Since writing is such a chore, and since today began, once again, too fast on the heels of yesterday, and, most persuasively, because this speaks truths about me upon which I cannot possibly improve, I present you with another wretched online test. Last one, I promise, and I am a gentleman of the most irreproachable honor.
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See, that wasn't so bad, now, was it? P**t's (FiDi) today was sombre without the merry, inane chuckle of CNZ (ycleped "N"), whose tallness, the redness of whose hair, the blueness of whose eyes, the gregariousness of whose demeanor, the loudness of whose laugh would, if they were not eminently observable and verifiable qualities, condemn me as an unimaginative second-rate auteur. N is one of those real people who nevertheless seem like Forster's criticism of Dickens's characters: not so much fully-rounded and heavy with flesh as cut from card stock and shaken cleverly enough that they seem alive. Terribly pleasant and extroverted, of course, which only makes me snarkier around him. Also very good at thrift-shopping, wearer of fabulous shoes [remember this detail. --ed.], possessor of "mannerisms." Secretly, I adore him (cleanly) but publicly I don't want to encourage too much mateyness with fellow P**tn*ks; I feel my friends are, in general, enough of a cauchemare to deal with without having to make any at work. Nevertheless, he won the biggest cookie the other day -- I'm on my way out of the shop, glazed-over from lack of sleep and looking forward to some pasta and a long nap. N offers to make me a drink; later, when I reach P*rt*r Sq**r*, I discover five half-ground coffee beans at the bottom of my caff� macchiato. As he's foaming the milk, though, he leans over conspiratorially and says: "they're all POT FIENDS at P**t's!" I nod. He's quite correct, hyperbole notwithstanding. "I bet you played a lot of Dungeons and Dragons when you were a kid," he ventures. "Yes," I lie, since it's not worth the effort to explain that I don't like games but love the gamers. "And," he hisses, leaning even further over, "I think I know something else about you..." I look at him in mock-shock for a fraction of a second, then level my glance, crimp my eyebrow, and retort, "takes one to know one, darling..." All very covert and splendid, very "Gay New York". Despicable as it is, there's something very classy about that closet. [Is he? Naaaah. --ed.]
Today's Proustian Bargain: (A new segement of the Hystoria, in which your author rides a wild tangent into his past) File under Creepy Stationery Faux-pas: my ex, RL, the day before we broke up, decided to give me a little present, presumably because he knew the way he spoke to me couldn't make me love him, whereas he hadn't tried bribing me yet. The present itself was of that most unfortunate class of objects the materials of which are precious and independently beautiful and the design of which is unbelievably grossi�re. I would much rather have cheaper materials more artfully constructed. Usually when I dislike a prezzie that intensely it's a good sign that I should put the friend down immediately and walk backwards until I reach the door. Anyway, the ugly owl bookmarker was neither here nor there. Even the inscription of the card, which was unspeakably oily, is inoffensive compared to the shivers I get when I think about this: he used my stationery. Not from the exact box I bought shopping with him a few weeks beforehand, which would have been a less-calculated offence, but, rather, paper in precisely the same pattern. I suppose it's a tribute of sorts, but stationery is so unimaginably intimate to me that it was like he was wearing my clothes and signing my name on my cheques. Given the context of the D�mmerung of our relationship: to wit, that I felt, mutatis mutandis, that I was too young to get married ("to somebody so stupid and so simpering," I shall restrain myself from saying), it was the last in a line of unmerited familiarities. That was over a year ago, now, and I've only recently felt like I could use those lovely note-cards without feeling RL's heavy hand on my knee. Ugh. The cards are lovely, though: very Louis XV.
Now that my parents are gone, I should probably return my household Lars to his usual shrine above the red r�camier-of-ill-repute. Lars, in this case, is a sullen-looking German Intern Boy at Jane Magazine, and in the picture he is modelling the Pussy Snorkel. He is my Lars (my subscription to Jane, you see), so he will go with me to his new lararium in *rl*ngt*n; the Di Penates of the Queer World, cantankerous and dirty little dwarfs that they are, are staying put, gr�ce aux dieux. At the moment, he's half-hidden by a rock-star poster on my wall, so I can only see his shiny forehead, the part down the middle of his long braun Herr, and the flailing tubes of the lady-bits-snorkel. Perhaps, now that I think about it, I'll just leave him there until I move.
Damn. I slept from three until eight today. Now I'm alert and ripe for an evening's dissolution, but it's almost two in the morning and everything in this impossible town has gone to bed. Perhaps I'll just pour myself some vermouth and find some raunchy gay chat. Yeeeeesss; when nature longs for culture, I long for people who can't spell describing their penises.
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Current music: M-A Charpentier's Messe de Minuit sur des airs de No�l.
Current obsession: The moralistic sentences in antique copy-books.
Current plans: To see Fellowship of the Ring despite all my hesitations, since I love going out to the movies with the SW*L kids.
Currant buns.