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Last night I went to see a wondrous woman whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making last fall over a cigarette and a bitch about how weddings no longer guarantee single men and hot nights like they did in our twenties. Her show was rawly funny, honest, vulnerable, emotionally hard and then, before it all feel to weepy regretful pieces, resolved. Highly recommended. If she's in your town sometime soon, go and see her. There, Desiree, free plug. I am a woman with taste. People listen to me. if they have been drinking and are lonely. You're set.

Anyway, her show got me thinking about "the list" - you know the one. The one of the men you've let into your bed, and on much much rarer occasions into your head and heart as well. I have not even thought about making a list in a long time - largely because the last time I attempted it, I tried to do it chronologically and kept forgetting people. "Oh yeah!" I'd say, and draw a little arrow with their name in where they fit. And then, in wonderment at my own amnesia, "Hunh."

The hard part about the list is how many people on it really turned out to be a waste. Like you should have been out doing better things, letting perchance do its perchancing its way into happier motifs than "live and learn" - or in my case "you really should be learning at some point in this process, you know."

Frankly, the list, whether or not I actually write it on paper, hurts. It hurts because it has taught me to be cold and hard and resentful. As it grows, so do my own problems with letting people into bed, head or heart. And on Sunday evenings like now, when I am preparing for a hard week ahead, I long for people far away, or dead to me and after that longing, I long that I could simply erase them from the list and maybe relearn a few things after reliving.

Of course, it doesn't fall out that way, but I suppose you can decide to start over at one point, from scratch if you're really determined to do so.

Following the "Adult Petting Zoo" extravaganza last night, which involved a lot of free beer, foot long hotdogs, hilarious insights into the takeover of preganacy and a burlesque number that left hanging the haunting question "did she just pull her beads from her ...?", a friend and I decided to visit the "Before I Die in NOLA" wall, a project that was pointed out by this funny fella a few days ago. Sadly, it was really dark, we were pretty drunk, and equipped with shitty camera phones that just did not do the collective of one sentenced bucket lists written on an abandoned building justice. So bear with this rendition.

This is what the wall looks like at 2 in the morning when the humidity factor is high.



Here is a sampling of some of the entries. Turn your brightness way up.



The concept is that the wall is written in chalk, and erased so more people can add to it the next day. However, one real desire deserved a permanent stamp:



While my friend bent the rules a little by chalking up a bulletpoint list, I thought about this one strong desire - Before I die I want to LOVE.

I have loved. It's hurt me, but I'm still here ready to give it. And the living and learning aren't so bad either.

Behind LOVE I write "without a waiver."

Universe, I'm open.

Come and get me.