Outlook for 2015

1970sI maintain that I don’t have a drinking problem as much as I like to sit and think about the mistakes I have made in life. And so if you should see me divert to the pub after work every night, that is not alcoholism, that is Soul. If you should spy me at the pub at 11.30 am before my hairdresser’s appointment, that is not a liquor dependency, it is Decadence. If I just happen to know the names, faces and regular shift hours of the liquor store guys and girls, being so used to pop in of a weeknight for a lark, if some of them give me their discounts, and others call me honey, and I have designs on one of them, that is not dipsomania, it is Community. In any case this is the time of the year when people become prone to reflecting. Let us just say I have been Reflecting quite a bit — almost ceaselessly since the first of December, over New Years and up til now, when my doctor informs me I ought to give up the deep thoughts for a while.

That isn’t a set back. I think I’ve finally figured it out. My stated aim for the Year of Our Lord 2015 is to marry a ton of money. I have lived a rather free and feminist life up to this point and that has got me Nowhere and nothing but twenty-gallon barrels of shit thrown in my face. Just lately I have grown rather tired of getting blown hither and thither by unjust winds. You left me last post last year basically hounded out of house and home by a fat sobbing sod.  I had been cast out from Casa Sinatra into an incomprehensible and uncaring world full of swine. I had nothing left but my name and a sugar-pink Cadillac. Where was a girl of such immense beauty and prodigious talent supposed to go after that?

Skipping a bit — I found myself at last at a coffee shop inhabited by chancers, cretins, charlatans, tax cheats and people with names largely composed of discordant vowel sounds, contemplating some watery slop vaguely reminiscent of coffee, while the dough-nuts seemed to be queuing to commit suicide by dropping onto the sticky floor.

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