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Thursday 21 October 2004 | I like a cookie
So I’ve read all Mandarin’s lovely posts, saturated with cinnamon porridge and stealthily removed lawn furniture (who knew Madeleine Albright could be so funny?! what is she, the stand-up SOS?); and while it’s good to know Dr. Melfi is human and not the uber-the(raped)ist, still—still. I can’t believe Mandarin is being Rolfed AND therapized all in one blissful day-off bolt.
It being the Young Monk’s birthday, and him having an effeminate weakness for dressing-up, I’ve just bought him two thrift-store silk neckties (Oscar de la Renta which claims to be “couture,” but this must be sheer nonsense; and Ralph Lauren) which will match his normal coloring but not his new one with dyed black hair I fear. They are shades of delft blue and gold, not too narrow, not too fussy, not too plain, I hope. Honestly I’ve never bought a necktie for anyone besides myself.
I believe Rafe Fines will be a perfectly lovely Voldemort. Though he will never replace Snape in my profoundly twisted and disturbed affections.
Mandarin’s (admirably brief) surge of diatribe against it’s-too-depressing-I-don’t-want-to know reminded me of an evening long ago while I was still dating the neonatal-unit Social Worker. We were watching world news in her Western Mass apartment, with some attendant photography of dusty severed limbs scattered across a third-world dirt road, motherless children and childless mothers toting automatic weapons, this kind of thing. She screwed up her face and shuddered and refused to watch. And I became bizarrely angry. This isn’t a movie, this isn’t a gross scene in a stupid summer slasher flick, this is real and these are humans and you have to look at it because you’re implicated in it. And I remained bolshy and self-righteous about it for several years afterward—years which have in fact probably only ended today as I type this and sigh at myself.
I am terrified of moving in with another boy and having to adapt to his whole schedule and sleep rhythms and needs and wants and everything. I am stunned with the purity of the grief I suddenly feel for M. (who was part of an LSE presentation for the Cabinet last week and didn’t even tell me; but why would he, I walked out on him), and yet, at exactly the same time, I really don’t want to be with him. I think this would be less catastrophic if I could eat and/or sleep and/or get limbic with someone. But right now it’s all nausea and biliousness and laughing at something in a book and then as suddenly weeping, my Beautiful British Boy will someday buy a house in Kew or Richmond or South Kensington and remarry and I will—I want to say “die alone,” but that’s too histrionic even for me. Amazingly enough.
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