Ingredients for this My Time: Tattinger, a large updo (that's a picked bleached rat's nest, Honey), a side of shrimp, and a foreboding full moon.
Oh, Honey, I KNOW. I don't keept up with my correspondence like I used to. I mean, I have all this TIME, but the difference between now and this time last year is that in addition to having all this time, I've learned how to download the entire oeuvre of Law and Order, I've given up on ever getting married again, and thus human contact is--at best, at times--banal. I mean, Honey, you're special. But let's play the "you vs. Jack McCoy game" for a sec:
Do people call YOU "Mr. McCoy"? Oh, no? Well, it's time to take a long look in the mirror, aka, realize with a seeming new shudder down the back what shame feels like. AGAIN.
Do you balance the line between conservative and liberal so expertly that you try a black poor father from Harlem and a white gentrifying rich woman AT THE SAME TRIAL? Oh...you don't do that? Well, have fun in Polarizing Belief Land with your la la morals and your puppy dog laws.
Do you never, ever once make a pass at the always never not very thin female DA assistant working in your office? Oh, not you? Well, congratulations on all your sexual harassment suits. And see you in court.
So, the point is, Honey, I've been very very very never not free to contact you while watching Law and Order. But here I am, in Austin, Texas, away from my Midwestern Country for a few days, and I decided to write you and say hello. Hello, Love! What are you doing? Oh, wait, I forgot: I don't care. Instead, let's talk about the fact that my most recent divorce, after a long battle in court to agree to terms, HAS BEEN FINALIZED! Now I can use my most recent alimony to start hunting for my next ex-husband! Shall we go to Rio? Copenhagen? Berlin? I think I'm interested in a count this time.
Oh, but here I am in Austin with all the bearded Texans. Where can a lady get an oil billionaire when she needs one, amIright? Anyway, I barely made it here as there were grave matters I needed to attend to. You see, I've become something kitchy called a Next of Kin for someone known as a Victim according to the California Department of Corrections. I know, what kind of charity ball organization is that?! You see, today is March 26th, 2013, and an inmate in a gorgeous orange jumpsuit is up for parole, but my little, tired, bediamoned pointy finger said oh no, Honey! And I made something called a Victim's Rights Video and posted it to Youtube (first $100 and glass of Tattinger goes to the lucky one who finds and manages to watch all 7 minutes of it!) and wrote something called a Victim's Rights Statement. Now, here's the thing about being the perfect victim's advocate/next of kin, Honey: you need to look, play, and meow the part.
So, I've been reading Blaise Cendrars' Moravagine and wondering what it might be like to be Macha, walking for HOURS in stiletto heels, and denying myself simple pleasures, such as one more Xanax, or the "missed local flight and wine bar at DFW happy hour!" Friday. I tell you, Lover, it is hard to advocate and next of kinney. One of the greatest mispleasures I've had to endure, and all who enter DFW do, is the amount of toe rings I've had to see! I mean, blond-haired ladies of Texas! Can we please talk about wearing open toed shoes to an airport, on a place, and making sure to accessorize your dogs before sitting next to someone on a plane for who knows how long who is trying, if at all possible, to not look at your body because said person does not want to acknowledge the proximity of your body to his/hers without consent, interest, or welcome?
And what is it with the women in DFW with giant burnt blown out hair who are wobbling by in their wedges and denim mini dresses, dazed as if just released from a sex prison for the first time in years? I mean, what is GOING ON underground or in a secret parking lot at DFW?
Which brings us back to: victims. While I sip on my Tattinger, eating small bits of fried chicken thigh from Eastside Kings (that I will puke up LATER FINE), "it was then that I realized"
who is a victim, and who is an offender? I mean, PUN.
So my lovely, eccentric uncle, the Earl of Creedence, was murdered in a gentlemanly duel when I was just a girl growing up in a castle in Tallinna. My father, being the younger brother to said uncle, was made forever silent, as if under a sleeping spell, from his brother's untimely demise. Needless to say, this intriguing incident brought much color to my already untarnished upbringing! The men who were less gentlemanly in the duel (CHEATERS) were brought to the Queen's justice and imprisoned. However, 15 years later, the first one is up for parole. You see, my father was the next of kin and would surely speak out against the 60-70 stab marks these bastardly fighters lefts in my uncle, but seeing as how the death of my uncle left my father blind with hopelessness and incapable of speaking, he drank his sorrows away, as any rich, untethered man does. But then, to be dramatic in before my quinceanera
I swore to my father that if he did not quit his rambling about Europe with a brandy in his hand, I would leave the castle for an aunt's mansion in the Highlands. And he obliged to keep forever our family name out of the dirt. Then, and this is where the irony doubles, Honey, he died on the way to an AA meeting! And because he was hit by a Rolls, a company in which his stock was the highest of any! So, let's recap. His brother's death lead to his own will to live coming back which led to a death at a "will to live" meeting, and he died from being pummeled by the same car that had brought us so much fortunate life! I mean, couldn't you just DIE from the humor?!
And now, the person who forced the actual next of kin/victim into a "righteous life" is the one who is morally obligated to "speak" in the death of his mentor, which caused his own death ultimately. I mean, it's enough to make a lady want to party at the DFW forever, never to be seen by society again and to compete with true Texas divas as they work that toe ring over a joint or bump bump bump-it that hair to the heights beyond sex trauma!
So, instead of going in person, which I will do for the most serious offender in 2018, I submitted a glamour shots video where I explain something called DEATH'S UNDYING IRONY. Get it? And to truly drive home how much I want the heads of these men, I'm staying in Texas instead of California, where the death penalty is tre chic. Oh, the death penalty energy I gathered for my video! Of course, when one completes this video, one must be weary of all the pounds gained on film, so I only ate shrimp for a week to prepare for my glamour. And now, sadly, Honey, I bid you ado while I snuggle up to Jack McCoy, the warm electricity line leading from my computer to the wall wrapped tightly around my neck to keep me warm, so warm, so warm that I go cold. But before passing out with my Life Alert heart monitor so that Butler can find me before the end, I loosen the cord a little, because after all, Honey, how can one not be so grateful for the ability to speak for all the loved ones who are no longer, who died when they should not have, who could have made me a little less of who I've become? Shrimp diet to speak for the lost ones any day, Doll.
champers and an orange jumpsuit on me!
Daggy.
Oh, Honey, I KNOW. I don't keept up with my correspondence like I used to. I mean, I have all this TIME, but the difference between now and this time last year is that in addition to having all this time, I've learned how to download the entire oeuvre of Law and Order, I've given up on ever getting married again, and thus human contact is--at best, at times--banal. I mean, Honey, you're special. But let's play the "you vs. Jack McCoy game" for a sec:
Do people call YOU "Mr. McCoy"? Oh, no? Well, it's time to take a long look in the mirror, aka, realize with a seeming new shudder down the back what shame feels like. AGAIN.
Do you never, ever once make a pass at the always never not very thin female DA assistant working in your office? Oh, not you? Well, congratulations on all your sexual harassment suits. And see you in court.
So, the point is, Honey, I've been very very very never not free to contact you while watching Law and Order. But here I am, in Austin, Texas, away from my Midwestern Country for a few days, and I decided to write you and say hello. Hello, Love! What are you doing? Oh, wait, I forgot: I don't care. Instead, let's talk about the fact that my most recent divorce, after a long battle in court to agree to terms, HAS BEEN FINALIZED! Now I can use my most recent alimony to start hunting for my next ex-husband! Shall we go to Rio? Copenhagen? Berlin? I think I'm interested in a count this time.
Oh, but here I am in Austin with all the bearded Texans. Where can a lady get an oil billionaire when she needs one, amIright? Anyway, I barely made it here as there were grave matters I needed to attend to. You see, I've become something kitchy called a Next of Kin for someone known as a Victim according to the California Department of Corrections. I know, what kind of charity ball organization is that?! You see, today is March 26th, 2013, and an inmate in a gorgeous orange jumpsuit is up for parole, but my little, tired, bediamoned pointy finger said oh no, Honey! And I made something called a Victim's Rights Video and posted it to Youtube (first $100 and glass of Tattinger goes to the lucky one who finds and manages to watch all 7 minutes of it!) and wrote something called a Victim's Rights Statement. Now, here's the thing about being the perfect victim's advocate/next of kin, Honey: you need to look, play, and meow the part.
So my lovely, eccentric uncle, the Earl of Creedence, was murdered in a gentlemanly duel when I was just a girl growing up in a castle in Tallinna. My father, being the younger brother to said uncle, was made forever silent, as if under a sleeping spell, from his brother's untimely demise. Needless to say, this intriguing incident brought much color to my already untarnished upbringing! The men who were less gentlemanly in the duel (CHEATERS) were brought to the Queen's justice and imprisoned. However, 15 years later, the first one is up for parole. You see, my father was the next of kin and would surely speak out against the 60-70 stab marks these bastardly fighters lefts in my uncle, but seeing as how the death of my uncle left my father blind with hopelessness and incapable of speaking, he drank his sorrows away, as any rich, untethered man does. But then, to be dramatic in before my quinceanera
So, instead of going in person, which I will do for the most serious offender in 2018, I submitted a glamour shots video where I explain something called DEATH'S UNDYING IRONY. Get it? And to truly drive home how much I want the heads of these men, I'm staying in Texas instead of California, where the death penalty is tre chic. Oh, the death penalty energy I gathered for my video! Of course, when one completes this video, one must be weary of all the pounds gained on film, so I only ate shrimp for a week to prepare for my glamour. And now, sadly, Honey, I bid you ado while I snuggle up to Jack McCoy, the warm electricity line leading from my computer to the wall wrapped tightly around my neck to keep me warm, so warm, so warm that I go cold. But before passing out with my Life Alert heart monitor so that Butler can find me before the end, I loosen the cord a little, because after all, Honey, how can one not be so grateful for the ability to speak for all the loved ones who are no longer, who died when they should not have, who could have made me a little less of who I've become? Shrimp diet to speak for the lost ones any day, Doll.
champers and an orange jumpsuit on me!
Daggy.
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