The suicide note of a young Victorian-era prostitute of New York, in its entirety:
Please bury me in my silk dress and bracelets
A simple request, yet what do you think are the chances that she was, in fact, buried in her silk dress and bracelets? The extant record (and this suicide note is the only proof we have that she ever existed) remains silent on the point. Those who sell love are often profoundly alone, never more than in their moment of need.
No explanations, no good-byes, no bequests. Regrets? We don’t know. Perhaps she regretted life itself, and all the rest was simply more of the same.
Did she even know who would find the note? Did she trust that person, was it someone she felt was a friend, or did she simply hope, in her last, most perfectly hopeless moments, that an unknown someone would find and honour the last request of an anonymous whore who probably looked so, so pretty in her silk dress and bracelets?
“It’s crap! It’s fucking crap! It’s double fucking crap!” He ranted at the assembly of overtly nerdy adults and blank-faced children – many wearing faux dark-rimmed glasses and wizard hats – who seemed more perplexed by Bloom’s sub-references than intimidated by his harangue.
“What’s a Northrop Frye?” one school-aged boy with an “I Heart Hogwarts” t-shirt asked his mother.
“I don’t know,” she responded. “Maybe some kind of breakfast special?”
He was taken away in an ambulance, attended closely by officers of the NYPD, but was expected to make a full recovery after a course of treatment at St. Mungo’s Hospital.
In answer to Stiletto‘s inquiry, all I want for my birthday is this:
Well, except for the sock on the jaw. Wouldn’t your life be just intrinsically cooler if everything you said was witty and subtitled, even if it was just in English?
Ah, but who will be my Nicky?
Anyway, that’s what I want, along with dinner at Delilah’s or yeah, maybe Connor Butler (gotta luv a six foot punk rock blond teddybear chef who greets you with “HEY WOW RAINCOASTER’S HERE!!! I mean he actually calls me raincoaster), and a nice bottle of Bombay Sapphire, Plymouth, or the now-discontinued and hence rare Malacca gin from Tanqueray. Oh, and a bottle of Campari and a bottle of Cinzano red vermouth, because those Negronis aren’t gonna make themselves, baby!
That’s what I want.
What I’ll probably get is something more like this:
I must have missed that episode. Tell me, dear reader, would Carrie Bradshaw and Neo not have the dumbest, most perfectly styled baby of all time? Also, if that ain’t Laurence Fishburne, who the fuck is it? I recognize the White Rabbit.
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raincoaster 