth, or one of many people on earth, or just like the only fucking girl you want in your bed because I know that that's probably fucking true. I need you to fuck me like we'll never see each other again. I need you to fuck me like you've fucking wanted to all this time, I need you to fuck me like I'm Cake; and now I should probably fucking stop--not because of all of this fucking fucking but rather because I know a lot of people reading this will be irritated at all the infinitives I just fucking split the fuck up.

And so you will find that I'm not all responsibilities and reservations, and I just barely remember who I am, and I remember. I remember how much I loved you.

I remember how I once surmised that I could use you lounged around my apartment in SF to swat the bees from my living room. I once contemplated the fake coupledom that we'd immediately fall into upon spanning the states between us. I was once racked with all the same indecisions that I am right now--but somehow along the way I forgot how much I just want you to fucking fuck me.

This is not one of those posts with a poignant or moralistic ending.
--M

I do as my baby bids me do.

2012-01-18T17:32:00.000-08:00

Neither one of us is saying anything, so I suppose that I should.

No, that's not entirely true. We're saying things, we're talking. There are these daily text messages across the country that make me feel like a teenager. Of course, people didn't have cell phones when we were teenagers, and I say that to illustrate how old we are now.

We are so old! I remember feeling like just barely an adult when I met you, and maybe I was or wasn't, but I'm sure that I remember you baby-faced and bright eyed and swilling cheap beer in that overly lit bar in Belltown the very first time I laid eyes on you. I remember fitting you into my little pink bed and noting how still you were when you slept. I remember the two of us petering out in a matter of weeks. And then I left.

And was it then? At my going away party? You gave me a little pin of two hands folded into a tiny red heart, and I've worn it on the breast pocket of my jacket ever since, and when people ask me where I got it I will say it's from Alexis, or Wood, or My Ex because you have so many names that I use interchangeably. It confuses everyone and it confuses me because part of me needs this small amount of subterfuge to keep you all to myself.

But you understand this, don't you? I mean, I know it's fucked up--I know it's unfair because it belies an understanding that I'm wary of letting you so close again, and yet I can't think of anyone else I want close to me, and I want you around all the time, and I don't want you back at all. I'm racking my brain trying to figure out exactly how you could really fit into my life but I'm coming up blank and I imagine this will go the route of every other time in the last eight years that we've decided to entertain the idea of us.

You just texted me. Just now. Just to say "I love you...but don't tell anybody" and I laughed out loud as responded that I intended on telling everybody. And kind of already had.

But this time seems so different, doesn't it? Now we're both in our thirties. Granted, it's likely not much different for you as you've always had a penchant (an obsession?) for holding onto your youth as long as possible, for avoiding responsibility, for sleeping so soundly in your little Georgetown flat knowing you don't owe anybody anything. While these years may have given you nothing more than a case of "absence makes the heart something something" it's been a little bit different for me.

Because now I want a baby.

--M

P.S. --I did not write the title of this post. It is a line from the poem, My Lover Lives On the Other Coast, M Doughty, 1996.

Fool me can't get fooled again.

2012-01-17T16:21:00.000-08:00

On the eve of my final doctors appointment, it was brought to my attention that Chase made out with or was manually stimulated by (yes, I mean on the penis) a handful of my guy friends without ever bothering to so much as mention it to me. Since I just got home from my fifth gyno appointment dealing with the repercussions of having him as a cheating partner, I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to have a little chat about responsible polyamory.

If you are unfamiliar with this term, it generally involves a couple who for whatever reason decide to seek sexual partners outside of their commitment to each other. Some highlights to illucidate this for you:

"The word is sometimes used in a broader sense to refer to sexual or romantic relationships that are not sexually exclusive, though there is disagreement on how broadly it applies; an emphasis on ethics, honesty, and transparency all around is widely regarded as the crucial defining characteristic.
Distinguishing polyamory from traditional forms of non-monogamy (i.e. "cheating") is an ideology that openness, goodwill, truthful communication, and ethical behavior should prevail among all the parties involved." [italics mine]

Honesty, transparency, communication. Rules. Responsible polyamory cannot exist without following the rules. Why? Because it is simply dangerous, but it is also simply disrespectful to your partner.

Every couple is allowed to make their own rules for their own relationships, but there are some that are widely considered universal just to insure everyone's safety.

1. Always practice safe sex.
If you are having penetrative sex outside of a committed relationship, you MUST ALWAYS use barrier type protection from STD's. This generally means a latex condom.

2. You must communicate to your partner the details of these sexual forays.
This will allow your partner to make informed decisions about their own health, be able to detail an accurate medical history to their doctor or gynecologist (who will always ask if you or your partner has had unprotected anal sex with someone of any gender, or has had sex with an IV drug user), and generally promotes transparency.

Different couples seeking different ideals will add to and augment these rules. Some common rules in polyamory?

1. Third parties can only be involved when both members of the couple are present.
This is your typical three-way situation, and is really common on the breeder community. It usually involves a pre and post-game discussion. I have been in all kinds of moresomes, and they're not entirely my steeze, but fun if performed safely. The real trick here is avoiding cross contamination, specifically from penetrative sex, even if it's with a toy. This means that you must have the foresight to change condoms between penetrating two different people. This is exceedingly important. And it is your own responsibility if you are doing the penetrating, so keep your head in the game.

2. Same/opposite sex partners only.
This one is amazingly common, specifically for people who are attracted to people of both/many genders. This is also a rule I had with Chase, as we were only to seek out people of the same gender as ourselves (with full disclosure of course, not that I received that). The opposite example would be a lesbian couple that only sought men outside of the relationship.

3. Cyber sex only.
This is steadily increasing in popularity. I've never done this myself, but this seems like such a safe fun way to, and not to get too Cosmo on you, spice things up a bit. If it works for you, more power to you--especially because no one in the history of the world has ever caught an STI from a computer.

4. Only within a determined timeline.
I've done this one a lot. I had an almost completely open relationship with my ex-husband, but we decided together to nix the extraneous partners for the first year of our marriage just to take some time to ourselves. Chase and I had this rule too; we decided together that one summer, Memorial Day to Labor Day, would be our timeline.

The rules are not just what does and does not define cheating, they are also what keeps you safe. I am a perfect example of what breaking these rules can lead to. And please, don't come crying to me about leeway in the rules. If you break a rule, you are a cheater.

I had my last gyno appointment today for what will hopefully be a year. I already had a barrage of tests, but as of today I am happy to report that I do not have HIV, gonorrhea, chlamydia, syphilis, or Trichomonas. My appointment today was for an interesting reason--to rule out HPV, or Human Papillomavirus. Although there are almost 40 different kinds of this virus, only 4 are really dangerous, and they are generally confirmed or denied through a standard PAP test. My PAP returned abnormal cells, which led to a biopsy which would normally be a flag for HPV but mine seems to have been caused by the Trich I got from Chase (which I have since treated and confirmed that I am now free of).

In a week I will get my HPV results.
But it will be 3 more until I find out whether or not I have cervical cancer.

If nothing else from this sticks with you, then please remember this: if you cheat on your girlfriend, you can give her CANCER. So please don't. Transparency, guys.

And please, let's all take care of our penises and vaginas. They're the only ones we have. Let's stick to...sticking them where they belong.
--M

P.S.--
Here are some resources for you.

Information about STI's:
The CDC's STI page. Good information here!
Planned Parenthood. Men and women can be screened for STI's here, often FOR FREE.
Have an ethical question about sex? My hometown homie Dan can prolly help you with that.

"Are you nice now?"

2012-01-15T21:45:00.000-08:00

Last night I hung out with my friend Madelena as she was determined to make me eat something. She's a San Francisco native, born and raised in the Mission, and decided we should meet at Arturo's. "It's a total North Beach place" she noted, and lord it was. The jazz, the italian food, the bulbous wine glasses lit by candlelight and not so stingily poured--it was magic, like being on Columbus for one night contemplating a nightcap at Vesuvio's.

Today I finished going through everything in my apartment, determining the things that are Chase's, and boxing them up to hide away in the closet. I've spoken to two social workers about this task--one at the doctor's office and one at the DA--trying to figure out how I would be capable of performing the task at all when I couldn't even talk about it without crying. Both asked me the same thing: "Didn't he already come and get his things? he should have been issued a court order to retrieve his things." Yes, I told them both, he came and got some stuff, but he left some stuff too, and I promised I would get it to him. They both had the same advice: "You're not legally obligated to keep it. Just throw it away."

But these things! Throwing them away would be even harder than keeping them. These are wonderful things, useful things, sentimental things. The drawings his nieces made for us and tons of pictures of them. The copy of Still Life with Woodpecker I bought for him with the post-script I added. His concert posters and mic stand. I went through all of our albums noting that the Zeppelin and Gershwin are mine, the Chet Atkins and Gordon Lightfoot, his. His copy of Catcher in the Rye. His inspiration sperometer.

I don't know why I have to keep this stuff for him, but I know that if it were me I'd be devastated if it were suddenly gone; losing the Robbin's novels alone might send me into a tailspin. It would kill me to have it happen again like when I was 16 and I shoved my camera and a sketchbook in my backpack with some underwear and never saw a baby picture of myself ever again, or the doll I once cherished, or the blanket I carried around as a toddler. It's killing me that I love him enough to do this when all I want to do is to return the favor and love him as little as he did me. It's killing me just to admit that.

I spent my time as Chase's girlfriend being routinely shamed by him, embarrassed, and humiliated. I can't even count how many times he'd scream at me to the point that I would just chose to walk away, a chorus of his rants behind me--and these are just the times that it happened in public, when he'd get a minute alone with me and pick a fight in front of a bar or on the sidewalk, and my friends would be left inside wondering what happened to me for the rest of the night while I or we had just vanished. "Stay in your lane!" I was once advised on a rare occasion that I actually admitted to someone that it had happened again; you kinda have to say something when you're crying into a beer for seemingly no reason. "Stay in your lane. You don't deserve this, he owes you an apology."

Chase would sometimes say the word sorry, but real apologies were never his forte. I didn't stay in my lane, but rather whenever he had started in on me and finally cooled down, I'd simply ask, "Oh, are you nice now?" and he would generally respond yes, and this was my que to forget that it had happened and go on with my day. People are telling me it's not my fault, but it's hard to believe that when I routinely emboldened him to treat me like shit.

Last night after about a half of a glass of wine, Madelena finally turned to the bartender and demanded to see a menu immediately. "We're getting pizza, and you're eating some." I agreed, and when our pizza came it was all melty and gooey, and covered with anchovies. I ate three pieces.

Anchovies! I love anchovies, but Chase didn't. And in that little bar on faux Columbus street I realized that I hadn't eaten a single anchovy in three years, nor have I worn five inch heels, listened to The Who, worn granny panties or visited my best friend in Phoenix for the exact same reason. As much as I thought it would feel amazing to eat the leftovers in bed today, it just reminded me that I had handed my life to a man to disassemble at his will. And that thought is killing me, too.

Are you nice now, are you nice now, are you nice now. I said it thousands of times and it has never done anything, and yet now I'm asking myself the same question, wondering if I'll ever smile again. It's the only question in my mind when I wake up in the morning and it's what goes through my head when I'm trying to sleep.

I'm hoping it's not much longer until I can answer myself "yes."
--M

The Takeaway

2012-01-13T01:16:00.000-08:00

I had a normal day today, or as normal as a day can be when you spend the morning at the doctor getting vials of blood drawn and giving samples of seemingly every substance my body is capable of producing. But the afternoon saw errands! Cleaning! Painting! Food? No. But I ate this morning (I think?) so fuck it. Then, after a long day wondering whether "rule out" and "precautionary" means I do or do not have cancer, I actually went to bed at a reasonable hour. Then an hour ago I woke up in a cold sweat after having what had been a recurring nightmare and I guess still is a recurring nightmare.

Yeah, my boyfriend sliced me with a chefs knife, and he got arrested and will see trial for it, but it is not this that haunts my waking days and infiltrates my dreams. Do you know how sharp a brand new professional chefs knife is? It's razor sharp, and when he cut me I didn't even feel it but rather just kept screaming and crying for him to leave and pushing him off of me. It wasn't until he brandished the same knife in my direction and asked me if I wanted some more did I see the blood dripping down my arm and wondered if I was about to die.

I feel like it's almost funny that I'm about to say "the really scary part was..." because one might think that pondering their own mortality at the hands of their boyfriend doesn't really get beat in scariness, but this was not the scariest part. Rather I keep remembering him, a few minutes before he got the knife, shoving me into a wall, evading one of my swings and grabbing me by both arms and forcing me onto the floor slamming my back against the ground and shaking me while screaming something in my face I can't remember. Even in the nightmare version I can't make out what he's saying, but rather can only hear a tinny vocal interference over my own pleas to leave me alone. In reality, I had my eyes closed while this happened--I remember feeling the tears well up beneath my eyelids and realizing he was too strong for me to fight back--but this is what makes the nightmare version so frightening, because my mind fills in all of these visual details.

And dreams are weird, aren't they? This one is no exception, because even though there are things happening in the dream that I know didn't happen--like watching the scene from outside myself as a third party or even being able to see it at all--it just seems so real. Hence the waking in the cold sweats.

Everyone keeps asking me about how I plan to move on, about what I've learned from all of this, but as I had already ruminated and this nightmare returning has proved, I'm just not there yet. But what the fuck am I supposed to have learned? A month into our relationship he had taken to screaming at me every single day. Usually for hours. Was I supposed to know then? When he tried to ban me from speaking to any of my ex-boyfriends a couple of months later? How about six months later when he grabbed me for the first time, when I was trying to leave for work and he's yelling, and he gripped my arm so fiercely I wore his fingerprints for hours? These things just seemed like something to work on. A problem to be fixed. I thought that this was exactly what was happening but I wonder now if the only thing that changed was my will to oppose him, and then in the same moment I'm not even willing to let myself think that because it would really mean that he never even tried to love me.

I'm desperate for the "next time I'll do this" and the "I wont do that again", but this and that isn't exactly black and white, and then the whole relationship seems only to hang on the rules I laid out for him last summer after he chased me through Willamsburg stoned, crazed, and screaming.
So I suppose I already composed my takeaway last June:

You are not my jailer, master, or Sargent.
You cannot force me to do your will.
You cannot grab me.
You cannot shake me.
You cannot shove me.
You cannot scream at me when you are upset with someone else.
You cannot expect me to agree with you all of the time.
You cannot abandon me and expect me to still want you.
You will not make me your plaything and your possession.
You will not be my nightmare.

I can live without you.

--M

For Alexis

2012-01-11T01:49:00.000-08:00

It's the middle of the night. And I'm up.

And I'm in the most excruciating pain that I can remember in the whole of my life.

The funny thing about having an auto immune disease like mine is that it leads to something that I think you might be familiar with--nephritis. Don't you get this? Or kidney infections or something? I have a vague memory that you were born with some sort of kidney problem, something about the way your kidney connects to your bladder, and I'm sure that you've also realized by now that we never talk about stuff like this.

But why should we! We have the "Myricks Swagger" about us, and greet death with the "Myricks Furrowed Brow" and care nothing of our mortality and laugh at all the rules. Until maybe my hair fell out and grew back and now my kidneys are so swollen inside of me and my period started ten days early again this month and I feel like I'm falling apart and crying hysterically and I can't take any pain killers with the meds I'm on or can I? I have no idea. It wont help anyway.

Ah, but there are a few things we do talk about, often. List?

1. I've. Been. SMOKING.
I've had 4 cigarettes in the last week. That is a lie. I have had 6 cigarettes in the last week and 3 the previous. This is getting completely out of control, likely because I feel completely out of control most of the time. I had been delighting in (or rather, trying to delight in) some of the things I once enjoyed when I was single--sleeping diagonally, writing with dry erase markers on my mirrors, talking about my vagina on the internet--but this one is gaining a foothold on my life that I'm uncomfortable with. I smoked a Newport today. That is a lie. I smoked 2 Newports today--and I NEVER smoked menthols. I was Camel Lights, the occasional Parliaments, for...17 years.

I blame the south. The dirty, warm, lawless south where you can smoke in bars and everyone knows me as a smoker. I blame these goddamned corner stores that sell looseys even though it's illegal. I blame Chase! For making me want to smoke again! All of that is a lie. I blame myself who is slowly losing the will to make myself stop killing myself.

which brings me to...

2. I've lost 19 pounds.
I thought I was done with this for life, but apparently not. I didn't eat for the first four days. I was shaking, couldn't stand up, could barely hold my phone to my ear. On the fifth day I ate half a banana and threw up. You would think that I'm telling you that "this is when I realized that I can't keep doing this to myself" but that didn't happen at all. I ate for a couple days and then quit again. Then I tried to take my meds without eating and puked all over my dining room. You'd think maybe this is when I learned my lesson, but no, I haven't eaten in over a day and have somehow trained myself to take my meds without eating or throwing up. I got weighed again at the doctor this morning, and lost another pound since my visit yesterday and four since my visit on Friday.

which brings me to...

3. I think I owe you an apology.
I really do feel like nobody would want to see me right now; my hipbones are protruding and none of my clothes fit and I feel disgusting. But maybe that's not why I told you that when you texted me earlier, maybe it was a deflection of some sort, maybe when I read your message my heart jumped into my throat because I didn't know if I was supposed to say I love you too. But that's crazy! Crazy because I once dragged you outside of a bar and confessed that I was in love with you and then hopped immediately into a rental car an got on a plane. And yeah, I guess I've switched Alexises now, but I want you here. I don't want you here. I want you but not like this, but I don't want you and I want you here right now. And this might be what people call karma, because I'm pretty sure you did this exact thing to me four years ago.

Both of you always ask me the same thing, and before you do again, no. I don't want to come back.

I'm telling you that crying alone in my vacuous apartment with a migraine and swollen kidneys is somehow preferable to living in Seattle. Of course, I've also said that before.

I miss you Alexis.
I miss you Alexis.
And I love you both.
--M

P.S.--I smoked 3 Newports today. --M

For Aubrey

2012-01-07T21:47:00.001-08:00

First day on meds. I hate this.

But thank god for you--there are girls in my hometown like you; it must be that rugged Alaskan upbringing that has left you just as likely to don snow boots as heels. I like that! Beautiful, scrappy, traveled. I know someone else just like that.

We met 12 years ago next week. It's weird to think we were ever so young; I keep imagining winding a clock backwards and watching all of my tattoo's disappear and my hair grow shorter and my will to wear pants under maxi-skirts with combat boots come back. Remember Portland back then? The MAX only had one line and half of The Pearl was unpaved. Sometimes The Matador didn't card on Monday's. I mean, I was friends with my neighbors for chrissakes. What a place and time!

And now were here in Brooklyn a billion years later and you're explaining to me how to take care of my vagina for free, no pun intended. Of course I mean in a medical respect, but something this grave probably deserved a titter at the lead in, as it was probably one of the most frightening experiences of my life. Can you believe that it's come to this? Me. Miranda Moure. Given everything you know of me, did you ever think that I'd find myself in the position to be cheated on? REPEATEDLY? And I know, I know. You and Lisa and the nurse practitioner and everyone keeps telling me "well, you're doing the right thing" but it doesn't feel like the right thing when I've spent the last three years watching Chase lie to everyone around him and foolishly thought I was excluded.

I don't know how this caught me off guard. I mean, were talking about the same person who gave me herpes for my 28th birthday, and it was this experience that led to this last time: me in the stirrups, bottles of pills, but an otherwise clean bill of vaginal health. At the time I demanded that he have the panel too, and his results returned clean as well. I had no reason to believe that he'd see fit to go out in the world, pick up new STD's from other people, and bring them faithfully home to me. This never crossed my mind until I saw him do it with my own eyes, and even then I couldn't believe it.

Now it all makes sense--he's always invented different versions of himself for other people to see: I've watched him talk shit about people vociferously in their absence, and them compliment them the next day. I've seen him laugh at fag jokes with his family and then make out with guys at gay bars. I've watched him look people straight in the eye and assure them that he quit smoking pot for school, when the truth was that I forced him to because it makes him stupid, out of control, and violent. I've even watched him nurse a testicular fungal infection for a year an a half without seeing a doctor (you probably wouldn't even believe me if I told you that he didn't understand why I didn't want to suck his cock in this condition) and yet I naively thought that he would never, ever, keep a secret like "I had unprotected sex with someone who gave me an STI and now you probably have it." Have it? Oh, sorry. What I meant was them. Plural. And I still have more tests on Monday, and more results still coming, and more and more and more chances for even more meds and more diseases, and fuck. I cannot believe he would do this to me.

But it wont be so lonely this time as I am allowed to tell you, and anyone. Anyone I want, in fact. The one saving grace is that I'm no longer ruled over by this secretive tyrant who shit on everything I ever wanted to do and in return just thought I should work toward all of his dreams, and I did. I did it, and though I was promised that I would one day be repaid for all of the sacrifices I made for him--declining jobs, quitting my apprenticeship, following him to Minnesota THREE times, and moving to New York--but a slice in my arm and two brand new STD's doesn't really seem like the repayment I was looking for.

I wish I could wind that clock back and watch all of the scars disappear, before the swabs and the blood tests, back when I would have never thought that I'd be one of those girls crying uncontrollably in the waiting room of a clinic, so much so that they took pity on me and let me wait in the office.
I wish I could wind back before these meds that are making me nauseous, before I had lost 15 pounds in two weeks, before I was scarred in ways I can never repair.

This is apparently what happens when you date a cheat and a liar.
Your face helps me remember that I once thought I deserved better.
XOXO
--M

For Kimberly

2012-01-03T22:51:00.001-08:00

When we first got to New York we were okay for a few weeks, but money that should have arrived didn't and jobs didn't pay what I had thought they would. We found ourselves pretty broke, and we had to sell my Macbook and his guitar, and yet we were still barely able to afford our Metro Cards. Chase was going to school full time and I had taken what turned out to be literally the worst job I've ever had--at a vintage clothing store in Manhattan making $10 an hour. The owners shorted me on every check they ever wrote to me, and were so stingy that they never even paid me for my last week of work--they stopped payment on my check, and from then on I kept that useless check in my wallet as a reminder of how bad off we were those first few scary months.

I thought of you, and of Alexis of course, last summer when this man whom I thought was my beloved was chasing me through half of Williamsburg drunk and high at 5 in the morning, grabbing me and knocking me down. I donned the Myricks' furrowed brow before I punched him in the face and finally got away. I ran four blocks to Broadway, then ran along the elevated track for two more blocks, up the stairs, and finally swiped into the Lorimer stop only to find that although I had my Metro Card, my wallet was missing including my irreplaceable Washington state drivers' license and my social security card.

I wouldn't let Chase come home until much later the next day. When he finally walked through the door apologetic and sweet promising to stop using drugs, I added that he would have to promise that he would never again follow me when I willed him not to, grab me when he knew he never should, and that he could never, ever knock me down ever again. And then I promised him I would leave him if he did. You would think it would have been easier to keep that promise, but even when he stormed into my apartment that he'd already been kicked out of, grabbed me by both arms and slammed me my onto my own kitchen floor, I was screaming "leave me alone" but I was thinking "how am I going to live without you?" And the worst part is, I really didn't know how I would.

Ah, but Kimberly! Who would I be if I rescinded on this? A liar at best, and much like I thought I might end up by the time he got the knife, dead at worst. But I knew I was going to live, I knew I was going to win by the time my hand lifted to the stovetop and wrapped around the handle of the biggest frying pan I own.

How many times have we lost our power Kim? And how many times have we found it again?

Four months after I lost it, the contents of my wallet were returned to me. Minus the cash that had been inside, my ID, social, library and bank card and some other miscellany were mailed to none other than that horrible vintage clothing store I worked at--all because I left that useless check in my wallet for all that time. My former coworker called me to tell me it arrived because I always looked out for him while I worked there.

This morning, just when I was beginning to lose hope again, another coworker from that same store left me this message: "Thanks for being a beam of light! I appreciate your care and friendship."

I have a dress from that same store that I always wear to job interviews, and this will be the one that I wear when I testify against Chase in court, and then the chips will fall wherever they may.

This is about when you should be realizing that this is a diamond in the rough story, a light at the end of the tunnel story, a story about how the best stories happen when you very least expect it.

Go big. Every day.
xo
--M

For Lisa

2011-12-27T23:32:00.000-08:00

How about a list, for old times sake?

1. When the cops came [again] today, I lifted up my sleeve to show them the horror of the crusted over gash on the inside of my left arm. It was the first time I had looked at it since it happened, and I burst into tears.

2. Well, look at that. I used to be a blogger! I read over the front page of this-here-ol'-blog, and three of the last four entries are about how Chase had asked me to stop doing this, to not write about our lives so explicitly on the internet--and I thought I should finally say why: I slept with 100 people before I met Chase, yet he was the first one to give me an STD. He gave me herpes, and he didn't want me telling anyone. I obliged. Again and again. And it cost me my blog.

3. Wow, it's really been a long time. We were all using MySpace last time I posted here!

4. I had drinks with Aubrey several weeks ago, and she asked me: "What happened to that one guy? From your blog always? He was like the love of your life." Although this is arguably untrue, whom I think she's referring to will be here, Dogwilling, next week or so. He has a penchant for flying all over the place for me, and thankfully this habit is not lost after 4 years. In fact, we were always best with some years between us.

5. Speaking of STD's, an unfortunate side affect of a partner who claims monogamy but is in action not monogamous is that you must get an STD panel to make sure they didn't bring home any "surprises" for you. This I think, may be the most humiliating part, because as I am so aware from years and years of promiscuity that the doctor will most likely blame me for getting it, or even worse just assume that I have one and treat me for it without testing (which happens ALL THE TIME if you write on a form that you've had 80, 90+ partners in your life).
What I mean is that in those stirrups, it really will be my fault, and everything he screamed at me about how useless and incapable I am, how it's my fault he hurt me, lied to me, how he deserves better--all of that will for those moments be true, and I will know it, because how could I deny it? What can be worse than a cold speculum, a suspicious clinician, the bruises all over my hips and thighs from him wrestling me to the ground--they see that stuff, and they think they know me. I thought I knew me.

I thought I knew me!

But I did once, I'm sure of it--I read it here. A snippet?

"By the time I woke in Jeremiah’s spare room later that morning, I knew she was back. That Miranda—that one that says things she shouldn’t, that loves too too fucking hard and can’t rationalize why, that fears regret so much that she does extraordinary things—that barely glances at a calendar or considers the health of her cat before purchasing air travel."

I miss her. And I miss you too, Lisa. Thank you for everything.
--M

For, um..."Andrew".

2009-02-20T18:04:00.000-08:00

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

Finally fuckers, finally, finally.

2009-02-19T01:08:00.000-08:00

[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.

RE: Who are you these days?

2009-01-10T22:57:00.000-08:00

from: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]
sent --- 9:14:54, 01.10.09
to: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]

Miranda,

Nice post. Seems you're back to your old self, in a way anyway. I mean, hey, if you can't air his shit on the internet, how about dear old Alan's? You still haven't addressed, however, the intent and original question in all of my e-mails: when can we sit down and talk? I feel a post-November recap is in order; you're sitting on a treasure chest of new work and have shared relatively little. Don't I deserve first dibs?

But hey, yeah. I'm not gonna lie--I do want to know who this man is. He did something no one else could. I couldn't do.

And I think I tried.

Best,
Alan

from: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]
sent --- 10:54:15, 01.10.09
to: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]

A--

January 21st. One month before my Blogoversary, and the day after the inauguration. Deal? In return, I'm gonna need you to get the fuck off my case and out of my inbox for a while. You're not even real, for chrissakes.

And fine. Fine. I will give you one of three, just to seal the deal. But that's it--don't expect more in a couple weeks.

In the grand tradition of Mr. Perfect and The Sportsmaster...

He calls it The Lion King.

Happy now?
--M

Up and down the hourglass.

2009-01-08T14:42:00.000-08:00

Alan,

I didn't even want to bother e-mailing this, as I've noticed your daily presence on my site tracker. And you know, fuck it. I'd post this anyway.

And yeah, you're wondering, everyone is wondering. Why haven't I written publicly about him? Hmm.

You know, we were just talking about that. I think it was Monday night, and I had gone out with Tobes and J-Ru and when I finally made it down to the other end of the hourglass around midnight, I threw all my shit in a pile on the floor and said "Baby, I'm not gonna lie to you. I'm a little drunk." I laid next to him all sweet smelling and freshly showered, and I ran my hands through his still wet hair and he poured me a glass of port from a bottle he had sitting on his nightstand. And this is like many nights.

I'm not saying that every night is like this, but I'm saying that it's like this. It's just going to the grocery store and drinking beers and godknows what. We do the same stuff everyone does, and we have the same arguments everyone does, and most of it isn't that noteworthy.

That's about half true.

The other half is that there is one line that he's always telling me that is constantly reverberating in my head when I sit down in front of my laptop, and it's "that's us, not anyone else." Go figure. And so it comes to pass that the quiet, contemplative and reserved songwriter has fallen in love with the loud-mouthed sex blogger, and most days, yes, I do think it is a bit foolish of me to offer him a courtesy I have previously only granted to one other person: that I don't air our shit publicly on the internet.

But really, I mean, I wouldn't really have a whole lot to say. Save...well, fuck. But that, maybe thankfully, is something I haven't found any words for yet anyway. Maybe someday. Maybe even without permission. Who knows. But for the time being, you'll have to believe me when I tell you that you'd likely rather not hear about us walking through the produce section of Red Apple deciding betweeen red or green cabbage or when he's helping me look for my misplaced tampons. Most of it just really isn't that exciting.

Yeah, there are stories I am purposefully omitting, and that's what we spoke of on Monday, if it was Monday. If you'd really like to know, there are three. Of every single story that the two of us have created together, five of them are poingnant and three of those are omitted from retelling. Three. That's really all I'm keeping from you. And no, Alan, you likely wont find out. You can, however, rest assured that whatever it is you're making up in your head right now, it's probably more illicit and exciting than the actual story. What I've omitted has nothing to do with content, but rather propriety.

You have to let me try this for a while.

--M

Goodbye, stinkbar.

2009-01-05T20:49:00.000-08:00

It is Monday, and unlike every Monday in Seattle before it, I am off to meet World Class Bartender Extraordinaire, Jeremiah Harrison, at a bar that is not his.

Go figure.

--M

Resolute: Part 2.

2009-01-01T17:17:00.000-08:00

I haven't picked any resolutions yet, so I decided to make a list of things I'm thankful for since I never did it at Thanksgiving. Let's go ahead and go with 5, because the Robbin's I'm currently reading is dwindling in pages and next I'll likely re-read High Fidelity. Not that you need to know what I'm currently reading.

List.

1. Wet Seal 2 for $10 wife beaters.

I can never have enough lyer tanks, and I love these. I am thankful that they are just good enough to wear and yet exceedingly cheap. When they catch a snag or reveal a new hole, they then guiltlessly meet the trash can. I mean, fuck it! They're five fucking dollars.

2. Painted Label Longnecks.

There are four left in my fridge. I am reffering to Rolling Rock, by the way. I am a terrible label peeler, and these beers leave me to more productive terrible habits while I'm drinking. Like biting my nails.

3. The snow is gone.

That one needs no explanation. The day it finally started melting, I almost started believing in god.

4. Black Flats.

Okay, duh. Of course I love every last pair of my black flats, but I never realized exactly how much until the snow melted. It is here that I might add that the pointy ones have a special place in my heart.

5. Our table at Loretta's.

New Year's Eve found us at Loretta's in South Park, which I think is my absolute favorite bar in the world. After ordering, I was nonchalantly informed that "our table" was open. Our table. I haven't had one of those since Angel's on Broadway closed, which, if you are a fellow Seattleite, you will know was a very long time ago.

In closing and in preparation for a most auspicious evening, I's like to end with a quote from the Myricks Family Themesong which I may or may not hear live tonight, setlist depending.

I give a fuck you to my father for not raising me
and I give a finger to my [brother] who was beating me
and I give props to myself for acheiving.

That is how I learned how to survive.

Goddamn I am surprised that I survived.

--M

1-101: A History, and an imagined transcription of a real conversation.

2008-12-29T18:58:00.000-08:00

M[iranda]: "Hey."

m[ark]: "I'm so sorry, that was the slowest response ever to an ASAP message. Are we even friends anymore? Can you possibly forgive me?"

M: "Funny you should put it that way. This conversation feels extremely illicit as of late. How's Laura?"

m: "Good. Good. So there's no emergency?"

M: "No, there is. There's not. I need a favor."

m: "A big favor?"

M: "Not a big favor."

m: "Hmm. I'm intrigued."

M: "Okay...I need you to meet Chase. I mean, I need him to be okay with you. No, wait! I need him to be okay with me, and you are part of me. This is serious. You are my version of 'my parents', not that you are my dad, because that would be gross."

m: "Ha ha! Yes, revolting. Not to say I wouldn't delight in having a daughter like you, I'm just not a huge fan of throwing up in my own mouth on a regular basis."

M: "Yes. Yes of course. Not many are."

m: "So, is Ms. Moure's little 'list' catching up with her? Is that what I'm hearing? I feel like that's what I'm hearing."

M: "Mark? We're not crazy, are we? I mean, we blog and like bourbon. We both delight in midday beers and greasy food, albeit considerably less greasy as the years have gone on. Okay, yeah: we have a history, but fuck it, no? Doesn't everyone have a history? Ours is just less complicated than most. That's the only difference I see."

m: "Right. You seem spot on: of course I'm not the one who's not going to agree with you."

M: "Right. That's why we need dinner. Soon. Early next year. Seriously, pencil me in, and I promise I wont write the event into my moleskine as "Dinner With Dad".

m: "That's mildly funny. But the gag reflex..."

M: "Okay, I'll stop. Promise."

m: "Yes. This is good. On all counts. What are you thinking?"

M: "I'm thinking that if this gets out of hand, I could lose 5 of my 9 preset speed dials. I mean, people do this, right? I mean, probably a good 30% of my current friends are in the same situation as you and I, and if you add even 2 degrees of Kevin Bacon, it could reach upwards of 75-95%. That's a lot."

m: "I meant more like in destination, but yes I concur: even but two degrees of Kevin Bacon can make things pretty sexy."

M: "Right. On all counts. Your choice. Put it together. Anything. Anywhere with food and beer."

m: "Right. I'll shoot you a line."

M: "Perfect."

m: "Good talking to you, Ms. M. Be in touch."

M: "Kay. Late."

--M

Still Life With Moxie or It's a Small World Afterall

2008-12-16T16:15:00.000-08:00

Story time.

So Amanda, who is my co-worker and sometimes-partner-in-crime, comes into work the other day with stories from visiting her hometown of Olympia.

"[So there I was] in downtown Oly at Caffe Vita, and I start talking to the barista there. He's all like, 'oh, you live in Seattle now' and stuff, and I'm like, yeah, I make coffee there too. So he asks me where I work, and when I answer Victrola, he inquires as to which one on Capitol hill I work at. So I'm like neither, I work on Beacon, and he starts freaking out! He's like, 'Omigod, my friend Ben lives on Beacon Hill, and he goes to this coffee shop all the time and used to date this black chick that works there. Do you work with her?' and I'm like, holy shit, I do work with her."

Hmm.

And in this, in this very small world that two people can have a conversation about someone they're not even quite sure they mutually know but in fact do, or sort of anyway, is it so hard to believe that everywhere is close to home? That time can't be spanned by singular event?

I just mean that, be it here in my hometown, or five years ago in Miami, there may be hands placed on hearts and hospital gowns and morphine and endless time for many things to be said, but as it should pass there should be requited I Love You's replacing fear and spanning five years and some 3000 miles.

You may take that as you will for the time being.
--M

How we operate.

2008-12-14T17:41:00.000-08:00

I am home, finally, because it has been days since I've been home.

And I have bought many books in the last couple weeks, and am happy that there is just enough snow on the ground to warrant me lazing around and reading them. Even the Vonnegut.

I had so many stories I wanted to tell, and now I'd rather just put these days behind me instead; and the one story that I'm dying to tell is still so close, so seemingly intimate that I can't bear to put it in print quite yet. Save in the e-mail I sent earlier to L and K of KLM.

Give me some time. I'll come around.
--M

"I have brought news, and I have brought literature."

2008-12-05T22:56:00.000-08:00

Rob--

I really, really miss you today.

Let's start in the middle of this, because I've been having the most terrible sense of deja-vu and I can't get you out of my head, even after our text-message-tet-a-tet last night, and I miss you because I just got home and I can barely type because it is 39 degrees outside. 39.

I remember the window in your hospital room at Mt. Sinai, and I remember looking out of it and thinking "I am never going to forget this view as long as I live", but here I am some five years later not remembering it at all save that I'm sure there were palm trees and lights and maybe you could see the water. What I do remember is the night your morphine drip stopped working and nobody would believe you, and even after you finally fell asleep behind your little curtain with your fingers entwined in mine over your heart and sweat dripping down your forehead that I just kept pushing that fucking button in vain every five minutes hoping I was giving you that much sweeter of dreams. I think I've written about that night before, me hiding in your little room from all the nurses far past visiting hours, you gulping for air, and all of your stitches from your surgery earlier that day.

Yeah, so like I said, Chase's lung collapsed, and I joked about it to him on the way to the hospital all like: "Omigod, you can't breathe right? Maybe you have a bubble in your lung...no wait...maybe your lung collapsed! That happened to my friend Rob once, and they had to jam a fuckin' tube through his ribcage--it was fuckin' knarly!"

Yeah. True story. I said that to him not two hours before his diagnosis.

And so today, instead of telling him that he is likely facing the same lengthy hospital stay you had and the exact same surgery, I went to the bookstore and bought him a mini library of Vonnegut and Kerouac and Burroughs and Miranda July, and when I placed them on his little tray I said "You're going to love Miranda July" and without so much as a single beat skipped he said "so you're saying I'm going to love Miranda?" and then I was left with nothing else to say.

And after I said I Love You I stared into his blank blue eyes as the silence just got longer and longer, and all I could think in my head was how badly I wanted to explain why--why it had to be now, because just like you did, he could die on the fucking table, but he might not be as lucky to be brought back to life some ten minutes later.

No, instead, I kiss him sweetly and tell him he's gonna be fine because you were, but I can see him glancing at the stack of books and newspapers I bought for him and I can tell that he knows that I know that he might be there for a while.

The VA, like Sinai, is a maze of hallways that I'm beginning to be able to navigate without getting lost. I don't like knowing that I know my way around, and I hope for his sake that Christmas will come and he will be with me in his own bed, not waiting until eleven until I show up with a copy of Holidays On Ice, a can of cranberry sauce, and some carefully wrapped t-shirts and flair and music with tags that bear a hand-written heart and an M. I told him of your birthday spent in the hospital, joking about how I had gotten you a sewing machine and only brought the manual because you wouldn't have even been able to pick it up to unwrap it because it was so heavy. He asked me how long you had been in the hospital by the time your birthday came around. I didn't really answer.

He hasn't asked me about Christmes yet and I fear it happening.

But not as much as I fear losing him before that.

Happy Hannukah, Rob. I'm so glad you came back to us.

I miss you and love you.

xoxo
--M

Rather Quite and the Two Christmases

2008-12-01T19:20:00.000-08:00

December 1, 2008

This morning in the Pike Place Market, local philanthropist Audobon Poe was seen savagely beating male model Apollo Quite with a phone book. Quite, who also happens to be the younger brother of King 5 news broadcaster Rather Quite, was taken to Harborview and cannot be reached for comment. "We were just shopping and stuff," says Clever-Ann Rhymes, who was strolling with the assailed at the time, "and right when I reached in my purse to grab my flask, BAM! Fuck man, that dude came out of nowhere." Rhymes describes Poe as, quote: "old and gross", but lacks the ability to elaborate further on the incident. Poe was released on bail this evening, the money posted by none other than Rather Quite himself. When asked why he would want his brothers assailant released, he only repeated the phrase, quote: "who's clever now you fucking two-timing bitch" about five or six times. It is not known whether Rhymes and [Rather] Quite are still deeply intoxicated at time of print, but it is being reported by Harborview staff that [Apollo] Quite is, quote: "pretty doped up."

--M

The New Adventures of Chase and Chase: The Rather Quite Chronicles, Part II

2008-11-22T22:35:00.000-08:00

Breaking News

After a long week of writing and drinking cheap local beer, local celebutante and wannabe novelist Clever-Ann "Chase" Rhymes, best known for her longtime on-and-off relationship with King 5 evening news broadcaster, Rather Quite, is apparently, quote: "exhausted." Rhymes goes on to say: "You know what? This is fucking ridiculous. Yeah, I know, my name's fucking Clever for chrissakes," Rhymes expounds through the intoxication, "but at least it's not fucking Punky. Or fucking Rather. I mean, dude...Rather? What the fuck kind of name is that? Damn, bitch, I'm fuckin' tired." Rhymes estimates she'll eventually get some sleep sometime in December, although she elaborates that it is not guaranteed if, quote: "Rather keeps reading me the fucking news all hours of the goddamn night. Ha ha," she said laughingly.

[italics, again, mine.]
--M

For Angelica

2008-11-20T21:10:00.000-08:00

The New Adventures of Chase and Chase: The Rather Quite Chronicles

by: Chase Moure

Dedicated to Chase Arents in the Style of Chase Collum

This just in: Local celebrity Rather Quite, best known as longtime evening news broadcaster but also dabbles in AIDS research, was found this evening spinning around in circles mid mild traffic on the corner of Airport Way and South Lucille in naught but his boxers. Witnesses attest that he is most likely suffering from a crippling cocktail of mental illness and alcohol. Judy Box, local artisan and Georgetown resident who witnessed the incident quoted him screaming through a rolled-up newspaper that he fashioned into a makeshift bullhorn: "Call me Punky Brewster again and I'm gonna show you who's gonna read the fuckin' news! Me, goddamnit! I'm gonna read you the fuckin news!"

[italics mine.]

--M

Fuck NaNoWriMo.

2008-11-18T15:24:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay. I know, make love, not war--but seriously. This is the part I hate--when ideas are running thin and word counts are running low and I'm trying to find some inspiration for the final push.

Hopefully I wont end up 4000 words shy this year.

Oh, you want more excerpts?

I guess I will oblige, but first I should take the time to actually describe my NaNoWriMo project.

The idea is that I'm rewriting a series of Greek myths using events that, um..."actually happened" [these are much more highly fictionalized than I usually write] to update and re-define them. The point? To figure out whether we deify our loved ones or humanize our gods. Take that as you will.

The last excerpt was a re-write of Cupid and Psyche. I've done Persephone, Icarus, and Narcissus...and this excerpt is from the last.

In the retelling I equate drug use and egotism to the overly expressed vanity in the original story. Enjoy.

“So what’s good here?” He says, smiling at me.
“Everything.” What I mean is that everything is equally good. It’s a diner—every diner has the same stuff, and it’s all pretty much fine. I have my favorites, however, and have no idea why I’m even glancing at the menu. The truth is that I already know exactly what I want, and so I fold my menu next to me, take a sip of my coffee.
“Everything? That can’t be true. What about…what about the french toast? Is it good?”
“Yeah, it’s good.” The truth is, I have no idea. I’ve never had it here. Ever. In my life.
“Awesome. French toast it is. We have this place in Portland, Dots? They have the best pancakes. The best. We used to go there before practice on Sundays.” I think he’s forgotten that I used to live in Portland, I’ve been to Dots many times. Yes, it’s true, they do have the best pancakes. I chose not to remind him.

Our waiter comes around to take our orders. Alex, just as promised, orders the french toast. Then the waiter turns to me.
“I’ll have the one-egg mini breakfast, scrambled, wheat toast, and a Grey Goose Bloody Mary, no Tabasco, extra horseradish. Does that come with dilly beans, or celery?”
“Both,” the waiter replies, “and olives and onions.”
“Perfect,” I say, handing him my menu, “just how I like it. Alex, you want one too?”
“You know,” he says a bit contemplatively and not lacking in judgment, “I don’t really drink.”
“Excellent choice,” our waiter interjects as I stare at Alex wide eyed and wondering why he had asked me for drinks the night before, “your Bloody Mary will be over in just a jiffy, sweetheart. You two might want to work this out in the meantime.”

Hurricane waiters are known for their surliness. I note that this one, citing more than just the single raised eyebrow, is not excluded from this.

“Yeah, I just, you know, I had a couple bad experiences,” Alex is expounding, “a couple violent experiences. I’m not a very accomplished drunk, and so sometime in my twenties, I just decided not to get drunk anymore.”

What I eventually say and what I’m thinking are two completely different things. I’m thinking, oh fuck, this is going to be like dating a non-smoker. Oh fuck, The walls of his perfection are crumbling, oh fuck fuck fuck—all of my friends are drunks and bartenders. No matter, I can handle this. Unfortunately, I see many days ahead of passing a pipe that I don’t actually partake of. Although I’ve only seen him smoke one bowl in the last 12 hours, I’m now positive that I’m sitting across from a complete and utter—albeit highly functional—honest to god stoner.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have to ask you to leave me the fuck alone. Tonight, yes. Tonight I'm taking off, but only because I accidently screamed at my poor sleeping boyfriend in the middle of the night last night. His crime? Sleep-elbowing me in the face. Now I owe him dinner and backrubs.

Actually, you should have been there. If you've ever wondered what I might scream at you in the middle of the night after you've woken me with a swift elbow to the face on accident, then rest assured that the result is pretty hilarious.

"Goddamnit! You're not being fucking fair! That is not fucking fair!"

[I'm really, really sorry. Also, I'm totally still giggling.]
xoxo
--M

NaNoWriMo '08: Excerpt.

2008-11-03T16:47:00.000-08:00

So at my birthday party, there was some talk that, due to my new monogamous relationship (yes, that I am in. seriously.) that I have come a long way from my manifesto. I was thinking about this coming into the inagural days of NaNoWriMo, and wanted to begin on that note.

To answer all of your pre-emptive questions, yes. I am behind. Already. I am, however, trying furiously to catch up and no, this is not one of my procrastination techniques of which I have many. Trust.

By day, as he has told me, he spends his long hours penning short songs that pull the heartstrings of his audiences. In the evening, should a venue present itself, he will perform them, and in this wake people swoon and buckle to his inklings. Couples will glance to each other during a refrain and see each other as they have not before and friends lean to grasp each other’s hands. A verse might bring about a roving eye from a single lad that lands upon a deserving maid who, unbeknownst to her, has already in his mind been qualified as the one. A hook might bring a tear to a woman’s eye that misses a loved one overseas.

I believe him when he tells me of this though I have never seen it, because this is what I want for myself. I want my pen and I to elicit such response, to bring tears and love and anger and all manner of such vibrant emotion. I want people to ache to hear what I have to say; I want to be the one to speak of the queues of people just wanting to catch a glimpse, a note. A word.

I have another 300 words today just to catch up from yesterday. If you're not currently calculating and breaking this down in your head, then I will say it plainly for you--

I have another 2000 words to write. Today.
--M

Happy Birthday Ms. Moure

2008-10-31T16:45:00.000-07:00

It. Was. Awesome.

Here are some birthday wishes I recieved via text, comment, message, and e-mail.

HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYYYYY!!!!! :]
i love you and get shit faced for me.
go big. everyday. do it for her!
xoxoxo
-K[im].

dear M- Happy 'u rock' day! it's pretty cold here in NY too. try to keep ur birthday suit under the trench coat this year.
[--George, who shares my birthday]

Happy 28th Birthday girl!
--Shanelle

M-
all the best for your birthday! Wish I could be there to celebrate with you! Hope to see you again someday soon.
-B[enji]

Happy Birthday Darling! Hope Seattle is treating you well! XOXO
-M[elissa]

Again, Happy B-day!
--Manly

Happy Birthday!
--Benjamin

Happy birthday sweetheart.
--Lisa

Happy Birthday you sexy beast!
--Rob Scheppy

Some were a little late, but made up for that in hilarity.

SHITSHITSHIT!!!!!
Happy Yesterday, M!
Hope it was great...and by great, I mean doggie :)
--Keenan

And some were completely unexpected.

m--
I can't help but think of you every year.
Hope 25 is everything you'd hoped it would be.
--M

M--
Thank you- I hope so too. I have to admit I kind of do the same thing every year too. Hope you're well.
--M

[and you thought the illiterative initials post was cryptic, haha.]
--M

Deck of Cards Day 9: Some notes.

2008-10-24T20:01:00.000-07:00

You may or may not have ever seen either of my old deck of cards projects:

1. Jungle of Numbers: a slide show

and

2. 7 1/2 weeks in Miami

Anyway, there's a new one. I'll be done in 43 more days.

And NaNoWriMo starts in a week. Start looking forward to "Hermit Miranda", a rare breed of slutty wordsmith who's natural habitat is in front of her laptop. Best found between Nov. 1 and Jan. 1 (don't forget NYCD).

More later. Birthday week is approaching. Festivities begin Tuesday night in the G for midnight toasts. My party? Wednesday night @ The Duck:

See you there.
--M

For my favorite person in the world.

2008-10-21T23:08:00.000-07:00

Go Big. Everyday.

2008-10-21T15:30:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking recently about the things for which you're willing to go big.

Then I came across this picture of my little nephew and his dad who is my best friend from high school, Ed. It suddenly became so clear.

I can't wait to meet this little guy. Oh how distance has the way of making love understandable.

--M

"The Cardboard Foursome"

2008-10-20T21:05:00.000-07:00

And lo, there in the valley of Georgetown, 'neath the flight path and mid the train tracks, a young maid did proclaim: "Yes! Yes! Yes!" And so it was, and so her own headcasedness brought 'round a break from said headcasedness, for there, 'neath her very nose, was one thing she sought that seemed so elusive.

--M
[Please, no comments yet. I really, really don't want to hear about how this is out of character for me. Have you noticed my character in the last year? Plus, it's winter and I feel like more than Cake, I feel like cupcaking. --M]

It's Always Sunny

2008-10-16T22:14:00.000-07:00

On Wed, Oct 15, 2008 at 10:37 AM, Keenan wrote:
I just looked at flights on Virgin (they always seem to be the cheapest). To get the $120+ roundtrip, we'd have to fly in Thursday morning and back Friday night- and forget about Vegas.

Subject: Re: thanksgiving
From: Lisa
Date: Wed, October 15, 2008 10:40 am
To: "Keenan"
Cc: "Miranda Moure"

Miss M,
What are you doing Thanksgiving????? Want some company?

On Wed, Oct 15, 2008 at 3:55 PM, "M" wrote:
OH MY GOD I JUST STARTED INVOLUNTARILY SCREAMING AND SHAKING IN MY CHAIR AT STUDIO. OH MY GOD, YES. YES, YES, A MILLION TIMES YES.

Fuck, I fuckin' miss you guys. I'm posting this right now. It will
give you less of an opportunity to back out.
--M

[Oh yeah, I forgot to post this, haha.]
--M

Two boys, one singular idea of illiterative initials.

2008-10-14T16:16:00.000-07:00

[note left on door]

BB--
Shit! I missed you guys again. I probably wont be able to stop back by again tonight [even though I did, three more times, haha] but B, I would be your best friend if you could drop my phone charger off at my work tomorrow. Thx big.
xoxo
--MM

[conversation in my hallway with CC]

"Dude, I didn't mean it to happen that way." --MM

[late morning pillow talk]

"Oh my god, I haven't slept like that in...days. And days. Maybe two weeks." --MM
"Then keep here in mind if you ever need to...you know. Sleep." --CC

[today, at work]

"Hi! My god! I'm sorry, I've been in Portland." --BB
"Oh my god. Thanks for my phone charger. I didn't know you had left it and got it today. It's been days. How are you?" --MM
"Good. Oh, hi. Hi." --BB

[And then when I pulled back from a hug and my palms were involuntarily brought to his cheeks and there is me, at the end of my bar holding his face in my hands, and I realized that I don't think I had ever done that to him before, and that Etta and I have quite a lot in common even when I am concious of making the same mistakes as she. Didn't Mark and I just speak of this on Friday? Yes, it was Friday, the same day we had lunch and came up with a handful of tentative titles for this post that we're all some version of "Two ______, one ______", and we also dove into the Three Rules of Etta, that are described already in D: All of the Above. But do not confuse palm cradling of anything to fall under B) Touch Him, as it should be clear that rule #2 is much more lascivious than that. No, face cradling falls under rule #1, or A) Tell Hal He's Awesome because the whole point of rule #1 is that we can, as women, be forgiven for inordinate amounts of care when the (verbally) expressed pretext is strictly platonic. That is why, when CC found MM walking BB to his car, MM, because she had expressed platonicism (be that true or no), was granted the right via The Three Rules of Etta to throw her arms around his neck to congratulate him on a promotion. Then today I have a similar response--an overly physically affectionate "platonic" gesture, the face/palm cradling, to celebrate BB's return from Portland--but this time I am struck that I am doing it while it's happening. And then, at work, I realized the last and final rule that I'm not sure I'd let myself realize until now. Feeling affection may be happenstance, but care is willful. If you're not catching what I'm throwing here, then let me break it down some more: expressed platonicism differs from actual platonicism. I'm as serial as a chainsaw, the pillow talk I had on Sunday, and this. Okay, maybe not that, as that's clearly a joke.]

--M

[p.s.--yes, it's true. that part about me having my phone charger back. oh, and level-of-tiredness-willing, responses to new CL ad posted tomorrow]

"Look at the sun rising over the chi-mo van."

2008-10-07T20:23:00.000-07:00

You guys might find this funny.

BCT [that's me]--
hey :: we need to make something happen over here. do you have a day for lunch this week? wednesday would be my ideal, friday is good too. boo-yah!
--RCU [that's Mark]

RCU--
I have Thursday off, but will be recuperating from a slumber party at my studio with the girls (see blog). Have to pick them up from school again @ 2:25 Wednesday and I get off at one, so that's out. I could do dinner tomorrow, or late (read: 1:30) lunch Friday. Anything? Anything?
--BCT

BCT--
k. i could do a late lunch friday --> if i have even a day in advance i can tell my super and he's groovy unless i have shit due (which i won't). could 1:30 really work? how about ... benogi? i think that's the name; the italinan cafe on 1st and cherry. we shall conspire.
--RCU

BCT--
hey i have a thing tonight; dinner won't work, but i'm completely for cereal about lunch on friday. let's do this.
--RCU

RCU--
Done. And Done. You pick.
--BCT

BCT--
cafe bengodi - 700 1st Ave (1st & cherry). 1:30 still works for you?
--RCU

RCU--
Perfect. See you then. I might get there at 1:35, don't be mad.
--BCT

Isn't it weird to see two friends try so desperately to see each other when there was once a time when they were not friends that they would rush to see each other at the drop of a text message?

You see, this is what I was saying Sunday. It's all about the want to see each other, not the benefit of doing so.

And that is how I learned how to survive.
--M

[title supplied by Smashley Wren]

"I'll fall asleep, and you'll fall in love."

2008-10-06T22:32:00.000-07:00

Today at work one of my regulars, Jeff, came in.

He asked what I did over the weekend, and I said that Jesus Christ I had an awesome fucking weekend.

"Really?" he said, "What'd you do?"

Thanks to my favorite of the Myricks clan, I had completely forgotten the events of Friday night when I answered.

"Oh, dude--I hung out with my Niece."

"You spend quite a deal of time with her, don't you?" he asked, and I smiled. I talk about her at work often.

"As much as I can."

List.

1. Sunday found Lex and I digging through a candy dish in my Sister's closet looking for her car keys. We found them. She is in Denver for another week. Sweet. We then decided that this week would be LM/MM Week '08. Awesome.

2. Hmm. What now? Beth's, of course. For Rice's last shift. I have never in my life seen Lex's eyes light up as much as they do around him--but I guess that makes sense, you know? Rice can make just about anyone feel special. I guess his powers are not void on 16 y/o's. The title of this post was supplied by him in fact, and it was said to my Niece. That's right--my Niece, not me. I almost lost it--it was one of the funniest things I've ever heard in my life. This isn't to say that I didn't get half-heartedly propositioned in advance for the night of his going away party: "We got nine days left, baby! Let's do this!"

3. Turned out once it started to get dark that my sister's headlights don't work too well, so we grabbed Noelle's car to drop Kim off at home. We found out that I-5 between Shoreline and Lynnwood is just enough time to blast Toxic on repeat 4 times.

4. I was devestatingly bored at the tail end of work today, and texted Ben to see if he'd come in with the boys and entertain me for a while. They did come by, in record time, in fact. After some chatting about last night's Family Guy and other assorted witty banter, it was time for Sean to get to School. "Miranda, we're out. I'm getting out of work around...7? I'll call you?"

Then the funniest thing came out of my mouth, and I hadn't quite realized what I had said until it was out and settled for some time and sounding as if my "divorce" from my realatives had left me with pre-arranged scheduled visits with Lex.

"You know what, I have the girls tonight."

5. I picked them up from school today. First we played the "Miranda is picking Lex up from school song", TSR. Then we played our song, No More Tears. Then we listened to Toxic on repeat 4 or 5 more times, then back to No More Tears. We let that album play for a while, and somehow because of a story about a ciggarette and a clump of Kim's hair coming out or something, we decided that the first track is now our song too: because We Can Laugh at Danger and Break All the Rules [which has also been dubbed one of our songs now], because we can Rejoice even when our hair smells like burning. If you're smelling a "This Will Not Kill Your Braincells Vol. 2", you can rest assured that we are likely doing the same. It's in the works.

6. I brought them to studio to work on a project with me. We got about half done, and ran out of smokes.

7. I have tomorrow off of LM/MM Week '08. I'm gonna sleep my ass off to prepare for the slumber party on Wednesday.

Tonight we were standing on a street corner by her highschool, and Lex made a comment about how I had changed my last name, and our plans to get matching "M" tattoos on her 18th birthday.

"You know, I'm probably more like Ran than anyone else in my family," she said, and I'll insert here that when one of my relatives refers to "Ran", that is me, "I might as well just change my name to Moure too."

It sounds nice, you know? The 18 and 29 y/o Moure's, a year and a half from now, rampaging around the country and the world, boarding trains in Belgium and driving cars in Georgia, breaking hearts, taking names, writing it down and drowning it in cheap beer and pricey bourbon. It sounds romantic in that vintage sense that doesn't involve romance. It sounds near perfect.

The only problem is that I want things for her than I didn't have. I thought I could find everything I was missing all over the globe, but here I am, in my hometown with her, she being the thing I was really missing this whole time.

This is too big a topic for tonight. Plus, I've already written extensively on this. On a side note to avid readers/texters/MySpacers/callers: Sunday night went swimmingly. Just as planned; and even through all the "wait, aren't you right handed?" jokes circulating at my/others expense right now, I held my tongue enough not to beat a dead horse, with either hand no less.

xoxo
--M

You can rely on me, honey.

2008-10-04T18:21:00.000-07:00

Mom--

I really, really miss you today.

By that I don't mean to say that I usually don't miss you, because I do. I just mean that I listened to YHF today at work and all of our time together came flooding back to me and all of the sunshine and the fresh pots of coffee that Lauren and Rob and I would make for you. I miss when I'd go out of town and you'd send me off with a card and twenty dollars like you were sending me off to summer camp and like I wasn't completely fucking grown. I miss how excited you were the day you came into my work after going to Spec's and you were so excited to pull your purchases out of your bag--some Rufus Wainwright album, Beck's Sea Change, and finally what I to this day refer to as our album, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

I was just refering to it as "our album" yesterday, and found myself at a loss for words.

Remember right after New Years 2004, and Matthew was visiting me from Olympia, and Rob and him and I we're at our work although neither of us was working, and you were sipping on a giant paper cup of what was likely decaf Sumatra in the lobby? We spoke of Wilco that night too, and I remember you being amazed that my 20 y/o singer/songwriter boyfriend didn't listen to them. "What?" you were stammering, "What's wrong with you?" you asked him, and then I watched his brow furrow in that same way mine does when I'm frustrated and confused and about to get defensive. Then I laughed. Then you laughed. And then the corners of his mouth started to turn and the creases came out of his forehead and he finally laughed too.

Mom, I don't mean to cheapen all of our stuff concerning that album, but it was, along with Out of the Fierce Parade mine and Matthew's album too. Partly because of that night. Partly because I gave him the first track of that album to him for New Years CD that year to apologize for all of my indiscretions. Partly because I wrote to him that year among many, many other words about how still he made the night when we happened into the same city for a few days or a week or two--that those hours when the sun went down left us without obligation and promise, that I want to hold you in the Bible-black predawn. Oh, and this:

I do what
my baby bids me do;

acrross this side-effect of manifest destiny

I fly
to you.

I thought about this poem often this year between February and June when I spent long weeks in the city barely scraping by just so I could come see Wood for a few days or maybe a week. In all of that time I knew that it would end up being a self-fulfilling prophesy because I could only ever see for us the same end that Matthew and I shared--that I would end up back in my home town and all of our deal breakers would surface, and what seemed so perfect in the confines of a timeline would be destroyed merely by forever stretching on to the horizon. I could see it so clearly, Mom. I really could, and I couldn't bear to do it again, and whatever we managed to scrape up between the two of us in those few months was just too big for me to let it end forever. And so it came to pass that in my last trip up to see him specifically, at the end of June, I found myself gathering up all of my stuff from his little room, putting on all of my clothes and hightailing it out of his house at three in the morning. It was my last night in town, and I wasn't quite sure that I would end up at Ben Harrison's house until I was out front of his building heaped in a ball on his stoop in the middle of the night.

Karma, as it turns out, is a rancorous bitch-goddess, and when it happened to me rather than by me last night, I couldn't think of all of the reasons I had once done it myself, but could only lay still and count my misgivings like sheep until I finally fell asleep.

Mom, I want you to say something to me to make this okay, but much like the card and the twenty dollars you'd bring me at work before I would leave to Seattle to go see Matthew, it is, truth be told, unnecsesary for the exact same reason--because I'm a grown ass woman.

I guess I'm just hoping for a chance to redeem myself.

I love and miss you.
--M

[Special thanks today to Jeff Tweedy for excerpts of I Am Trying To Break Your Heart and Jesus, etc. and to Mike Doughty for his lovely, lovely poem: My Lover Lives On the Other Coast.]

"Dear Miranda: Can I Drink That Beer?"

2008-10-03T23:04:00.001-07:00

B: "Okay, fine. Don't ask me to go smoke."

M: "Sorry, I thought you were a grown ass man."

--M

[p.s. "To that he responded something comically and stoically confidant that led me to believe he was indeed a full grown man." --B]

[p.p.s.--Title supplied by Jess Manley]

Chasing after stories that have already been told.

2008-10-02T22:14:00.000-07:00

"Hello?"

"Dude, I've been calling your cell. I didn't eveen think you'd answer here--why are you still at your desk so late?"

"What do you want?"

"Fuck, Alan--calm down. I just wanted to talk. If you're busy, I'll call you tomorrow."

"Oh, now you wanna talk? Jesus, Miranda. What the fuck. I've barely heard from you in weeks. One e-mail, a text message here or there. We were friends, Miranda. Neighbors. Lovers."

"You work for a newspaper. I was a story. Friends? Maybe--but that was kind of incidental. We had sex a small handful of times in three years. And you know what? There were tons of people who didn't get to see me at all in those last two weeks. At least I saw you. Fucked you."

"You don't have to be so callous."

"You know what, that's why I'm calling. It's not that I have to be so callous, maybe I just don't know another way to be."

"Oh shit. You're sounding reflective. That could only mean a couple of things, and since your birthday is still a little ways off, I'm gonna guess that you're calling me over a boy. A boy that is not me. Thanks, Mox."

"But that's what we do. I have always done this with you--with Nicholas and Wood and all of them. Wait, did we ever talk about Alistair?"

"In passing. Yes--but only really in reference to your title piece."

"Hmm. That's right."

"So what's up in your cakesaver, Miranda? You might as well shoot."

"You know what...maybe this isn't such a good idea. Not now. Not yet. I mean, I'm just a little confused right now, I just got off the phone with Wood and...shit. Fuck, I gotta go, he's texting me...and apparently meeting me in a half hour."

"Wood?"

"No."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"Miranda?"

"Yeah."

"Be careful, okay?"

"I will. Call me tomorrow."

"Kay."

--M

New Today: Lists and News

2008-10-01T13:52:00.000-07:00

1.

Sex Practices
of the
Freelance Writer

BY IRIS SMYLES

- - - -

Common Approaches

query
pitch
submit
withdraw

Common Responses

none
rejection
the "nice no"
acceptance
compensation

2.

Lake. Tonight. Be there or be square. C'mon, guys! When's the last time we all went to our spot at the lake?

--M

"Let's fall in love and move to Montreal."

2008-09-29T15:01:00.000-07:00

K + L--
Hey guys. Remember that show I was invited to a week or so ago? Funny story, 'cause on Saturday night, the lead singer of said band leaned across the table in the first hour of our first date and said to me the sentence that titles this post. The short version is, I said yes.

Okay, okay. It was a joke, yes. But 22 hours later when our first date was beginning to drag into infinity and he finally dropped me off at my house, it wasn't seeming like such a bad idea.

We went to the grocery store yesterday in anticipation of him cooking me dinner (don't even make fun of me right now) and as we're pulling into the parking lot, we had a brief but poignant conversation. Lisa, you especially will appreciate this. How many times have we spoke of the fact that there are many ways to arrive at the same conclusion? That, and I say this referring specifically to myself, that even though it may look like I'm incapable of allying myself to just one person, that I am. That I'm looking for that, I just don't want to find it the way most people do, and that's okay.

"Hey, Miranda?" He is sounding a bit tentative, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. A little.
"Yeah?" I returned the tentativeness.
"Hey, do you think--and I'm not really trying to infer anything by this, you know, about the two of us--but...I mean besides all of this interim fucking, I mean mine and yours and ours and everyones: are you the type of person that thinks that there's one person for you out there?"

And then I turned to face him and I smiled. And I was remembering that night in my elevator with Wood when I was pissed at myself for that one hard and definite "Yes" that escaped my lips, and I knew that I was excited rather than apprehensive to answer in the exact same manner this time.

"Yes."

There it was. A flat "Yes" with a period at the end, even. And I was glad to say it.

You were right Lis, they are out there.

Also, on a side note, he's spent a total of 10+ years on tour over the course of his life. What does that have to do with anything? Haha, just this--because besides the fact that I'm not supposed to be sleeping with musicians, I may have finally found my guy doppleganger. He's slept with almost twice as many people as me. Oh, and he's not in his twenties. You proud?

I am.
--M

[p.s. to Angelica--DUDE: Chase, VIP and Dude are gonna be green with fucking envy when they find out who this guy is. Seriously, they are already jealous and don't even know it yet--and yes, by that I mean that they would go gay for this guy. Either that or they're just barely to young to be jealous. Either way, say hi to them for me. I miss them almost as much as I miss you.]

For KL of KLM

2008-09-20T14:22:00.000-07:00

K + L--
Fuck.

You know, there are so many times a day that I miss you guys, but today had to be one of the worst.

So there I was, at work, and one of my customers and I start up a conversation. Turns out he's playing a show tonight, and I can just feel an invite on the tip of his tongue, you know? That's when I remembered what it's like--the perk of being a barista--all the parties and shows and the like you you will invariably get to attend due to an invite from a customer. Often for free, should there be a charge.

"Where's it at?" This is me assuring the invite.

"Oh, you know that record store in Ballard right next to The Tractor? Yeah, it starts at nine."

"Oh, that's cool."

"Yeah..." wait for it... "you should come."

Man, I mean, that's what I loved about Cafe International, you know? And between the show tonight, and breakfast in the morning with another customer who lives down the street from me (weather and hangovers permitting, haha), it only took me a glance over to the tip jar to make me love my morning job. It's super chill.

You guys should be here. At least for a visit. It would make rainy days like today more palatable.

And hey--to think, if I didn't make coffee, I might not even know you guys.

Wonder who else I'll meet here, haha.

--M

p.s.--The neighbors played a show last Wednesday at The Comet. We got totally smashed and went to Seattle's only Dyke bar. You guys really should have been there, it was right up KLM's alley.

Post 405: For Angelica

2008-09-15T21:31:00.000-07:00

A--
I got my vest today--I'm so stoked! Now I just gotta find my favorite t-shirt, and I'm all set. Kind of.

Haha.

Wood and I are...hmm. Let's put it this way--he's FURIOUS with me right now. Know that Craig's List post you [and everyone] laughed so hard at? Yeah, he, apparently, did not think it was so funny.

I just needed a break, you know? Moving is hard, and I just needed some time to settle and recover and whatnot. Clear my head. Not have him...fuck. This is the fucked up part. He's gonna read this.

That being said, I'm trying. I swear. I'm amazing and congenial when we run into each other at the bar and the like, and I try my best not to talk shit about him when he's not around. Well, okay. I do--I have. But I feel at least like I have both redeemed him and myself before the conversation's over. Fine. You got me. I'm rationalizing the situation to suit my own purposes.

My friend Skinny Mike's going away party was tonight. I got to The Duck, and my bartender Jeremiah was all like "Omigod, Miranda," and I was like "What?"

"So there I was," J-ru was saying, "hanging out on my family's farm [in Yakima], and what do I find? this huge stack of wood cut out letters."

"Wait," I said, "was there an M?"

"Yeah, dude. It's like three feet high. My car was full, but next time I go, I'm bringing it back for you. You'll have to sand it and repaint it, but dude, it'll look killer with your M collection."

That's what I'm here for. Don't get me wrong, I love Wood to death, but I'm here for my boys and my girls and my studio that I'm at right now and all of my new jobs, and I'm here for all of the reasons that don't necessarily include him.
I'm here to build my long term friendships. To write more. To get more and more and more and even more M's.

I'm doing my best. Is it so bad that my best isn't good enough for him right now? I hope so.

I miss you and Chase. Especially every time I'm fucking the neighbor whose name is Chase.

That is true, by the way.
--M

WANTED: Mothersnuggin' Craig's List Hilarity

2008-09-12T21:59:00.000-07:00

Hahaha.

I have got to quit smoking so much pot. That being said, here's a funny little something Crystal and I came up with this evening.

Seriously, check this out.

I'll post responses as we get them.

--M
[p.s.--do us a solid, and flag this best of craig's list.]

9.13.08 edits: responses.

"Is the one on the left a monkey of some sort?"

"Damn it, where's my guy friend when I need him!!! I love the term steaknife...the mental graphic is hot :) Well ladies (with hills), there's just one of me. I won't say the obvious out of some tiny bit of gentlemen in me, but if your even thinking it, it would be soooooo much damn fun. Would that be like a double patty-steaknife :)"

"Are you chicks fer real???" to which we responded:

"No. It's just a joke. We were stoned and bored. We are fucking the neighbors, though. It's funny, you're the only one who realized. Haha!" --M and then he said back:

"Hahaha!! Fucking the neighbors…..how fucking easy is that!"

"Hi. I am just one guy with enough energy and imagination to completely satisfy both of you by myself. Best tongue action you will ever have pleasure of enjoying. And a nice thick cock for you both to suck on and ride till dawn if you like."

"Hi Ladies...nice ad!! I dont have a roommate..single guy..but 33/m and live in Ballard...interested in chatting?"

"Bummer, I am only one person ;) Other than that I fit what you are looking for."

"Hey my name is craig im a 27yr old construction worker and live in north seattle.As for looks im clean cut except for my sideburns,6ft tall,175lbs,athletic,tan,toned,dark features and definately not bad lookin.For fun i enjoy sports,music,the gym,a good movie,trying new resteraunts and goin out once in a while to name a few.If you want i can send pics just let me know."

"That sounds totally rad, but I don't have a male roommate... so maybe you can mix and match? haha

"I do live on the first hill area :) I'm an easy going 28 year old musician with a day job..... and I NEVER forget to go to the store before 2 :P"

"well there is 2 of us here..22 and 25 in west seattle so whats good? i have pics but craigslist says they are 2 large of files..but i do have yahoo and msn messenger so let me know something."

"Fuckin and drinkin are what I do best. did you get the pic i sent?"
[he is referring to a pic of a cock poised next to a Coors Lite]

"id like to steaknife with both of you..."

"One of the most amazing ads ever. Here's your cookie, you definitely earned it :D"

"So here it is. I too have a roommate and a friend that lives close by. We dont live in Georgetown . We live in Tacoma. We dont ride bicycle. We ride Harley-Davidson. We all have money and like to party too and drink. I personally drink Jameson ( im irish ) the other two drink whatever they feel. Im going to send what pics i can from my work pc if you respond ill get you more of all of us. Or fuck it and lets just meet get fucked up and have a great time. Might even have to get the boat out and party on it too. This reply to you isnt BS either."

"HI JAY HERE AND I LIKE YOUR PROFILE. PLEASE SEND MORE PICS AND CONTACT INFO. I LIVE IN CAPITAL HILL/FIRST HILL AREA. PART OF SEATTLE.LETS MEET FOR DRINKS NOW OR LATER GIRL. I'M A BARTENDER AT THE CAPTIAL CLUB IE 414 E.PINE AND I CAN HOST A PARTY ANYTIME. MY ROOMMATE IS VERY COOL AND ASIAN. HE IS 5'8'' FASHION DESIGNER AND WE LOVE TO DRINK AND PARTY. 420 READY. ;LETS TALK ABOUT THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT AN SHARE SOME PASSION IF YOU CAN HANG!!"

That's it for now.
--M

I've got the drop on you.

2008-09-08T13:07:00.000-07:00

from: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]
sent --- 13:08:10, 9.8.08
to: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]

subject: RE: Grace Cathedral Hill just wont be the same

A--
On April 3, 2005, My Niece whom you may know from IAJD as Little Alexis, turned 13 years old. Also on that day, I woke up in my 79 Volvo 242 GT just outside of Redding, California after a two hour nap. My cat, Maui, was sleeping on my lap, and everything I owned was either in the backseat or in the trunk. A few hours later I merged off the 505 and onto the 80, and then there was me, on the apex of the Bay Bridge with both hands up and through my sunroof, with Los Halos on my stereo.

But I've told that story before. Here's a new one.

On August 16, 2008, I dropped my dear friend Keenan off at his house in a 12' long orange Penske truck, and after getting a little lost due to some construction, I was finally pulling onto the 80. Yael Naim came on the radio, and it was foggy as it likely should be when one is moving from San Francisco, and the lanes are so narrow and my truck was so big that I feared looking back for one last glance--but I did. And as I did I swerved in traffic, but I saw the fog thick over downtown and all of the spires peeking from the clouds. It was just a peek, but as I looked back at the road ahead, and corrected back into the lane, I knew that I would write this down. Somehow. Someday.

I guess that day is today.

Yeah, you're right. I can never escape knowing that I very well might write any waking moment down on paper, but fuck, Alan. How am I enjoying living in the end of my book? I don't know, because I'm not--because even by your rationale, the end of my book ended right there--New Soul blaring loud in the cab, my cat sleeping under the drivers seat, me looking back for one last glance and saying goodbye to the last three and a half years. Audibly. True story--I said goodbye out loud to no one in particular as I started to cry.

Don't assume this has been easy for me, because it hasn't. Would it be easy for you so sit in a truck for 19 hours going over and over saying goodbye to your best friend on a street corner just outside of the Castro while she cries and gets in a cab?

I'm sorry. This is stupid. Let me redeem myself.

On Labor Day, 2003, I sat way up high in Memorial Stadium with Kyle, and half way through R.E.M.'s set, I burst into tears after hearing the first six unmistakable notes of Night Swimming. Five years later and a week ago today, Kyle and I were laying around in Oxbow Park with the roomies and neighbors and some friends drinking mismatched beers and trying to recuperate from the night before. I have been friends with Kyle for pushing ten years now, and through all the shit that's gone on and all of both of our numerous indiscretions, we're still both just trying to figure out how to be us. That day, after barely dodging getting arrested, we found out that naked slide-riding is probably not the best way. Oops.

The point is that I'm not making stories, I'm trying to make a life, and as much as it may seem that I'm trying to re-hash the past way up here in my home town, I'm looking for what is here that is new with a bunch of people that are not. There are the old haunts, yes. But there are new ones too, and besides debating the age of my soul or the weight of my character or even statisfying any amount of years with essays and paper and all of these strings of words, I will tell you exactly why I moved here.

I want to show myself how to live.

And even though I once used this as the reason I wanted to stay in SF--

No, I'm not ready to die just yet.

--M

RE: Grace Cathedral Hill just wont be the same.

2008-09-05T00:33:00.000-07:00

from: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]
sent --- 20:32:11, 9.4.08
to: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]

Miranda,
Or should I say Moxie? Milkshake? Who are you these days? And yeah, I am confused because I thought, nay--you led me to believe--that I knew at least somewhat who you were. Now you're skipping town without a goodbye and living two states away doing god only knows what. Are you writing? You're fucking, yes, I can see that. And what exactly are you garnering from it?

Mirans, I'm not "that guy". I'm not pissed in the traditional respect, but fuck. Fuck I mean, even Mark hasn't seen you, I know, I called. And I know a guy who knows that Nick kid--you haven't seen him in weeks either. Nor all of your mutual friends from back east that live on the same block as you. Or used to, I suppose. The grapevine, as it wil, has proved fruitful for me, but the only thing it hasn't materialized is you.

And the worst part is that you're going to post this, I'm sure I'll read it shortly on the fucking internet because you either A) enjoy using certain parties as your playthings or you B) don't want to appear both to me, and the rest of the world like anyone can make you not post this because C) you clearly--at least somewhat--devalue your own fucking conscience.

Hmm. You're both right. That is a nice device. I think I'll use it myself.

But device aside, wait. I'm sorry, that's not entirely fair. You have a...cultivated moralistic nature, yes. And yes, it's valuable, and it is honest. But those of us on the slight outside tend to be on the side of your morays that leans toward your being indifferent because you assume that we are capable of living without you. I didn't mean it like that, I mean, I can physically live without you, but why are you so quick to assume that we--meaning me, and Nick and Pant and Kristen and god knows who else you've left before all over the country--are wanting to live without you?

No wait, what do you plan to do about it? Huh? What's you're fucking plan now?

Okay. Yeah, I'm a little biased because of all the words, the tape recorders and years and dirty sheets and morning eggs and bagels and coffee. Yeah, I got it. I'm not supposed to be fucking my subjects--and further more you told me that. You warned me in the exact same manner that I've warned you so many times, and over the years I watched your manner go from irreverent and callous to vulnerable and flighty and a lot of that was my fault. At least--it was my fault that what came from your mouth changed--and yeah. I reduced the you that is on paper that you yourself don't manipulate to a sniveling inconsistent little girl. Fine. You were right. You were right about us fucking and you were right that I do fear navigating that line between friend and lover and subject and where they all cross my career.

But I was right too.

You don't have to tell me or anyone, because I know exactly why you're there. I thought you gave up "stories as combat", so what made you decide you had to have one more?

I saw you. You were writing and re-writing and stagnant. It wasn't ending, so you made one. Remember all those years ago when you left Alistair sleeping in his bed while you quietly dressed, clicked his door behind you, and padded down the long hall of his flat only to put your Chuck's back on on his front porch? Making stories. How many have you made since that very first active one? That first one that was conscious and premeditated only to later look so very fucking shocking on paper? I ask you Miranda...

...are you enjoying living in the end to your novel?

Alan.

D: All of the above.

2008-09-03T23:32:00.000-07:00

from: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]
sent --- 23:34:29, 9.3.08
to: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]

subject: RE: Grace Cathedral Hill just wont be the same

A--

I'm sorry. It's not like I didn't want to say anything until now. I did. I should have done many things different, but I haven't. The truth is, I want a lot of things to have happened differently, but I still can't wrap my head around how they might have been able to. I'm sorry.

I know you might have wanted to have one last torrid hurrah, but wasn't it you yourself who said, and I quote: "[I'm] setting my own trap, making [my] own bed"? Why would you want that for me when you know how damaging it could have been? And the worst part is that it has already been damaging, because in my conscious and obsessive fear not to repeat the past, I think I've hurt a lot of feelings. Both in SF and here. Here in Seattle. Right here in Georgetown. I needed some kind of plan, and so far it's worked. Kind of.

But then I hear from you, and truthfully I don't even remember my drunken promise to see you one last time before I left, but I do know that in my haste there were a lot of people I neglected to see before I began that long drive from the 80 to the 505 and that long 700 miles up the 5, straight through the middle of northern California, over the Siskiyous, the sunset nap in Salem, and that last terrifying 4 hours and change when I was alternating between hallucinations and debilitating sleep deprivation staved off only lighly by the caffeine poisioning. And yeah, I know that you wish you could have had those last hours with me, between three and six in the morning before I rose in California and ended my night in Washington---but think about it. Really--before you get all kindsa accusatory with me again--think about it. Trust me, I know how swiftly those dark hours pass when it's the one night you wish them to remain still. I know. And that's what I meant when I said I was so scared of that Sunday when the race just to get there was over and I'd have to actually begin a life.

What I really wanted to change, about those hours I mean, is how much stock I put in them.

Thanks to you, I have.

I'm sorry you're the one who is so conflicted now.

I miss you. Let's chat soon. Really.
xo
--M

[p.s. to Hunts: I was glancing at your book again today, and I came across this, and finally understood it. It's from guess what chapter:

Etta seems to have a rule by which she's allowed to A) tell Hal he's awesome, or B) touch him, but C) not both in a given day.

Three things strike me about this line, being 1) that I have done that to so many boys and never heard it put so succinctly, and 2) I never knew that boys even noticed that we, meaning girls, were actively doing that because 3) we don't do it because we don't care, and we honestly believed you guys only saw the care, not this kind of glass-is-always-only-half-full scenario that you interpret as some sort of calculated indifference. we don't mean to "cut [your] heart[s] and paste [them] back together twice an hour", but I am now sure that there are many boys that I know that would agree with you, not me, on this matter. We're sorry.

I'm sorry. I'm also sorry that now that I have about wrapped up this post script, that I'm not absolutely sure that it's solely for you. xoxo --M]

Thanks for the advice, Crystal.

2008-09-02T18:44:00.000-07:00

Re: I went to work today

M--
hey,
If you were wondering where I am, it's work. that is where i am today.
--Crystal

C--
Hey,
If you were wondering if I got fucked for six hours last night, then yes, I did. That's where I was last night.
--M

M--
Perfect! Sounds like I was correct in writing you down as a "winner" for yesterday.
--C

C--
He just came by though, to get his guitars.
I think I'm in a lot of trouble. He likes me.
--M

M--
What are you going to do about that? Do you even like him or just lust his penis? You aren't supposed to have boys get crushes on you...you're in trouble.
--C

--M

"Jews for Jihad!!!"

2008-08-31T22:15:00.000-07:00

Right now, I am drinking a 40oz of Ranier with Red Bull with the word "HOMO" written on one side and a giant cock on the other.

True story.

I've been too busy to explain. That being said, I will likely continue to be for some time.

Ha ha ha ha.

1. 2. 3. 4.

--M

"Everyone knows only black people are Jelly Doughnuts."

2008-08-24T12:36:00.000-07:00

I was just going through my gMail account which I do every month or couple of months just to check and see if anyone is writing me who doesn't have my other e-mail address. Hunts, who is usually quite astute and upstanding, sent this to my satteliteseattleite address a month or so ago, and I just found it. The e-mail was titled: "Oh shit, you may have to start a 2nd blog". You'll see why.

I love this, Hunts, BTW.

Obama Hopes To Go Where JFK Went Before

Barack Obama wants to hold a keynote speech on transatlantic relations in front of Berlin's Brandenburg Gate. But don't call him a "European."

By Gregor Peter Schmitz

July 9, 2008 | Barack Obama wants to hold a keynote speech on transatlantic relations in front of Berlin's Brandenburg Gate during his visit later this month. Spiegel Online has learned that he plans to outline a new foreign policy that consults partners more, but also makes clear demands on Europe.

The possibility has not been ruled out that the speech could instead be given in Paris or London -- the other planned stops on Obama's short Europe trip. But Obama's team likes the location of Berlin and the Brandenburg Gate. "The setting would be great," the advisor said. "The memory of John F. Kennedy's famous Berlin speech is still alive. Berlin is a bridge between East and West, and the German-American relationship is very strong," said the advisor.

Read the whole thing here, and see how it went down here.

A quote from his speech:

"While the 20th century taught us that we share a common destiny, the 21st has revealed a world more intertwined with Jelly Doughnuts than ever before. Yes, we can, together, put a Cake in every cakesaver."

Okay fine. It went a little differently. But that's pretty much the jist.
[jourinalism rules]
--M

Let this be the year when hope fails you.

2008-08-24T03:29:00.000-07:00

"Fyuck 'em all and watch 'em Fyall!!"
--Crystal @ Uncle Mo's

"You just snugged me for the twice time tonight!!"
--Amanda @ home

--M

The NSC

2008-08-23T12:45:00.000-07:00

This morning I layed around in Ben's apartment playing with Archie the Poodle and shooting the shit about our old crew.

I had forgotten how many buddies we have in common because technically, this is the first time Ben and I have lived in the same city. First time. In the four years I've known him. True story.

This went on for some time, you know, like: How's Al? Have you seen him? I haven't seen Tommie in six months. Did you hear what he did at Gav and Toby's house? Yeah totally. Have you met Jenna? What's Gav like behind the bar? Really? JD? Jesus, I haven't even thought of that guy in a while. You mean Metro Kyle? Wait, Spokane Mike lives in SF? When's the last time you saw Audio? Wait, which Gabe? Hatter or the Rev? He's still with Amy? Wow.

You get it.

But then it degenerated into shit like "Remember that time Jeremiah accused you of stealing his toothbrush?" and then we get to the point where I no longer know how to navigate the conversation.

I've spoken of the Harrison debaucle before, and I'm still opposed to choosing sides. Yeah, I've heard them both and they both make sense, and they're brothers for chrissakes. If I liked one of them, why wouldn't I like them both? I mean, they have similar senses of humor, similar demeanor, and probably the biggest thing they have in common is that they're both my friends. And they don't speak to each other.

In my inaugural days of hearing the full extent of thier falling out, I thought maybe it was reconcilable, but maybe it's not. In the mean time I fear it's a self fullfilling prophecy that one or the other of them will finally draw the line with me--and it will likely be because I've managed to put my foot in my mouth once again, offended one of them by bringing the other into the conversation or talking myself into a corner where I have to admit I've been hanging out with the other. It's happened before, and I don't doubt that when it happens again and again it will be increasingly explosive.

It's hard being on the outside of it all, but I guess I can use it as a good reminder on how and how not to navigate being on the inside; meaning I can't let people get me on the defense when I'm much more apt to defend.

Take that as you will.
--M

[p.s.--on the upside, i'm clearly no longer paralyzed with indecision. i chose. whether i chose wisely or not remains to be seen. xo--M]

On a scale of 1 to gay.

2008-08-22T00:11:00.000-07:00

This will be quick tonight.

I have been here less than a week, and a routine is already forming in my head.

Monday mornings, Gavin's at the Buckaroo. Nights will find J-ru at the Duck.
Tuesday night, Gav's at the Buck and J-ru's at the Duck.
Wednesday's only J-ru's night.
Thursdays Lauren is at Loretta's.
Fridays Ben is at The Green Room.
Saturday's child has [not too] far to go, 'cause Lauren's at The Bar.
And Sunday's are Jackie's nights.

Rob texted me today, and it was so weird because I was like "I'm in Seattle on my way to go see Lauren at work" (Thursdays=Loretta's) and he was like "OMG! Kisses to both of you!" and I realized that it has been so long since the three of us all called SoBe our little fake plastic home, and I miss those days when we all had semi-regular hair and relatively few tattoos.

I was 21 when I met those two in Miami, and now we're...

Older. Maybe wiser.

Some days I think wiser.
--M

Tuesday afternoon is never ending.

2008-08-19T19:21:00.000-07:00

As I unpack, it feels like this stuff is multiplying. I swear to god, there's more shit here than when I started.

I was putting a rod in my closet today, and before I finally found a way to secure it, it fell down. Twice. With all of my shirts on it. Hmm. Deja vu.

Not that I really want to talk about the wall right now. Maybe tomorrow.

Lauren came over today. We spent a lazy afternoon hour drinking coffee and chain smoking ciggarettes. The sun came out for us, for that hour, and it felt much like the tuesday afternoons we'd spend by my pool in Miami drinking Bloody Mary's and working on our tans.

Tomorrow, I'll go over to studio and by a falafel from her. She's working on the truck tomorrow morning. And then, then will be the time when I have to make some sense of all of this--because it will have officially been a week since the papers didn't come.

--M

Monday's child has learned to tie his bootlace.

2008-08-18T23:57:00.000-07:00

Hmm.

Today I learned that I am dissapointed in dissapointment. This means that the worst part of being let down is, for me, the part where you have to admit that you've been let down.

We moved into the studio @ 5501 Airport Way S #1 today. My shit is in piles all over at both my house and studio. Fuck. That means that tomorrow will be a long day indeed.

The weirdest part? That I'm at home alone at my house now. Amanda's at Studio, Crystal's at J's, and I dipped out of Wood's house faster than I can blink.

I'm a bit conflicted, and can't find a way to figure the best direction to go until I clear my head. I feel catatonic until then. Just call me Paralyzed With Indecision. Go ahead. Call me that.

--M

Sunday morning, creeping like a nun.

2008-08-17T21:17:00.000-07:00

Hmm.

Ask me about it when it sinks in.

Oh, but here's a little tidbit--best coming home ever. When I finally pulled in front of my house 19 hours after leaving SF, Crystal and Amanda were sitting out on the porch waiting for me.

Also in attendance was The Child, whom I made park my truck while I showered and napped in the front lawn in my underwear on my blanket.

More later when the rest hits me. For now, I gotta put some clothes on and meet Wood and DBBP at The Bar.

--M

Saturday: Wonder how you manage to make ends meet.

2008-08-16T02:42:00.000-07:00

Benjamin--

I am still enamored with the capacity you have to still be my friend.

Thank you, and I'll see you tonight. If you see this before you leave Spokane, say hi to your Mom for me. Yes, it's true--I don't know if you remember, but I've met her once.

She is a Mom amoung Moms. Coming from me, that means a lot.

--M

Friday night arrives with[out] a suitcase.

2008-08-15T18:54:00.000-07:00

Keenan and Lisa--

You guys wont know that I've written this until tomorrow, but it is now 7:27, and we have dinner in an hour. Fuck. My apartment is still a disaster, and I don't have the will to even get in the shower let alone clean it. I'm exhausted, so I'm sure that you, Keenen, are too right now. Damn, for all the shit I don't have, my back sure feels like I have a shitload.

I'm about to get in the shower and walk down the hill for the last time and meet you guys at the base of Mason. And eat some fried chicken. Sweet.

You know, I wanted this letter to sound amazing--like some sort of all encompassing brief tome of the history of KLM--and then I realized that we're not done.

I will say, however, that you guys are right now, pretty much the only reason I'm really sad to be leaving. The rest will hit me in a few days time.

So--let's not say goodbuys, K? Let's say, as Rob in Miami once told me, "see you later", and since we're having dinner here shortly, I will, indeed, see you later.

I love you guys.

And thank you. For everything.

--M

Thursday night, your stockings needed mending.

2008-08-14T02:18:00.000-07:00

Mark--

I have been packing, yes. And I have been sorting, and I have found some things.

In a box on a shelf in my bedroom, I found a very old notebook--one that I used when Sam and I lived on 88th and Nesbitt. Inside the notebook was not only our old quote log, but in the very back was ten or fifteen phone numbers all written on individual slips of paper taped into the back with scotch tape. One of them was yours. The original one, in your handwriting.

I was transported back to my see-through grey polo and light grey cotton drawsting skirt, and the balcony, and me barefoot, and you very tall, and then to your maroon Subaru that you took me in back to my light blue '79 Volvo GT that was parked down on Elliot in front of my boss's house. I don't know if you remember--and honestly, I thought this was an invention of my memory before I saw it again with my own eyes--but that morning when we traded middle names and phone numbers I remember thinking how odd it was that you trusted me enough to write your phone number on the back of the carbon copy of one of your checks--account number and all.

Now, of course, it seems utterly ridiculous that you wouldn't trust me with your account number, but at the time it was less than twelve hours of our meeting, and on this September 26th, it will have been four years since that day.

That day, that day after Cabaret at The Circus, barring the bet I won by meeting you the one thing on my mind was the amazing night I had spent with my two best girlfriends, Sam and Jen. It's odd to think that what is left is you and I, because that morning, even with the middle names and account numbers and phone numbers, I never thought I would see you again.

Damn, see how they run.

I'm glad I did see you again.

And I love you. Dearly.

Kisses to Laura.
xoxo
--M

Wednesday morning, papers didn't come.

2008-08-13T20:29:00.000-07:00

Crystal and Amanda,

I'm in the home stretch. My bed is in my livingroom, in the exact same place I put it when I first moved in to this apartment. Two days later after some unpacking, I retired it to the closet where it has sat until now.

I moved into this apartment October the third, 2006. You do the math. That's how long I've slept in a closet. A closet. When I moved my mattress and boxspring out, you wouldn't believe what I found underneath--empty condom wrappers, pens, pencils, about 20 bobby pins, hair ties, an old t-shirt, three or four socks, and a ton of dust and dust bunnies. A year and a half of dust bunnies. Gross.

Today was the first day that I haven't felt like I was going to throw up for most of the day. I fended off the nerves with tons of coffee, no food, and probably eight or nine Bourbon & Branches that I've been sipping on since about two or three. Going through all of this stuff makes me want to cry--and everytime I find another sentimental item I have to stop and cradle it for a moment, and all of the stories that I hope to write fill my head and I can't think straight or see my way out of it.

Today I packed up a picture of you Amanda, sitting in front of the computer at The Circus with your head turned around to face the camera and a sign of the face of the eMac that reads "NO SMILING" in big black letters. In the same box I put the red earmuffs that you got me for New Years/Christmas '04. Then I listened to Visqueen's Vaxxine, and any flutter that I may have had about this move momentarily went away.

Yes, it's true. I'm totally terrified, and I'm exhausted because all I can hear when I'm asleep at night is screaming, and I have nightmares of wrecking my moving van and accidently knocking huge holes in the wall that I have to patch and fix before I leave. And on top of that I hate myself right now for how little I've accomplished. Goddamnit.

But I love you guys, and I'm so thankful for all of your quiet persistence because what I really need right now is exactly what you two gave to me--someone to fight for me. Thanks, because I don't know how much fight I have in me right now.

Sunday morning, creeping like a nun.
xoxo
--M

"Reading the bible, changing the clitterbox."

2008-08-12T02:50:00.000-07:00

"Hello."

"Hey. It's me. I can't sleep."

"Oh fuck. Oh, god, no, fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck Miranda, it's four in the goddamn morning."

"It's just before three. Quit exagerating."

"What could you possibly want right now. I've been calling, texting for days, both of your numbers. No answer. What the hell, we were supposed to catch up on like the...you know. days ago. Fuck Miranda, I have to work in the morning."

"You have to work right now. Seriously. Alan, it wasn't just you. I've barely spoken to anyone. Just Crystal and Amanda. Mark called to talk about the proposal..."

"Oh, yeah. Tell him congratulations from me."

"Yes. To them, yes. From you. And Jeremiah Harrison called yesterday. I saw Keenan last friday. Keenan and Lisa are the only people I've hung out with since I've been home."

"That's it?"

"I texted Wood. He called me the next day. Maybe the day after that. The text said, I have news. And I can't sleep. And I remember this, you know? And I'm worried what this will degenerate to by Thursday, The last two times I did this, I suddenly realized I loved some boy or another three days before I left, and both times, they were next to me in bed the morning of my departure. Once in my bed, once in his. And the one when it was his? Fuck, this is what I fear the most--because I got out of his bed, told him I loved him, then flew from Miami to Seattle and at some point pushing twenty hours later I was in another boy's bed in Olympia telling him I loved him. And both were true."

"Wait. Wait, wait. Back up."

"No, hold on. I'm saying...I'm saying that I remember that next morning. The Olympia morning. Vividly. I remember waking, and with my eyes still closed taking a deep breath through my nostrils, and then parting my eyes, and the room was bright, and his sheets were navy blue like mine are now, and it took me a good ten seconds to realize where I was. His arm was around me, over the bedspread, and I realized that it had been over two months since it had been there before, and then it all hit me. It hit me that this--this morning, when I was awake and he was still breathing softly behind me, was the best it was going to be. And I'm not looking forward to Sunday morning. I was 23 then, I had half as many tattoos and I was so very in love. And worse than..."

"Wait. what the fuck is on Sunday?"

"No wait. Worse than that will be Sunday. Because Sunday will be exactly the same, except I will likely wake up alone. And worse than knowing that the present moment is the absolute pinnacle of the two of whoever is realizing that it's already passed and you missed it. And then I'll just be there. And I mean, I already know it. All of it. I know what's in store for me but I can't..."

"Wait. Seriously. Shut the fuck up for a minute."

"Fine."

"You're leaving."

"Yes."

"Why."

"That's what Jeremiah said, and I was just like 'I know, right?' like I didn't know. And yeah, I don't really know why, I guess. I just, you know, big change. And I miss them. My fucking girlfriends. My boys. Even Kyle. And I want everything to sit still for long enough for words to make sense again without this--these stupid little devices I use when I can't figure out how to combine a couple of story lines eloquently enough to just tell a fucking story."

"Seattle? You're going to Seattle. How long this time?"

"Indefinitely. Some kind of near future forever. I have a year lease on my writing studio that I'm sharing with Amanda down the street from my house. Maybe a year. Maybe less. Probably not more."

"Your voice is shaky."

"I'm terrified."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at home. Well, my home for five more days, anyway. All of my pictures are off of the walls and in boxes. There's stuff all over and nothing is where it goes except for my shoes and my bed. It's so fucking sad to see these three-and-a-half years spread all over my floor and to see every little photo and memento fit neatly into one manila envelope."

"Oh, come on. Don't be scared."

"Alan?"

"Yeah."

"I am scared. Come over."

"By come over, do you mean doggy?"

"Oh, just shut the fuck up and get in a cab. Don't let me be alone. Not tonight. Not 'till I leave."

"Kay. Ten minutes. But Miranda?"

"Yeah?"

"You know what you're doing, right? I mean, you're setting your own trap, making your own bed. You know what's next, right? I mean, you just laid it all out. For me. You're repeating yourself and you know it."

"Alan?"

"Yeah."

"Just get in a fucking cab."

--M

My Home Phone Does Not Have Caller ID

2008-08-05T22:41:00.000-07:00

"Hello?"

"There you are. You haven't been answering your cell. For weeks."

"Shit. Alan, I'm sorry, it's just..."

"Naw, don't. Don't even. You've gone and come back and left and are back again--and have been for days--and I get nada?"

"Shit. Shit, shit. Okay, no. I know, it's just, you know. There's all this stuff, you know? Seattle stuff. SF stuff. Bullshit, actually. Some good, some bad. All hard. No pun intended. Look, I'm glad you called."

"I bet you are. I'm recording this."

"Recording? Can't we just talk? Like people. Like...maybe I just need some advice."

"I'm still recording. I read your blog--about the most recent trip. I have questions. Did you see Mark?"

"Huntsman? Yeah. Of course. We had lunch before he left for Sante Fe, talked about you know--stuff. And about Dear Fat Kid."

"His novel?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about Dear Fat Kid. Not the story, I mean, you've mentioned that. Tell me about how you're feeling now, having fnished it."

"I feel like I love it, and I feel like I'm terrible. I have no direction. I've spent too much time in California worried about everyone else, and every time I think I've stopped, I'm suddenly forced to realize who I've become in the wake of one of my friends. In the wake of my own indiscretion because of them. I'm tired of it. I need a plan."

"I spoke to Mark. He mentioned the two of you, at Cafe Septieme, shooting the shit and all, and of your adamence that you needed a plan. Do you have one yet?"

"Wait. You spoke to Mark? My Mark? What the fuck Alan, can't you just stick to your own local obscure writers? I mean, what the fuck. He's two states away! What interest do you have?"

"You said he was brilliant. I trust you. And I want in. That's me--what about you?"

"About me what? Alan, what the fuck. How did you even hook up with Hunts?"

"What about what you want?"

"You're ignoring my question."

"Damn straight I am, I fucking asked first. Miranda, what do you want?"

"Okay. Jesus. Be a little harsher, why don't you? I'm never fucking you again. What is it? No--really. What is wrong with my vagina? I swear to god--everytime I fuck some boy or another he goes fucking nuts on me. Every. God. Damn. Time. I'm tired of it! What do I want? I want one fucking week to feel static enough to get some good shit on paper. Something I'm proud of and whole and compelling. I want stories to pour out of me all night long like they used to, not to have to extrapolate plot and wit from a series of post-its and torn notebook pages months after the fact. I want to sell more pieces. I want boys to know all of the different Mirandas that there are. I want..."

"To finish your novel."

"Yes. And for it to resonate. To be as charming and compelling as I can be in person. For one to be able to hear me on the page. For many pages. I want it to feel lovely to read. But I'm sure Hunts already mentioned that."

"Yes. He did. He spoke of the Art Show chapter, and how he had spoken to you about it as well."

"Yes. Yes. And I want...maybe I want to perform again. I don't know, but I need a change. A big one. I'm sick of settling, I'm sick of accepting. I want to demand, for reals. I want to actually demand and not just say I am. I want people to support me. To question me. To want to know how all that Cake has tasted. I want Cake. The litteral, the proverbial, the whole fucking-frosting-covered-oh-so-sickly-sweet-gamut. I want it now."

"Watch out, Veruca."

"Fuck that. I want to watch for nothing. I'm sick of being scared. I'm tired of being scared of the future, of my bank account, of keys in my lock. Of people bigger than me, of people smaller than me. I'm sick of being scared that I and my talents and my abilities aren't good enough, because aren't they good enough for something?"

"Or someone?"

"Funny you should ask that today. Over a year ago, I was interviewed in front of my work for a short film project by the author of a book called Laid or Loved. Now, I haven't watched the video in ages, but she asked me a question something like "Which would you rather have, love, or sex?"

"What was your answer?"

"I said I wanted to be fucked by the people I want to fuck me, and I want love from the people I want to love me."

"That's pretty telling."

"Whatever. The point is, I was walking into work today, and this woman grabs my arm and is like "Omigod, do you work here? Aren't you Miranda? Do you remember me? I'm Dr. Jen!" and she wants another interview. Then she gave me a copy of her book and a t-shirt that she had brought to Market Street today just in case she ran into me. True story."

"And?"

"And what? I'm fucking memorable, goddamnit. And it's not just because of my unique tattoos or my glasses. I was wearing long sleeves today. She was fucking looking for me because of five sentances I said a year-and-a-half ago. Five sentances."

"And?"

"And no. I'm not the siren Big Alexis speaks of, nor am I the savior Little Alexis speaks of, but I'm something. I'm something more akin to the charmer Other Nick the Writer speaks of. But I'm definitely fucking memorable. And that--THAT is my favorite Miranda. Of all of them. I want her on the page. Right next to slutty Miranda."

"Hmm."

"Listen, are you still recording?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Good. Play that all back to me later. I want to remember this."

"Is that part of the plan? To remember that you said all of this?"

"It is now."

"..."

"Alan?"

"Yeah."

"I gotta go. I have planning to do."

"Yeah. You know, I think I might need one of those too. A plan."

"Kay. Just don't bother me with it."

"Excuse me? Who's harsh now?"

"Did you not just hear a word that I said?"

"Maybe not. Maybe we're both glad this is recorded."

"Tomorrow. Call me. Text me."

"Kay. 'Till then."

"Late."

"Late."

--M

p.s.--

[There you go. Like I said, true story. --M]

The New Seattle Lexicon.

2008-07-29T22:42:00.000-07:00

Hey guys. Just thought I'd tell some stories about Seattle using this oh-so-clever-device. Try and work some of these into your vernacular/habits.

1. Dead Baby Downhill Firedrill

Might as well start with this one.
If you haven't heard about this, you are retarded. Approximately 97.4%-98% of the world is going to this event in which a bunch of drunks ride down a hill. Some in costumes. You would think putting a bunch of kids on bikes and shoving them down a hill would be pretty simple, but it is not my friend. There's marketing and sponsorships and T-shirts to be made for chrissakes. It's funny because the hill is actually created by the earths axis changing due to the amount of people who come to this venerable ride. Currently, the course is flat, but when close to six billion people arrive in less than a week, the weight of all the downhillers will turn it into a 35% grade. True story. Anyway, there's a lot to do to get ready, you know? There's no time for BBQ's and talking on the phone and such--I mean, there's barely enough time to chase Juggalos aroung Georgetown (don't even ask).
Sometimes of course, one will forget how close it is and how little we have accomplished so far. I mean, we could just be sitting in the backyard eating a hotdog or mowing the air or something when someone remembers, often shouting: "Oh my god you guys, I just remembered...the downhill is in less than a week!"
Then, of course, we all start freaking out over unstickerred water bottles and undistributed flyers and run around in circles kicking and juming over small obstacles while waving our hands manically screaming things like "Oh my god!!! Where's my fixed gear!!" and "We gotta make t-shirts!! Holy Shit!!" and "I cant find my vest!! Where's my freaking vest!!" and of course the classic: "THE DOWNHILL'S IN LESS THAN A WEEK!"

2. God bless The Child

On Amanda's birthday we were all at the bar and Amanda had stolen someone's bike on accident and went and hung out at the Eagle's lounge or something. In the meantime, I spied a little 22 y/o across the way, and turns out he was new in town. Wait--let me say that one more time--he was new in town. Sweet. He also lived two doors down from me. Well, I mean, I s'pose he still lives there, I'm just home now.
Oh, a little background on that--Geaorgetown, much like Lower Haight, is small, incestuous, and people have the tendancy to use your doorbell rather than the telephone. So, a beer leads to a walk and a walk leads to after-hours and after-hours leads to nakedness.
Yeah well, the next day when Lauren, Colleen and Sarah walked over to drink beers with me in my backyard, it turned out he was a little more connected than I had previously understood and worked at a popular little restaraunt down the street. Oops.
Anyway, I kept forgetting his name so we just started calling him The Child. It caught on. To the point where Monday morning found me, DBBP and Amanda drinking on the back porch as The Child had dipped through our backyards to grab more beer. Even DBBP commented "Dude, where'd The Child go?"

3. WHO TOOK MY MIXER!
Saturday Afternoon found us girls drinking homemade Muscle Milk cocktails AKA vanilla soymilk and vanilla vodka (Amanda), Hard Rootbeer Floats AKA vanilla vodka and rootbeer (Crystal) and Maker's on the Rocks with Oly chasers AKA exactly what that sounds like (me). Anyway, Crystal went to make another one and looked in the fridge to find her other bottle of rootbeer gone as I had given it to Alexis (Corrine, not Lopez) and her best friend Kim a couple days ago. So then Crystal starts faux freaking out, stomping around like a troll screaming "WHO TOOK MY MIXER!" like some kind of drunken orc. Amanda and I were quickly rolling around on the ground laughing with tears in our eyes.

4. Yeah! I'll give you a snug!

First, watch this.

Zach Galifianakis is the Snugglerfunny videosFunnyOrDie.com

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

Now, watch me watch you not be able to tell me that that isn't the funniest thing you've ever seen in your entire life.
Well, we thought so too and began using the word "snug" with an abandon unforseen this side of the Mississippi. It became noun, adjective, verb, and the much touted present progressive "snugging".
First, it was just Crystal, Amanda and I. But in our surreptitious drunkenness it caught on, and snug soon swept the masses. It even caught on with my sister and brother and law in less than a couple of hours of meeting them. Next thing you know, Amanda's conveniently in the batroom and my brother in law is talking to DBBP in the nook of the Nine Pound talking about "Dude. Dude. You gotta snug it out with her. She's way too hot not to snug with." YES. And oh how they snugged. There was also a full-on song, composed by Jim, called "Snug It Off".

You can also ask me about Southern Love, Joan Jett, Worth My While, Marina-ahhr the me-ahhr, Santa Suits, Jeremiah's foot tattoo, Flash Dancing, "What the fuck is that bitch doing at the downhill in a car?", Seven Dresses, Vagtinis, Bison, Watch Me Watch You, Boring Whores, Fence Fuckers, Foxy, Snarl Face, Matchy-Matchy Adidas tracksuits, that time at the Nine Pound when we almost got kicked out for our DB firedrill, and finally Crystal waking us up after a night of snugging with "Hey you guys. Get up. The Downhill's in a week."
Also, ask me to re-enact Drew's Hunter S. Thompson-esque entrance into Amanda's birthday party when his bike carreened across the lawn and he was left standing there, arms splayed, wearing all plaid with a parasol and a suitcase strapped to him with an innertube screaming: "SEAN! CUT ME OUT!". Priceless.

This trip was the stuff of legends.

Oh, and a shout out to AZ Dave: hope this lives up to your expectations, haha. E-mail me anytime--m@mmoure.com. Oh, and good luck on the downhill.

You might need it.
--M

p.s.--Seriously though, it's in less than a week. Oh FUCK!! Where's my Fixy! And by fixy, I mean doggy.

"The really funny thing is that I wont even be here for the downhill."

2008-07-29T06:26:00.000-07:00

Itinerary #2

Walk 0.5 mile S from 6410 FLORA AVE S to
Depart East Marginal Way S & Carleton Ave S At 07:16 AM On Route MT 174 Federal Way S 320th P&R
Arrive SeaTac Airport AcRd & Terminal - BAY 1 At 07:43 AM
Walk 0.1 mile W to SEATTLE TACOMA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

[Stories pending. Thanks to everyone, but special thanks to Crystal and Amanda, Roxanne and Rashei, both of the Alexises, Lauren, Colleen and Sarah, RCU, Sean and Ivy, and of course the boys of the Buck and Duck. I really, really love you guys. Especially big thanks to Alexis for letting me cry all over his sheets last night and toss and turn while he was trying to sleep and told me not to be sorry. Thanks. I probably didn't deserve it. Then again, I'm not supposed to be sorry, no?]

--M

Georgetown et al.

2008-07-26T03:54:00.000-07:00

FUCK.

Long story--but I will tell you for now that things are very complicated and also--THERE IS A BOY. Said boy, who is in the [Seattle] hood, is also my neighbor. Here, anyway. Here meaning Seattle.

Damn, he's totally fine.

To me.

Also, he's hung like a fireman's pole.

There are two people in Seattle who will be pissed by this concession. Oops.

--M

For Angelica

2008-07-23T03:20:00.000-07:00

It's very late, and it is, as it usually is, a very long story.

There are some things that, in my absence, I need taken care of back home: i.e. you getting your boyfriend to get my key to my friend Aaron.

Like I said, long story.

Call me.

--M

p.s. to angelica et al: I have stories about both alexises. yes, i mean alexis squared/the two a-lex-eye. haha. more tomorrow, promise squared. oh, call me on my 305.632.2135.

that's all for now. --M

"Hey, how you doin'?"

2008-07-22T01:11:00.000-07:00

"How am I doin'? I am pee-yissed right now."

"Oh, okay. Cool. Hey. Hey guys. Hey. You guys look like whores."

--M

"Hey guys, watch me spread this blanket apathetically."

2008-07-21T13:24:00.000-07:00

"Our picture's falling off so I rocked a dove on that shit."
--M

"Omigod, you should name your vagina The Black Diamond."
--C

Yeah, well, then he ate me out."
--A

[snugtastic]
--M

SFO-SEA Text Messaging

2008-07-20T13:02:00.000-07:00

"Hey, you up? Wanna Cuddle? And by cuddle I mean doggy."

"Sorry Nick, I'm in Seattle 'cuddling' w/ my ex. Mark your calendar for the 28th."

--M

Things that make you go "Hahahaha!"

2008-07-19T19:25:00.000-07:00

I am in Seattle. Yes, I finally made it here mostly intact, and if you would really like to know, then yes: I did spend last night at Wood's.

Anyway, two nights ago I was hangin with the neighbors at Summer Place and we spoke of this video.

Needless to say, I have now seen it. Hilarity did indeed ensue.

Nick And Jared Hold A Liquor Tasting from Nick Douglas on Vimeo.

If you ever wanted to know who Other Nick the Writer is, well, now you do.

--M

p.s.--story is coming. i super promise.

ASSY: For the K in KLM, for bringing me a doorknob. Tits.

2008-07-18T01:26:00.000-07:00

K--
I am grateful in a way I cannot explain--meaning you had no reason to offer me what you did, unlike some people who owed me what they did not deliver. This means that I have no words. The L in KLM was right when she said you were a super hero.

For you, I offer just a snippet of the funniest thing I've ever seen while holed up in my apartment for three days.

Castlevania II was the first NES game I ever beat. I could insert some metaphore here about "beating my own obstacles" and the like, but mostly, I've just come to terms with the fact that I love the phrase "ass related", as in: "The last week has been ass related".

Love you big. See you when I get home.
For everyone else, I'm taking Lakricia with me, so expect the whole story soon.
--M

p.s. to K--seriously, you are more awsome than I even knew. you were slick and immediate and unassuming in your response to me. i have a lot to learn, and welcome learning it from you. xo--M

I stole this from Angelica who stole it from her roomie.

2008-07-12T20:38:00.000-07:00

Was the first person you talked to today male or female?
Today...like the 12th, or like this morning? If you mean this morning, then it was Mike from 302 who was sitting on the front stoop when I left the building.

Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?
Mmm...wow. Well, I believe that everything can be dealt with artfully in some way.

Have you ever liked someone that treated you like crap?
Yes. Maybe everyone has? I think this may be true.

Have you ever seen a zebra?
Hmm...I feel like I must have at some point, like at the Zoo. I think I would love to see one now.

Has anyone disappointed you recently?
Yes. Someone has. And I am more dissapointed everyday at how little he knows me. Actually, I think I am dissapointed in myself for wanting to believe that he did--meaning: maybe the answer to that question is no.

How late did you stay up last night?
I'm surprised it wasn't later--Mary, who got here to SF last night, has a penchant for keeping me up into the wee hours. Jesus Christ, I'm so glad she's here.

Where is your father right now?
Dead.

Are you a morning person or a night?
Night, definitely. Hence the wee hours.

Are you there for your friends?
Oh, me? Never. Ha.

Are you a forgiving person?
No. Kind of. Let me explain: I am a patient person, but only to the extent that I will give you the benefit of the doubt; I will wait for you to turn it around. There is a frustration boiling point however--that point where i have turned the other cheek and bent to your will so many times that I will then suddenly and likely permenantly kick you to the curb. Five or six big ones is usually my limit. I have to many of my own problems to put up with too many of yours.

Are you a jealous person?
Yes and no. I get very jealous when people know secrets I do not. I do not get very jealous when you fuck somebody else that is not me. Dig?

What's something you really want right now?
Actually, things are finally falling right into place.

Anything exciting tomorrow?
Yes, hopefully. Hopefully Lisa will want to hang out tomorrow as I will be absent tonight.

What is in your purse/backpack right now?
Dude, no. I take the fifth. Not that there's anything incriminating in there, I'm just really trying not to do the Ally Sheedy thing right now.

Wallpaper on your cell phone?
It's Mary and I in front of Hung Far Low in Portland, OR.

Where does most of your family live?
Hmm. Let's say Seattle. Sure. That sounds almost right.

Could you live with roommates?
Yes! I love roomates. I have one right now in fact, NIco, who just moved here from Dallas. He's staying here for a month.

Do you like clowns?
No, but I love Carnies.

How has the week been?
Better, getting better. I might have wanted to leave out making out with the hot, drunk girl at Thieves last night, but oh well. You gotta keep it interesting, right?

What's your favorite dessert?
CAKE.

--M

RE: Are you back?

2008-07-04T02:26:00.000-07:00

to: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]
03.07.08 10:14:28
from: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]

RE: Are you back?

Miranda,
I'm beginning to feel a little left out. I'm waiting for your call for another half hour or so, and then I'm calling it a night.
That being said, I hope you're okay.

Best,
Alan

to: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]
04.07.08 02:35:57
from: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]

A--
I'm so sorry, I swear, it couldn't be helped. That being said, this is going to sound made up.

My best friend got hit by a truck tonight. I was at work when I found out, her building manager had called me because he saw the whole thing, right out on Sutter. I got off work, ran up the hill to my little shithole apartment, changed into some jeans and came over to her apartment down the street, to which I luckily have a key. Then I stole $20 off of her nightstand because I'm broke, grabbed a maccaroni salad out of the fridge because I was starving, and hailed a cab to General because I have no one else here but her.

I feel terrible. I feel terrible because I can't even feel terrible because "husband being detained by INS and I got hit by a truck" trumps "boy I love doesn't want me and missing a days pay". I'm on the verge of tears and I'm not allowed to cry, not that I want to feel anything, anyway.

I don't have time for tears--I have T-shirts to make and stories to write and fuck fuck fuck--I'm so fucking glad she's okay.

On Tuesday night, I finally found parking on First Hill in Seattle, and stumbled down the street barely remembering where I was going as I had only been to Ben's once before. I called him when I was out front, and when he came out to find me, his little poodle in tow, I was a puffy-faced, red-eyed, balling heap on his front stoop, and he carried me inside without little more than a word, set me on his couch, and placed a beer in my hand. He kissed me on the nose and told me I was special, and I remember thinking that I couldn't remember the last time something akin to that had happened.

There's something wrong with me right now, and I can't see what it is or my way out of it. I just know that I have made some mistakes that I am not proud of and I have done things that were correct that I am not happy with and I can't seem to figure out which way to go because every way seems too foreign, and I can't get the vision out of my head of Wood on his front stoop in his boxers before I left, sad and defiant and confused and yet still so unwilling to just fucking tell me what the fuck is going on.

Monday. I promise.

Call me early.
--M

Get on plane, check. Write some e-mails, check.

2008-07-03T01:23:00.000-07:00

to: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]
02.07.08 11:49:52
from: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]

Are you back?

Are you still coming? I'm at Summer Place. The bartendress has just made me some ridiculous concoction that tastes of pineapple and vaguely of vodka though I'm sure there is a lot of vodka actually in it. Pray for me, and get here soon. Your phone is going straight to voicemail. --Alan

Sent from my iPhone

to: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]
03.07.08 12:43:17
from: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]

RE: Are you back?

A--
I walked in the door, saw your e-mail, then ran across the street to see if you were still there. I'm sure you already know that you were not.
I missed my flight. I missed it because I was up until 5 or 6 last night and then finally retired to something that was not quite sleep, but rather some kind of eyes-closed laying about in a humid, still apartment waking every half hour or so everytime one of us moved. I missed it because when I finally got home to Crystal and Amanda's at 9 this morning, I had probably only had a cumulative hour or so of sleep so far and so I dozed most of the day away in Crystal's bed watching nature shows. I missed it because I spent my early evening cleaning my best girlfriends' kitchen because they threw a BBQ for me on Monday and I wanted it to look nice when they got home from work and I was gone, and I wanted to do the dishes and chainsmoke with Lauren and try and come to grips with what happened last night before I got on the fucking plane.

The truth? I knew I was going to miss it. I just didn't care.

Tomorrow, after I get off work @ 10, we can chat. I'm sure that tomorrow, much like last night, I will want to do just about anything not to feel. Alan, I don't want to feel this. At all. And I'm not quite sure what to do save drink and work and fuck it all off my shoulders.

'Til then.
--M

I'm Slipping Under

2008-06-29T03:11:00.000-07:00

We'll talk more when I get back.
Lakricia's staying home this time.
--M

p.s.--Lakricia is my laptop.

Post Sacramento Text-Messaging

2008-06-28T00:37:00.000-07:00

Nick: Hey.

M: Hey.

N: Wanna have drinks and breakfast?

M: Wanna do my dishes?

N: No, but I'll bend you over your kitchen sink.

M: We can't fuck standing up, you're shorter than me.

N: So I'll take you on the couch and leaning out the window and on the floor.

M: That's probably a really bad idea especially considering I fly to Seattle on Sunday and my head is a mess and I'm transcribing this conversation onto my blog right now.

N: Ha, excellent. See you when you get back.

--M

p.s.--I went to Marysville, CA today and found the best bar ever. As soon as Erica and I walked in, some guy bought us a pitcher of Budweiser. When I bought the next one, it was, get this: $3.75. $3.75. xo--M

Bacon and T-Shirts: Mmm.

2008-06-26T23:13:00.000-07:00

Subject: T-shirt you must have...
From:
"L" L@gmail.com (Add as Preferred Sender)
Date: Thu, Jun 26, 2008 12:28 pm
To: "Miranda Moure" m@mmoure.com
You must get this T-shirt.

Sorry I didn't spend more time with you on Saturday. Scottie's girlfriend is gone for the summer and he just moved here from Berkeley. I think he was really lonely so I stayed.

Do you think you'll have any time in Seattle to stop at Archie McPhee's while you are in Seattle? I need 2 of these:

I hate that you won't be here for Pink Sat....

Lisa

L--
Finn MacCools? Dude, Jeremaiah used to work there. That's so funny.
Yes, I'm definitely putting Archie McPhee's on my list. I could use some new plastic crap, anyway.
That's not a joke, btw--I seriously love plastic crap. Almost as much as t-shirts and legwarmers, albeit not near as much as Cake.
I will be here for Pink Saturday though--but I have to pack that night and I open the next day so I can't really do anything. Not that I need another scar the size of a quarter adorning one of my knees, but I feel you. I'll never forget last year, haha.
--M

RE: Our Conversation

2008-06-26T12:43:00.000-07:00

to: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]
26.06.08 2:15:35
from: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]

Miranda,
Yes, yes. 7/2 rings beautifully with me.

But you know, between you and me, I think you'll always need your conscience. I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss me especially considering everything going on.

Not that you're seeking my advice, in fact you have expressed that you're not, but I can't help but warn you against losing that little spark in you that is so very ready to let things unfold as they may. I mean, it sounds like you might already be there--but I worry that you may be missing good things that may be planted right under your nose.

See you soon.
Best,
Alan

The First Day of Summer: The M in KLM

2008-06-20T23:12:00.000-07:00

Here is an e-mail chat I had with Lisa in the last couple days. I was going to save all of my new stories I have saved up for Lisa until Saturday, but I've reconsidered and decided that I need to spend my time tomorrow getting advice rather than relating all of this stuff. You'll find stuff I've added in brackets. Italiced lines are from the original e-mails.

For those of you who are not Lisa, you'll probably enjoy this too. Oh, and don't worry young readers. She'll see this. If not tonight, then tomorrow at work.

M + K--
It's high time KLM* reunite for hijinx! What are your plans this Sat. or Fri.?
--The L in KLM

L + K in KLM--
Ohhhh....Yes.
Hijinks.
Saturday.
I have so many stories like:

1. My trip to Seattle on the 29th which will entail:

a. Lunch with the best ex I never had, the illustrious Mark "Competant" Huntsman [who just finished his novel. Or, as even I might say when I finish mine, it is "...finished...you know. For now. I'm a little close to it for the time being, so I'll sit on it for a bit 'till graduation, then dive back in." That is paraphrased, by the way. It's weird, you know? I always remember conversations I've had with people virtually word for word, but it never works with Mark. I have no idea why. We're meeting up right after I file my petition and right before I go back to the courthouse for my hearing. I'm so excited. This is totally what I need--to hear exactly why I'm unfit to date from someone who wouldn't and technically has never dated me, but has seen me quite naked and in various states of repose.].

b. The court hearing I have later on that day [to change my birth certificate. That's right, young Miranda Moure is finally taking the $120 plunge and leaving her other two last names on the shore. We will all rejoice in wishing farewell to both Ms. Myricks and Ms. Counts. Can you believe it? I'm only going to have one last name. One. Last. Name.].

c. The tattoo appointment I have even later on that day [to commemorate the occasion. I'm getting two M's tattooed on my right middle finger. I just paid a deposit today @ Slave so I can't back out now, haha. Why my right middle finger? The truth? Because I saw Ashlee Simpson flipping someone off in a magazine with a middle finger tattoo and I decided I had to have one. Why the M's? Well, I've been reconnecting with the part of me that is capable of loving very fucking hard and I've realized again my huge capacity for love. There are relatively very few people in this world I can't stand, but it is for them that I have to have it. One would have to do something pretty fucking terrible for me to stop loving them and from now on, I want them never to forget who they did it to--the girl who loved them more than most people are capable of loving. To them I offer a hearty "fuck you", and from the 30th on it will be made that much heartier with my initials on one of my pussy fingers, primed and ready to flip some ungrateful moron the bird.]

2. The 20 y/o I dragged from Thieves to Amber to my apartment and then screamed at him [with no pants on. Jesus christ, I'm so retarded. I really need to get this whole prude thing under control--I mean, I'm never going to get laid ever again if I keep screaming at every 20 y/o I bring over to my house. Speaking of boning 20 y/o's, we should call Phil.]

Other than that, I'm pretty boring, but it'll still be fun.
Amber? Napper? Thieves? Wait--no. No Thieves. Jesus, I can't even hang out in my neighborhood anymore.
--M in KLM

M in KLM--
Yay! What time? Depending on when you are available, we could eat dinner.
--L in KLM

Hmm. Well, I gotta get off work, come home, do a load of laundry, take a disco nap (because it's midnight now, and I have to work in 8 hours--I'll be exhausted tomorrow at 5) and groom myself properly. Maybe 10? Maybe in the Mission?

Maybe Phonebooth? Zeitgeist? Home? Thieves Tavern? No wait--no Thieves Tavern. I already ran into Drew once this week. Damn, I can't go anywhere. Fuck, this is really not my month, is it? With my luck, I'll run into Bike Josh at Zeitgeist. You know what? Let's just go to the Napper. Nice, safe, good ol' Napper Tandy.

Sweet.
--M

[*K=Keenan. L=Lisa. M=Who else? Me, of course. You know what? Make it two. Two M's never hurt anyone, unless you were getting flipped off. Haha. -MM]

Call to arms.

2008-06-19T21:00:00.000-07:00

to: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]
19.06.08 20:43:17
from: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]

RE: Our Conversation

A-
Yeah, I've thought a lot about it too. Thanks, by the way, for kicking me in the ass a little bit because yes, it is everyday that I wonder whether this story is one that ends in me realizing what I've worked so hard for or walking [realatively] happily away from what I've built to start anew. Yes, I think the latter makes for a more litterarily promising conclusion, but the former has it's plusses too. Either way, you're right. Stories shouldn't be combat.

Look, I really appreciate you wanting to chat again, especially so soon, but I think we should hold off, just 'til I return. If you're up for it, Meet me around 11:30 the night I get back. The 2nd is a Wednesday. You don't have to be in the office too early that Thursday, do you?

C'mon, I'll make it worth your while.

You know, I remember saying that before. To Nicholas actually, and much like I think it was then you'll probably misinterpret that if I don't explain. I just mean that you'll get a couple beers and a good interview out of it, dig?

I just don't think I can handle my conscience right now. Until I get back from this first trip, I need to be focused on what I want rather than what's good for me.

Here's to 7/2. See you then.
--M

RE: "we'll do it live. FUCK IT! WE'LL DO IT LIVE!"

2008-06-16T13:27:00.000-07:00

--M

"I'm just looking for answers."

2008-06-15T15:56:00.000-07:00

Okay, let's just do this.

1F--Other Nick the Writer via text message.
One relapse and he wont get off my jock in this respect. I don't even remember when this exact text message came because there are at least five or six in my inbox exactly like it. He has also taken to calling me at all hours of the day and, unfortunately, night.

2E--Lisa K. via email.
Lisa K., being the Lisa you know and love if you are an avid reader of ye olde blog, has, like me, been pondering how one can be deemed in the wrong solely by singing someones praises. I countered that at least she didn't have to buy a plane ticket because of it.

3A--Crystal via MySpace.
She sent this shortly after a phone conversation in which I was like: "Oh, you know I'm staying with you guys, right?"
Crystal just laughed out loud. "Yeah, dog! I wasn't gonna let you stay at Woody's again. Maybe we can make turkey legs."

4B--Lisa P via email.
This is another Lisa. This Lisa is Erica's husband's friend's girlfriend. She's a mystery writer and an honest to god hopeless romantic. True story. This is no joke--you should hear the story about how her and her boyfriend met each other. It's the stuff of legends.

5G--Erica via phone.
Oh yeah, so Nico broke up with his girlfriend and is moving here on July 8th. Now, I'm going to try and say this fast so you don't quite realize what's going on here and all of the synectics involved, okay? Okay. He's moving in with me for a month. To my credit though, I'll be gone half the time in some other state. That is not a metaphore.

6C--Woody via phone.
I think he knew the answer to this one before he asked it. Also in a strange twist of events, he told me when I was coming. Wait, let me elaborate--He illuded that he knew I was coming very soon. I asked him when I was coming, as in : "So when am I coming to town, Wood?" After some debate, he answered correctly. I told him I'd keep him updated on my flight details, and whathaveyou's, so here.

United 0506 Jul 29 Sunday
Depart: SFO 08:44 PM
Arrive: SEA 10:41 PM

29 Jun Sun 11:00 PM Renting Economy car in SEA
02 Jul Wed 08:00 PM Returning Economy car in SEA

SWA Jul 2 Wed Nonstop SEA-OAK 3168
Depart Seattle/Tacoma(SEA) at 8:05PM
Arrive in Oakland(OAK) at 10:10PM

I'm sure he'll get it if I leave it here. Oh, that brings me to:

7D--Amanda via MySpace.
Oh, yeah. Go back and read that one. See that part where I say that I'm coming on the 30th? Yeah. That's what I told them, but I just couldn't continue with the charade. I mean, I didn't outright lie to my two best girlfriends--I haven't called them since I actually bought my plane ticket--but I was planning to let them continue to think this. I figured I'd just stay the night somewhere else, have lunch with Hunts or something the next day, then put on my tracksuit and drive over to thier house like I just got off of a plane. Yeah. I am a cunt. I can't believe I had convinced myself that this was a plausible thing for one friend to do to another. I mean, this is an outright act of chicane bitchery and it's fucked that I even thought I might do that. But, to my credit, they will forgive me. They will forgive me because everyone understands what it is like to want to pretend for just one more night without dissaproving glances from people who not only know what's best for you, but know that you know what's best for you.

So, I hope I've cleared some things up.

May Cake help us all.
--M

Mix-Mash-Match-Em-Up!

2008-06-12T20:51:00.000-07:00

I know, I haven't posted in a few days.

But lo, on the south slope of Grace Cathedral Hill, young Mox shall not forget her readers. Fear not! For Mox will indeed, through perilous struggle, redeem herself with today's entry. Nary a post has ever been invented by man or beast quite as dignified as such.

Well, maybe it's not that good, but it'll be super fun!! The premise? Well, although I counsel myself against it, I've been pondering the idea about being not quite so forthright with all the bullshit going on in my head. Yeah, I know. It'll last all of a few days, maybe? A week?

Anyway, here's my vain attempt to leave just a little bit of me to your imagination.

Try matching up the numbered items on the left [things people have texted, commented, told, or e-mailed to me in the last week or so] with it's corresponding lettered item on the right [my replies].

C'mon, it'll be fun.

Bonus points if you can name the people on the left.

C'mon, give it a try.
I'll post answers and context in a couple days.
--M

P.S.--Breaking News: "Aaron Gerking" has, this week, just narrowly edged out "Ian Strakal" as the #1 keyword googled to arrive at my blog by 2.37%. "Ian Strakal", however, still has a mighty 5.42% lead over "sex with jordan knight" and "Woody Lopez" who are currently tied at 39 hits. Paling in comparison and currently in 5th place, "Miranda Moure" remains optimistic as she still has a hearty 1.67% gain on stalwort 6th place contender, "Mark Huntsman". Rounding out the top ten in decending order are "jelly doughnut song", "vintage volvo", "Charles Firestone" and "Alexis Myricks". This publication offers its congratulations all around, as truly, there are no losers here.

Quips, hits, lists, and mowing the air.

2008-06-07T13:07:00.000-07:00

Remember that little five item list I gave y'all a few days ago? Let's revisit it.

1. Let's come back to this one. We'll give it some time.

2. What the fuck did I tell you? I was already planning to go to SEA and PHX in July, but guess who coming to her little shitstorm hometown on the 30th? That's right, me. Little fucking Moxie Moure Is coming for three days and nights at the end of June. This is complete bullshit, by the way. It was also not my idea.

3. Well, I regret a lot of things. I regret getting so completely hammered on Thursday that I barely remember what happened, and I regret putting myself in the mindset that I should want to get completely shit cocked in the first place. Yes, I regret taking the 22 y/o home with me, and I regret being so wasted that I couldn't even, as Crys would say, "operate my vagina properly". What happened? Well, I remember making out, I remember taking off my fishnets, heels, favorite jeanskirt and boyshorts--then I think I fell. Or something. Then I remember saying something to the effect of: "Fine! I don't even care! I'm never going to love you! Yeah, yeah! I'm fucked in the head! I'm not asking for you to fix me, just fuck me!"
This was all with no pants on.
We decided it was best that he leave, so yes. I do regret it, but fuck him I did not.

4. Although 3 and 4 were supposed to happen sequentially, I think I can count 4 even if it happed before 3.

5. Beer and Linoleum. Yes. There has been that. Flexi straws? Check.

So...I promised 3 of 5, and I've delivered 3 1/2. You proud?

Oh, and a quick shout out to all the new readers of which, from what I can tell, only a couple of you are flat out internet stalkers. But hey, it comes with the territory. Plus, I mean--2 of 100? That's not so bad. That leaves 98 of you a day who aren't reading just to gather some ammunition for god knows what. Have you no idea I'm capable of ruining perfectly good things on my own?

Haha.
--M

I think it's time to talk.

2008-06-04T22:38:00.000-07:00

Wow. It's been a while. You cut your hair.
Yup, sure did. You missed the mohawk, though. Now I have a short/long with this cool side-swept rat tail. I'm pretty into it. Actually, you missed three mohawks I had; they were each a little different.

Huh.
Huh? All I get is a huh?

It's been a really long time.
Yeah. It has. Over a year. How have you been?

That's completely unfair. I'm the journalist here, I should be asking the questions.
Don't you mean jour-in-al-ist?

Haha. I've missed you. I hear you're not jaded anymore.
Haha. Now that's funny. No. I s'pose not. Of course, when I actually think about it, I'm no more or less jaded than I ever was, I'm just more aware of what I'm capable of. Unfortunately, I'm capable of things that scare me. I'm also proud of myself for accomplishing scary things, though. Yeah. That makes sense, right?

No. That doesn't make much sense.
Okay. Fine. Look, what do you really want to know? C'mon, Alan. Where's that hardhitting jourinalist I once knew and loved?

Wow. Now see, I thought I might be wrong, but it seems you really are throwing that word around lately.
That was a figure of speech. I don't throw that word around. C'mon dude, it's me. Do you really think I just go around throwing L-bombs at every turn? Figure of speech Alan, figure of speech.

Hmm. Allright. Let's do this.
Sounds good. Are you going to ask me about him now?

No. I'm not. I want to talk about your career.
Wow. You sure didn't get any brighter in our time apart. What career? To date, I've sold three pieces. I hardly call that a career yet. I've barely made enough money writing for one night of drinking. Ever.

Well, that's kind of what I mean. In two and a half years, you'll be thirty. Do you honestly believe that now is the time to be falling in love with anyone but yourself?
I'm not following.

Sure you are. You know exactly what I'm saying. You see Miranda, You and I, we're kind of in the same boat here. I do these interveiws with you and many other young writers, and one day, I hope my foresight will pay off. A couple of you are bound to garner at least a modicum of fame, and I will surreptitiously be touted as the one who got in early. I'm still young, but I wont always be. And I'd like my actions now to further my career later.
So you're saying...

No. I'm asking. I'm asking how in the world you can act as if this seemingly spontaneous end that you spurned to this new and improved polyamoric tet-a-tet with someone you now love can attributed to anything but furthering your own interests.
No. It wasn't about that.

You yourself have spoken of actively creating stories. You have mentioned on more than one occasion that you have, in the moment, made a major decision based on judging which outcome will leave you with a better essay.
Yes, I have done that, but this wasn't one of those times. Okay, yes. I thought about it, and it scared the shit out of me. I mean, two more partners and I'll be a sexploit centigenarian. You think the prospect of missing it by two was an easy one for me to swallow? Of course not. And yes, I want that story. I really want that story and all of the other stories that I could and will now aquire in his absence, but it's kind of my consolation prize, you know? I mean, I was almost ready to wrap up this chapter and start writing about something else.

Almost?
Almost. I mean, I just figured that I'd fill in the gaps with some re-hashed stories, and when I ran out, I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.

So where are you now? Where will you be?
Where will I be.

Yes.
No it's just...he asked me that. 'Where will you be'. It's seemingly so simplistic, right? But he posed that question with all of this heady pregnant importance and...can we just turn that thing off now? We're getting a bit off topic. I don't want this recorded.

We're not off topic at all. This is fine, and we can return to you sacrificing a loved one for a string of words in a few.
I didn't do that. Okay, yes. I told you, I thought about it, I did. I wondered where I would end up if all of my stories were about the same person, but I figured I'd deal, you know? I mean, no. You gotta stop this. All of you, I mean, there is more to me than this me. There are all kinds of mes and yes, I am allowed to pick and chose which one I'd like to put on paper, and I can change it at will.

So where will you be?
Prolly right here. Some version of right here, anyway.

Is that what you told him when he asked you?
Basically. I said I'd be here, in San Francisco, and I'd be with my cat, and I'd be at work. I'd be making t-shirts and stories and painting my apartment over and over.

And?
[exhale]

That can't be all you said.
Fine. And I said I would be...delighting in my freedom. I think that's how I put it, and I said I would be harboring stories from all of that said delight.

That was fast.
That's what she said.

I'm serious. You do realize that you brought this up, this fact that he might hinder you making stories, in the same conversation where you asked where you two might go as you two?
Wait...how do you even know what that conversation was about? Or that it happened?

Think about it. Look around. We're in a coffee shop on the top of the hill. Over the crest on the other side is your apartment, and in your apartment is your closet and in your closet is your bed. Barring your cat, what's in your bed? Right now?
[exhale]

What, did you move it?
No, it's there. My laptop is in my bed. Likely right next to my cat.

And you really think there would be room for some boy in and among your sheets when there's already you, your cat, and your laptop?
I've been asked this before, and my answer is still the same. I can make that concession if need be. I mean, I've changed. I only sleep with my laptop three to five times a week anymore, anyway.

You are aware that most people don't sleep with thier laptops. At all. Ever.
Yes, but are you aware that most people don't fuck with thier watch on?

This isn't about me.
Oh, but I think it is. I think you're projecting. I'm not near as worried about losing a career that I never really had as I am about losing a boy I really love, so what is it you're grappling with?

No really, this isn't about me.
Really, why are you so fixated on this?

That's what she said.
That's my line, number one. Number two, you're fucking projecting. And you know? This is exactly what I told him. Don't put your baggage on me. Oh, I get it now. No, I totally get it. These here--these little interviews that you sort through and edit and add your own commentary and publish--they're supposed to be more than in the moment, there supposed to build contacts for you, writers that you can still hold under your thumb when everyone finally knows thier names. And you're worried...

I'm not worried.
No, you are worried. You're worried that you might be teetering too far on either side of the line--either you're going too easy on them and so sacrificing your story to get them to like you or you're being too hard on them and so alienating them. Tell me Alan, who have you lost lately? Who is it you fear not returning for a little rendezvous with your tape recorder?

I thought you didn't speak French.
Touche.

--M

Don't Cross the Shit Line Part 2: Girl Talk Et Al

2008-06-03T21:43:00.000-07:00

scene: Market and Powell, 8am.

"Hey Mirans."

"Hey Rach. I'm fucking exhausted. Shit, where are my fucking keys? Hey, you don't see any water in there...do you?"

"Looks clear, girl."

"Sweet. Lemme get the door."

Mirans, who has found her keys, unlocks the door and the two girls enter a storefront on Market street. They get themselves settled, put some things away in thier lockers, and let the cleaning crew in the side door who have come to clean up from last nights devastation. The store has been flooding every day for five days now, but today, they are optimistic. In the back, Mirans opens the safe and retrieves a small change bank and two bank bags. She will count them in front while Rach walks the floor. She grabs her coffee on the way out, too.

"Rach, I slept an hour last night."

"Damn, girl! Did you go out?"

"Nope. I got in an argument with Seattle last night."

"Oh shit. What happened?"

"Girl, lemme fuckin' tell you, kay? No--let me fuckin' tell you. This is so not fucking fair, you know? Fuck this shit! Like, do you know what he said to me? No, Do you know what he said to me? He said...wait, what did he say? Shit girl I'm so tired."

"Hahaha! Girl, Whatever he said, it don't sound to good. You guys were on the phone all night?"

"No. Just 'til one, but then I couldn't sleep. I finally dozed off around five, and girl, I was still pissed when I woke up at six."

"Hahaha!"

"No really though, it was fucked--like, all I was asking of him was like...you know. Like either fucking own up, or back down. One or the other. 'Cause come on, would you just let some guy that you were like...completely crazy for just continue to fucking fuck you while he actively looked for someone better than you because he's already pretty sure that person is not you? C'mon, would you?"

"Fuck no. No fucking way."

"Exactly, dude. That's all I was saying. I wasn't even really mad, I mean, you know. All things. Considered."

"Well, then what the fuck happened girl?"

"Then he kept feeding me some line about how very fucking dearly he loves me and crap and how he doesn't want to let me go and all this fucking bullshit...and you know what, Rach? Fuck all this shit. You know what we need? No, really. Do you know what we need?"

"What?"

"We need to get laid. I'm serious. We need to be all like, fuck those fucking raggely-ass niggas, and fuck them and the fucked up ways they chose to fucking 'love' us. Fuck them always doing just enough to get the gine and never anything fucking else. Fuck it. And you know what, Rach? It's not even about the actual lay, dig? It's about the pursuit of the lay. It's about putting on some heels and your favorite panties, and it's about propping yourself on a barstool and reminding ourselves how fucking easy it is to get free beers and men's clothes off with but the choreography of our eyelashes and the artfull movement of the tips of our tongues on our bottom lips. That's what we need, Rachel, a fucking reminder. A reminder that these fuckin' trifling-ass-indecisive-children do have some fucking competition. A reminder that whether or not we want that shit, we don't fucking need that shit."

"Oh, fuck. You know where we should go?"

"Yup, sure do. Rich Black Guy Bar. That's us. This Friday. Seriously. And you know what?"

"Oh shit. What the fuck now, Miranda?"

"This isn't just about us. This shit is bigger than just us, Rach. This is for every girl that has been misjudged, marginalized and taken for granted. This is for every girl who fought for what she wanted and lost, and for every fucking girl who just needs to get back on the fucking saddle, visit thier own proverbial Rich Black Guy Bar, and ride fucking something all night long. Fuck yeah. Rich. Black. Guy. Bar."

"What's that place even called, anyway?"

"What, Rich Black Guy Bar?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, girl. I have no fucking idea."

fin.
--M

p.s.--I just got my sheets out of the dryer. They smell of dryer sheets and laundry detergent, and that is all. You proud?

Don't Cross the Shit Line: Shit Pool at Sewer Couture

2008-06-02T00:26:00.000-07:00

"They started off as tiny little shit larvae. And then they grew into shitapillars. A pandemic of shitapillars. Everywhere you look, shitapillars. They almost drove me over the goddamn edge, boy. I tried to exterminate 'em, I tried to put an end to the shitapillars' life cycle, but I failed. And now? Shit Moths. Every. Fucking. One of them. Shit Moths." *

Here's the brief rundown.

My store flooded three times in the last week so I'm exhausted and have seventeen hours of overtime racked up since I went back to work last Monday. Don't get me wrong, I could use the OT, but the insult to this injury?

Last night I was laying in bed enjoying one of my favorite new pasttimes--laying around in the dark staring at a wall. Anyway, my phone rang. It was Erica, and our store had flooded. Again. Whatever homes, no big. I mean, I live like...eight blocks from work. Of course I can throw on some jeans and run down there. No prob.

When we arrived around 11:30, we saw a shitpool of such a magnitude that no previously recorded shitstorm or shitblizzard had ever produced that much shit-devastation. One of the shitspoils? Three pairs of my favorite flats that I keep under my locker including...

My god, I can barely bring myself to write it down.

My favorite flats. There they were, sitting in a shit pile of water and sewage and grease. Right where I left them. Under my locker.

These were no ordinary flats, mind you. Much like Mary's famed Black nappa leather Reppetto flats that where stolen by a fucking shit whore who shall remain nameless, these were my favorite shoes. My black and white canvas pointy-toe Mia flats were a part of me--I bought them over a year ago and I wore them with everything. I loved them.
Unfortunately, they are now covered in toxic sewage water, never again to be worn.

Before you say anything, I already checked. Even eBay. They are discontinued, and I will never again have a pair.

But hey, as they say: If you love something, let it go.

Conveniently, my company is re-imbursing me for all three pairs plus my Chuck Taylors tahat I waded through three inches of standing sewage in, so letting them go is easier than it could be. I replaced them today with a matte-grey leather cut-inset pointy toe flats that will suffice. I also got a black pair and a pair of black patent round-toe flats to replace my favorite silver ones. And I got a gangsta-clean new pair of Chucks. Cool. I can deal, no big.

But seriously, my favorite shoes are already gone--and I just can't let go of anything else.

Say what you will and call me anything you like, but I just can't live in a world where I lose any chance I might have had of ever sleeping, four pounds, my favorite flats, and the best sex I've ever had all in the span of a week.

My flats are gone for good, but I have no other choice but to be optimistic that my phone will ring any minute.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sleep now. And no, I haven't changed my sheets yet.

Tomorrow, when I have slept, and the shitnami has subsided, I'll change them. I promise.
--M

*thanks to my favorite Canadians and their constant shitnanigans for this quote.

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

2008-05-30T03:20:00.000-07:00

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.

and...

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].

Yup.

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.
--M

Make with the details already.

2008-05-25T23:21:00.001-07:00

L--
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."

Haha.

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.
Cheers,
--M

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

2008-05-25T18:00:00.000-07:00

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.
--M

[more later.]

Worst. Morning. Ever.

2008-05-23T06:45:00.000-07:00

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!
--M

My initial response.

2008-05-19T14:32:00.000-07:00

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

M for Moxie

2008-05-16T20:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Strange.

--M

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

2008-05-13T23:35:00.000-07:00

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.
"DID YOU SLEEP WITH WOODY?"
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.

Cheers.
--M

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

2008-05-08T22:27:00.000-07:00

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.

--O

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.

--M

[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

2008-05-01T21:04:00.000-07:00

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,
--M

Moxie is pointing to the nearest star and warning all those around what happens when you follow it 'till morning.

2008-04-22T20:47:00.000-07:00

Okay.

No lists, no bullshit. Just story time.

My plane landed in Seattle through a snow cloud, and after picking up my rental car, I picked up my little niece (who’s not so fucking little, happy birthday Alexis) from school, and hightailed it to the almighty Bauhaus. Chat topics included the loss of her virginity, her upcoming birthday, and how, much like me, she was probably verging on leaving the Myricks household at the ripe age of sixteen, much like her father and me. Funny, we were hanging out at my favorite hangout when I was sixteen.
I dropped her off back up in Mountlake terrace and sped back down to Ballard to find Crystal and Amanda heavy with wine, ready for me to fucking drink it with them. We, in typical Carnie style spent a couple hours at Two Bells in Belltown be fore heading off to the Elder (Ben) Harrison’s house for some beers and quality time with his new puppy, Archie—a little brown poodle with a Mohawk. At three or so, Gav informed us he was home from work, so we hightailed it back north from First hill and drank till god knows when.

In true style as my first morning in town always is, I was crazy-ham-and-cheese hungover, thus missing Woody’s boxing match that I had flown to Seattle to see. At 2pm, when it started, found me laying in Crystal’s bed with her screaming at me to get up and go get breakfast. So we did, at Costas in Fremont, and almost as soon as my food was put in front of me, I asked for a box.

I spent most of the day in bed.

After dinner that night with Crystal and Amanda, I picked up Kyle in Greenlake and we went to a show on Capitol Hill. Holy shit—Louis XIV at Chop Suey was somehow even better than at the Fillmore, and the opener wasn’t half bad either. We got super fucking wasted and almost got in a fight with some retard sitting in front of us. Who the fuck sits down at a show at a bar anyway?
I dropped Kyle off and headed over to Ben Harrison’s bar downtown, and drank a quick PBR midst an East Indian melee going on outside. Holy shit.
At two, Woody texted me to have me come meet him in Georgetown. I promptly went, although I’ve already told that story two posts ago.

I spent the night as his house that night, and the oddest fucking thing happened—much like many years ago with a boy I don’t currently care to name, he put his arm around me and whispered in my ear, and nighttime seemed to stretch on and on forever.

Crystal and Amanda called me in the morning to tell me I was fucking late for breakfast, so I kissed him goodbye and cruised up to Ballard For some eggs with the girls, then spent midday taking my niece to the mall with a few of her friends and having a beer with my sister.

Some hours later I went to meet The Gavs at the Duck, my actual first time there on this trip. Jackie was working, who I hadn’t seen in a year. She asked about Samantha. I told her.
Gav had to leave, but Mary finally made it from Portland around midnight. We drank till bar time, picked up a six-pack, and drank a couple beers in a park way the fuck down in Rainier Valley. We swang on the swings. We wondered how fucking drunk we would be by the time we finally got over to Columbia City to Woody’s.

Haha, that lucky fucking kid. He had two hot girls in his bed that night.

Thank god he let us sleep in, and when Mary and I woke up, we went directly to The Hurricane for breakfast. Then to Bhy Krackie on Queen Anne to take some pics. Then Bauhaus. Then Lauren Called.
We went down to Georgetown to meet up with her and Shu for some midday chatting. We caught up and shot the shit about Miami while it hailed outside. Fuck.

Mary and I went back up north for dinner with the carnies in Crown Hill, then drug Amanda with us to meet up with Kyle in the neighborhood I grew up in, Wallingford. It was Kyle’s girlfriend Ashley’s going away party, as she’s going to teach English in China for three months. Then the old Cook from Beth’s tried to fuck me. Whatever. I did give him a ride home, though. No pun intended.

Mary and I layed around the next day until Crystal got home at four thirty or so, then went to go get some food and go see Younger (Jeremiah) Harrison at his bar, none other than the Duck. We stayed for a few hours, chatted about J-Ru’s new girfriend Jenna (whom I love) and made plans to meet at two when he got off as well as for him and Skinny Mike to come visit me in SF for a couple baseball games.

Then I texted Ben to come hang out because Mares and I were with his brother. I never heard back.

We picked up Woody in Columbia City, then went to Amanda’s in Skyway. We drank some wine, took some pics, then hightailed it to Lauren’s bar in Southpark just in time for it to close. Fuck.
But no harm, no foul—we went to Jules Maes and she met us shortly after. A pitcher later, it was time to drop Woody off and Meet Jeremiah and Jenna back up north at the Duck.

Around three, when we’re all still sitting at the bar drinking stolen beers and shooting the shit. Jeremiah just finished telling me his version, though I had already heard a few, of the Harrison brother debacle. His version included the part where they aren’t even speaking, which I didn’t know. I made a mental note that an apology was in order—to Ben, that is, for the text message I had sent earlier.

Then the strangest thing happened.

There, in a North Seattle bar with some old friends, some new, and some in between, the strangest little fucking thing happened.

I was shaking and giggling. But I was sure.

That was very early in the morning on April 2nd, twenty days ago.

By the time I woke in Jeremiah’s spare room later that morning, I knew she was back. That Miranda—that one that says things she shouldn’t, that loves too too fucking hard and can’t rationalize why, that fears regret so much that she does extraordinary things—that barely glances at a calendar or considers the health of her cat before purchasing air travel.

Even though it hurts, I’ve missed her, and welcome her like a long lost friend. I invite her for cold beers on the cold linoleum.

I’ll bring the flexi-straws, she’ll bring the pillows, and we’ll share a laptop for a few nights.

Don’t expect your calls returned for a few days—old Miranda and brand brand new Miranda will be spending the rest of the week alone together crafting a couple of things you can expect upon our return—

1. The Hornet’s Nest Part 3
and
2. Open Letter to the Boy Whom I Let Fuck Me In a Manner I Thought I Had Forgotten

--M

"And I'm falling in love with someone I shouldn't be falling in love with."

2008-04-02T14:10:00.000-07:00

Oh, how I love the Buzzcocks. Favorite driving band of all time.

Also, I'm still drunk.

Stories to come. For now, here's some pics.

X-O-Ex?-Oh!!!
--M

Seattle Story Time

2008-03-31T15:20:00.000-07:00

Here's my favorite story from my trip so far.

Saturday night after going to a show and then going tto Ben Harrison's work for a quick PBR, I drove down to the G to go to Woody's boxing match after-party.
When I got to Airport and Lucille, I parked my gay-ass car (they gave me a PT Cruiser), and called him so he could come out and find me. After a brief make-out session (I really do mean brief), he took me inside, upstairs, and into some guy's apartment. I don't know anyone there, so I introduce myself to the first girl I see.
Some guy behind me puts his hand on my shoulder so I turn to facce him, and he asks me a seemingly simple question.

"Wait...you're Miranda?"

"Umm...yeah. You're Pete, right? I think I met you a few years ago."

"Yeah. But wait, you're Miranda Miranda?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

Then twenty people I've never met simultaneously burst into the loudest most raucous laghter I've ever heard.

Welcome home, kiddo.

--M

Paper Doll

2008-03-18T00:34:00.000-07:00

Okay.

At Lisa's less than gentle prodding, I've finally figured out this story.

[Ahem.]

The first time, the very first time I fucked a musican, it was on a leather-seated tour bus belonging to one of those oh-so-famous Nebraska bands with thier surly mouthed sound technician. The sun was rising over the ocean, and I was but a few blocks from my house, right off Collins, fucking some kid in an empty tour bus as all of the band members lay asleep, right inside, at the Holiday Inn. I was twenty-two, it was April, he was number 15, and I still contend to this day that that band sucks. Even little Phil cannot persuade me otherwise.
A few months later, I fell in love with a musician.

Much like many others I have known since then, he fucked me beautifully like I was not me. He fucked me with so much care for something he wanted so badly that I could never offer, and starting with that very first time I pretended it was me he was seeing when his nose was inches from mine with my fingertips on his cheek. The worst part is, I will never know if this is not true.

It seems true now, though. It seems true with all of them, whether I loved them or no.

There was so much pretending with all of them--like the John's who I pretended were not bandmates, the first of which I pretended didn't love me and the second I pretended I loved. There were some I pretended I was going to call--promised, in fact. With the drummers, I always pretendded I was okay wth the callous way they treated me, both emotionally and physically.

There was one boy--one fucking boy that for me, was the absolute last straw, and he hit way to close to home, and was beautiful and soft spoken and tall and thin and he touched me like he wanted so fucking badly to love me, and yet he never cradled me with quite the same way he held her.

Unless we were absolutely alone, with the lights off, his fucking guitar was in his lap where I should be, nay, where I needed to be, yet when the tables were turned and I was the fucking one jarred from sleep at one, three, five in the fucking morning, I would be expected to traipse over to his Hayes Valley apartment to let him fuck me like I was some other girl he missed so fucking much. I was always expected to shelve my proverbial guitars for them, to hand them over so they may play me songs of thier liking while I am still and silent. While I am obedient. While I play thier perfect princess.

What I mean from all of this is that from all the voices I have found in my lifetime, I have not yet found one I'd like to let stand up to even one pretty boy's pretty guitar.

I'm still too scared.
--M

[p.s. to Hunts--I don't know if I've ever really thanked you for helping to pick up all my pieces and plant me squarely on a barstool that fall. Thanks.
p.p.s. to Lisa--It's been so built up--see, now you think it sucks, no? Man, you gotta let me figure out my stories in my own time, haha. Oh, and on a side note, I finally made out with that guy James on Saturday. Funnily enough, I think I might be over it now.]