Listening to Magnetic Fields on repeat

I'm so sorry. I haven't updated in what, a month? I have had plenty of petty frustrations to write about but they've been overshadowed by this totally faggy thing that happened.

You see, guys, I uh. I kissed a boy.

It'd been seven months, but if you only count the ones I wanted to count, it had been more than a year. I was a little nervous when I saw it coming because that's a long time to get rusty on a two-person game, but I quickly found it's like riding a bike. But warmer, and uh. More fulfilling.

All the geniuses were tortured, or at least crazy, right? Vincent Van Gogh, Gene Roddenberry, Nikola Tesla, Phillip K Dick, Emperor Norton ... .

Now that I've got daily reminders of how wonderful I am, I'm compelled to wonder: Have I lost my inspiration?

I tell myself my personal blog is to keep far-flung friends up to date on what I'm doing in this town most of them abandoned at first chance. But really I spend a lot of it crying. My lengthiest and my best work is always about how poor Miranda was slighted in some way or another. Me against the world. All the blogs I've had have invariably been -- my favorite word -- mastubatory. I'll admit it.

And given that, why would I want to go it alone when I can just call up some asshole who was dumb enough to put his face near mine a few weekends ago anytime I feel a bit blue?

But the moment after I start to settle into this being happy thing, the neuroses come pouring in.

What if I like him more than he likes me? What if he likes me more than I like him? What if he knew I didn't wash my hands at the Waffle House? What if he's mad I threw away that peanut butter sandwich he made without eating it? What if I call too often? What if I don't call enough? Why hasn't he called yet? What does this song he sent me mean? Does it mean anything? What is he doing right now? How exactly did he say he knew this "Shannon" girl? Why did he say "goodbye" instead of "goodnight" this time? If he doesn't reply to my text message within six minutes, is he dead? Did I just offend him by saying that about his nose? Is he going to find out that I don't know anything at all about Ben Gibbard, really? Can I really deal with a guy who likes Star Trek, but not as much as I do? Can I really be considering dreaming about maybe someday saying those three horrible words to a guy who likes Depeche Mode more than I do? Is he really that sensitive about his teeth? Am I really that sensitive about his teeth? Is he joking about my ass? Did he even really notice my ass? Am I not worrying enough? Am I worrying too much? Does this make me That Girl?

So fear not, friends, if you missed me. The ambiguous arms of uh... well, "not really dating, but not 'just friends' either" will propel me to this text box again soon.

In the meantime, I hope the best holiday in February was as good for you as it was for me.