I’m sick to death of writing about myself. I’m sick to death of my writing. It’s one and the same. I can’t write fiction. I’ve tried. It’s just another story about me, supposedly incognito as a brunette instead of a blonde—a bottle blonde, at that.
That’s this week’s excuse for not carrying on with my story about Derek. But really, do you even know or care who Derek is? Some boyfriend I had when I was twenty? Or was it nineteen? Is there a point?
Right now I’m feeling like Richard Harris singing McCarthur’s Park —It could be worse, I could be feeling like Richard Harris in A Man Called Horse, hanging from hooks piercing my nipples.
I usually relish disappearing into my girlish headspace, settling back into the mushy comfort of memory but I’m feeling too old and too cranky to even try. The cosmetics company that lured me into thinking I could erase my sixty two years with their magic cream insists on charging me $85 for a product that left me precisely 62.9 years old and looking every month of it. My ears are plugged, my back hurts, and it feels like the bear from the Revenant is sitting on my stomach.
MacArthur's Park is melting in the darkAll the sweet green icing flowing downSomeone left the cake out in the rainI don't think that I can take it'Cause it took so long to bake itAnd I'll never have that recipe againOh, no
It’s not a complete wash out, I learned on twitter that today is #NationalMargaritaDay. What’s an old girl like me to do but drink to it?
IF you are interested in a boy called Derek, there’s a half dozen pieces filed under the Men tab.