Mike reappeared on Thursday.

After his long absence and my seeming exile, I called his cell in a fit of drunkenness, and an hour later he called me back from a strange phone. Luckily, I was feeling randy and answered it, or I never would have known it was him calling from his house phone because he no longer uses the cell for anything but a phone book. He told me to save the number in my phone and to call him there from now on, and then we proceeded to have the most enlightening conversation we've ever had. He rhapsodized for over two hours about his love for music and how he felt bad because he had given up on himself with it and become lazy. I personally think he's a good musician. Not because we have sex or because I am so totally in crush mode, but because he really has a passion for it. He has the persona, you know? He moves like music...graceful or wild or unpredictable. He talks like music...heartbreaking or smooth or angry. He really is...like music to me. Dooley might be poetry, but Mike...Mike has always been my melody.

No wonder I can't seem to shake either one of them. Music and poetry are my life...they mean everything to me. How odd...I never noticed the connections before...between Dooley and Mike and music and poetry and how I associate one to the other. Dooley yes...but not Mike. Wow...my mind is spinning with revelations now.

So yes, we talked...long and endepth and heartily...and then he did this amazing thing. He mentioned Dave Matthews and I said I loved Dave Matthews...and we both said at the same time how we really liked Crash. We laughed, both surprised and almost embarrassed by our confession. He asked me to hold on, and then I heard the beginning rifs of the song pound through the receiver. I waited for Dave to sing, but then I realized it...Swiz was playing it for me on the guitar!!! I never even knew he played the guitar! We always only talked about the drums. And there he was, playing Crash to me at 2.47 in the morning over the phone. It was one of our most precious moments. We hung up eventually, and he called me babe and asked me to call him the next night. I asked if he was sure and he said yes. I said ok.

The next night I call him. I can tell he's drunk by the way he's talking...all loud and laughing and slurred. He asked who it was, I say my name. He says What's up, my nigga? I am puzzled a second, then laugh. I ask if he was drinking. He said yes. There was a bunch of noise in the background, so I ask if he had company. He said yes. Then I heard a girl asking who was on the phone and he was like Aw...I uh...gotta call you back dude. I tell him not to worry about it and hang up. I wasn't mad or anything, just curious. Obviously the girl was there for him, but...who is she? A girlfriend...or just a girl friend? Not that I care...trust me. It's never stopped us before.

Then, of course, Dooley just has to act the fuck up.

So this weekend I was feeling a bit...reflective...and maybe lonely...so I drank most of Friday, some Saturday morning, and Saturday night into Sunday morning. And what do I do when I get drunk? Well, call the man I love of course! And what does he do when I call? Why not fucking answer the phone, obviously! So yes...Friday no call no answer. Saturday no call no answer. I called maybe 11 times total. Nothing. So in drunken tears I vow that if he doesn't call in 24 hours I am fucking through because it means he can't possibly love me or want me. I know he had stuff going on with the family and all with the funeral, but he also knows that he owes me money, and since I am supposed to be the girl he fucking loves, it would be nice if he checked in on a bitch every now and again, you know? So I make my vow and light a cig and swig down the rest of my vodka to celebrate my impending liberation, and wouldn't you know, only half the cig lit. Supposedly, when that happens, it means someone loves you. I stare at the crescent cherry with blurry eyes and cursed his name. Twice.

Around 9 in the morning, through a drunken haze I hear his voice boom in my ears. I lazily answer and he sounds just as haggard. He had left his phone in Stu's car (again...that's twice in one week. Funny...with all the shit we do in my car, he's never lost his phone. And he's been half naked with me...yeah. But whatever.) and he had just gotten it back and saw I had called and was calling to check up on his favorite little boo boo. He said he just wanted to stay awake long enough to tell me what happened and that he loves me. I was pissed, but a still drunk kind of relieved pissed because I realized that the little fucker had called me. Within 24 hours. He got his stay of execution. How the fuck does he always manage that?

These things could only fucking happen to me.
Sitcom writers can't even come up with shit like this.