I love friends, but sometimes you just need a bit of family.

Nothing yesterday had gone gloriously wrong, but with the exception of an evening stroll around the ICA with J, I’d been on the verge of tears all day long.

At 8:30, I had the my regular Sibling Supper with T ahead of me. A late dinner in Brookline, which would be just what I would need to bounce back from the melancholy – if I could get there. A combination of getting lost, accepting that my car is beginning to become an issue (I think the transmission’s going), thunderstorms and general frustration pushed the tears out of my eyes and onto my cheeks.

Within five minutes of the ready hug from my younger brother, I was grinning and laughing – particularly when it was pointed out for the umpteenth time that “Good God, you guys look so much alike. It’s so obnoxiously adorable.”

On occasion, I’m left pondering. WWAPD?

Public perception of myself and Amanda Palmer tends to plant us about as far apart as possible. Of my blonde self, the thought is “she’s so goddamn pleasant all the time!” Of the raven-haired Dresden Doll, it’s “Amanda Palmer kind of scares me.”

Naturally, this makes me wish I could be Amanda for a day. Or at least think of things in an Amanda Palmer sort of way and envy what she’s able to pull off and who she is.

When people think you couldn’t be mean if you tried (which, admittedly, is a misperception, but hey), it’s natural to wish you could infuse your life with a little Brechtian punk cabaret way of being. Or something.

This weekend, I stood in a ring of people that surrounded Amanda. She was strumming a ukulele, covering Radiohead and being brilliant. When the song came to its end, she gave her thanks and appeared to be preparing to leave. I looked down for a moment, looked back up and found myself in a face-to-face encounter.

I decided not to illuminate her with my WWAPD philosophical outlook.

A round of “hi” was exchanged instead. I should have told her I though her shoes were badass.