“How are you feeling, Lola?” Mary asked me, smiling. “Getting better!” I chirped. Which is, you know, true and also not true. I am sure on some cellular level the frightening antibiotic I’ve been given is working; after all I have to keep it in a ‘cool dark place’ and there’s a plentitude of yellow warning labels plastered to the container so obviously it’s the good stuff.

However, on a not cellular level I feel just as crappy as before. Mostly because I have a sort of extreme shortness of breath and the sort of dry, hacking cough actors employ to portray a grim death-by-consumption.


searches four

Another round of searches, fair readers (and the perhaps inevitable troll hiding in your ranks).

1) movie “hard bitch daycare” (Oh, so we’re talking about porn. We are talking about porn now, aren’t we? I wanted to believe it was an unreleased Sarah Jessica Parker vehicle.)

2) at it (Well, sure, why not. You don’t have to explain yourself, internets.)

3) if everyone naked (Probably more the result of entry-level philosophy than anything else.)

4) hd xart (No . . . idea.)

5) naked at daycare (This happens daily, definitely. Only it’s little kids and it involves poo.)

6) “hard bitch daycare” (You people are insatiable. I wonder, do you stay and read? Or just recoil in disappointment and move on?)


“I didn’t mean to,” I told her, sitting down at the table and slumping forward, head under arms. “He pushed me and I pushed back – and he shattered.” I sighed. “I can’t say I’m sorry because I had no other recourse at the time, but I can’t say I’m happy with the outcome, either.”

“He was out of control.”

“I know.” I closed my eyes underneath my arms. The world felt muffled. “It was like tit-for-tat but suddenly it was tit-for-armageddon. He said he didn’t care if I left. He said he’d be better off without me anyways. How was I to know he’d . . .” It isn’t like it’s easy to leave when you’re not wanted, either. I kept my spine straight and my chin up but being told how quickly and easily I was going to be replaced – it reduced me to a commodity, an object, a thing.

“That he’d what?” she asked.
“Oh, I was thinking.” I pulled my arms off and stretched.

“You had no way of knowing that he was going to lose his shit over you to the extent he did. God, Lola,” she looked me up and down, “What is it that you do to these men, anyway? It’s like they can’t function if you’re not in their life.” I shrugged slightly. I should feel flattered, right? Look at you, Lola, driving men so very literally mad out of love. Only I feel a hole in my solar plexus because, well –

“And I told her ‘Why the hell would you want that,’ because why would she, right?”
“What? I’m lost – told her what?”
She sighed. “I told her that it isn’t a good goal, to emulate Marilyn Monroe. Why would anyone want that? To be greatly desired is horrible and actually lonely because everyone wants you so much they don’t even see you as a person – I mean, look at you. And you’re no Marilyn.”

I smiled, for the first time that night. “No, I am definitely, definitely not at all a ‘Marilyn’. She was the best at being Marilyn.”

mocking turtle

I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I thought briefly of Scarlett O’Hara but dismissed the thought as engendering drama – or at least not being adverse to it.

I’m going to see him today. What does it mean? Well, I knew I would have to see him eventually – legally, at least. Before your thought-trains go past points which bear recalling, you probably haven’t been in this situation before. I never said, after all, that I would see him ‘in court’ – I only said legally.

Eventually I’ll get to the point that I won’t need him, but – golly gee whiz! – that seems like ages from now.

My voice doesn’t sound like my own voice when I speak and my writing doesn’t feel like me. I feel like the mocking turtle in Alice in Wonderland, infinitely disconnected and always at a loss.

fat oscar

“You’re like Oscar Wilde,” a friend once told me “You haven’t got any family, so there’s nothing to hold you back.” I considered. “Oscar Wilde had a wife. Children too.”

“Okay, not Oscar Wilde – the other one. The fat one.”

“Fat and named Oscar?” I asked.

“Or Duncan. Um, you know. Ate ten avocados at once and an entire ham. Fat bastard. Funny as hell.” I shook my head. I knew of no such Oscar, and said so. Lou was exasperated with me – he insisted I loved this fat Oscar. “You saw that movie of his that time.” I still shrugged. I was beginning to get a headache. “Do you mean John Candy, maybe?”

“No! Huge movie . . . Citizen . . .”

“Oh no, really? ‘Citizen Kane’? Orson Welles?” “Yes! Yeah, that dude – Orson Welles. You could be like him.” He paused for a moment, thought. “Hey, how’d he die, anyway? He’s dead, right?”