The parental unit has arrived, and I'm a bit nervous. I am disapproved of. They think, considering that their daughter will be Twenty tomorrow, that I am becoming an embarrassment. Plus, I have a tendency to binge on the christmas tree chocolates once a year and the idiot doesn't posess the initiative to blame it on herself. I am a martyr to the cause.
Year of the Ox, am i right? A whole duck was consumed, fingers got very sticky, and stomachs began to hinder movement. On the whole, a most satisfactory affair rendered even more satisfactory by Wes Anderson. The idiot and friends couldn't think of a Chinese film which wasn't anime, and apparently Lost in Translation would have been racist. Contrary to popular belief, I am an ambiguous imaginary friend at heart and would have welcomed a touch of Scarlet on a Sunday night. Next Sunday anyone?
The reading for this week's American Literary Identities lecture was Hemingway and Fitzgerald, and the idiot was greatly affected. She has decided to assume the role of Hemingway when it comes to one or two of her friendships. Those Fitzgeralds out there need a kick in the shins. That's what she thinks, don't slam me. The parallels are tenuous; the Fitzgeralds in her existence are not alcoholics, and she is a Hemingway who can't sustain prose for longer than a page. But whatever, I can't think. There is middle-aged white noise interfering with my thought processes. I am surrounded by people and am on someone else's computer, and they are yawning with meaningful looks in my direction. I better stop.
A quick note on the impending birthday:
The idiot does not want to grow up. She does not want old lady beards, bunions, or arm flaps which have to be kept in place by laundry pegs. As I said, though, she's an idiot. I quite fancy senility. I am going to get fat. I can develop the physique of a pin cushion, and she can be the spinsterly writer with no money and alot of knitting. It shall be glorious.
Goodnight loves,
Consette x
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