Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

Ingredients for this My Time: natural phenomena, wistful thinking, scheduled drinking.

Hola, Lovers. It seems like the farther along I get with my project, the less I am able to connect with my "fans." It is atrocious of me, I know. And if I had a human heart enough to care, I wouldn't be using this sentence to pretend that I care. But hear me out.

My pure bred, feral linx got sick, and I was with her in the exotic animal vet. Then, I drove across the country to one of my summer homes in Malibu-Lite, then all these boys visited. Boys! They came from the muscular farm sun of Missouri and the mysterious clouds of Washington, with Iphones and tight jeans, with proper shaving and nice white shirts, with lisps and foul mouths, with cocktails and appetites. It really brought me back.

After being so long in my project that I was sure I would not gaze upon such greased up gorgeousness again, I was just dumbstruck. I drank margaritas, I smelled their hair when they weren't looking, I thought about all the things they could say to boss me around, I ate their hand towels, I worshiped at the altar of the patriarchy, and loved every minute of it. While they watched other women, I lasciviously watched them. I devoured their desires through breath and, as if exhaling is having, I made them my own. I imprinted them on my body, and like that, it was if their desires for the women around us were desires already writing on my skin.

That reminds me, I need to cash another alimony check...if I won't ever be able to fall in love again--ha ha, I kid--I've never loved anyone except God and Mr Grey Goose--ha ha I kid again--my heart is so fragile that it breaks like each marriage egg and fucking fries, Lovers, fries like a bad simile--

then I will spend their fucking money. Which reminds me. You know how I really knew my marriage was over with the fucking classy man? Well, beside the fact that he played Everything But The Girl at dinner parties? Well, and beside the fact that he was already married, thus leaving me with no alimony after it all went kaput? When we started going Dutch. I mean, who are these Dutch people with their awful rules for women? How dare they think I'm dignified enough to pay for my own lobby and champers. As we all know, I have no dignity. I want no dignity.

So, I'm in Miami-Lite, soon to leave to Oaxaca for one of seven weddings this year of the rich, fabulous people of the world that I'll grit my teeth through. I kid. I love a good wedding. So much free al-co-hol. And what woman, whose womb is as dried as a dead batch of corn, and who doesn't trust men as far as she can fuck 'em, doesn't love attending wedding after wedding and seeing something in this world work out? I strap on a bra, throw on a dress and a sun hat, etch lipstick on my face, and voila, I'm in another country at another wedding with less money and more opportunities for scandal. My life is fabulous.

But today, the wretched day of the week, Sunday, the day when it seems that all hope with fail, a solar eclipse awaits us. I, of course, will be with fabulous (and some foreign!) people on the roof of a Los Angeles LOFT, staring directly into what keeps me alive and might blind me. I don't buy the whole don't look directly bull--my strength and my problem is that I always, always, look directly into it and walk away with less sight but more vision. Of course, while others are looking I plan to stand behind them and suck their energy in through their ears, keeping my gorgeous, youthful skin that much more so. And cocktails, cocktails, cocktails, Honey.

The world can't keep a loveless wench--I mean a tender, romantic soul--it's so hard to tell sometimes when one's spirit is a pendulumm and one's life seems to follow--like me down if it can't keep its own sun.

Talk soon, Honies, champers on me! Ha ha I kid--on every ex who paid for breaking my heart.