In Which Vivienne … Oh, You Can Guess Well Enough By This Point What She’ll Do.

Vivienne feels shame in writing this entry.  Vivienne feels shame in writing this entry because she knows that no entry, no entry ever, ever written, can ever match the pure magic and wisdom and vision of Zelda’s last post.  For shame for Vivienne!  But for glory for Zelda, Fashionable Zelda of Fashion!  Zelda is, indeed, without question, The Girl With the Most Cake.

As for herself, Vivienne has no Cake.  And Vivienne has, in fact, decided to refuse all Cake.  Though this will make little difference for you, gentle readers, who would certainly not think of dating Vivienne after you have read Vivienne’s Most Private Thinkings, Vivienne must, nonetheless, make this announcement.  Vivienne has Taken Herself Off the Market.  Officially and, for the moment, finally.  Vivienne has wiped all traces of herself from all Internet Dating Catastrophes, and Vivienne has decided to concentrate on what’s really important in life, such as gathering the proper number of cats to eat her face when she dies alone, which, really, she would rather do than continue to try to date the Asshats she has been busy trying to date.

Let’s just take a moment to discuss How This Came To Be, shall we?

Let’s say you are a man.  Let’s say you are a man who meets Vivienne on one of the aforementioned Internet Dating Catastrophe Sites.  And let’s say that you are a man who takes such a fancy to Vivienne that you compose, for her, long e-mails night after night.  You make funny jokes about Twinkies.  You say clever and sensitive things about her eyes.  And when Vivienne offers you The Window as mentioned by Zelda several entries back, you open the window with all of your might.  You are dying to crawl into that window.  You open the window, and take Vivienne out for an evening.  You and Vivienne have a Fabulous Time of Fashion.  You drive aimlessly and see a castle.  You drink beverages, for which Vivienne agrees to pay.  Your topics of conversation vary from the shapes of various United States to world travels to godchildren.  You and Vivienne are Getting Along Like Gangbusters.  And you end the evening with Vivienne with a Most Fabulous Front Seat Make-Out Session of Fashion, after which you tell Vivienne you had a lovely time.  A Fabulous Time.  And you tell her you will talk to her again.  You will call her.  You will see her, definitely, definitely.

Now.

In this case, you would think you would talk to her again.  You would think you would call her.  You would think you would see her, definitely, definitely.  But do you?  No, and no, and no.  Instead, you spend all hours of the day and night trolling the aforementioned Internet Dating Catastrophe Sites for Other Women, in plain view of Vivienne.  You trade witty banter with aforementioned Other Women in plain view of Vivienne on other Internet Social Networking Sites of Catastrophe.  You, in fact, arrange dates with aforementioned Other Women in plain view of Vivienne on aforementioned other Internet Social Networking Sites of Catastrophe, and you arrange said aforementioned dates on days when you told Vivienne, in explicit terms, that you would be Too Busy to See Her.

So Vivienne has had enough.  Enough!  Away with you, Asshats!  Away!  Vivienne is going to sit with her antiques and her cats.  Vivienne is going to relegate her Dating Shirts and Uncomfortable Dating Bras and hopelessly painful Dating Panties to the deep dark depths of her dresser, where they DESERVE TO BE, and where they shall never again be seen by Asshats who Do Not Deserve Them, anyway.  And this, Asshats.  This, Vivienne dedicates to you.  To all of you.  Though you do not deserve the Fashion, the sentiment is right on.

NO TRANSITION, BITCHES!  EXERCISE: FUNERAL, METHODS OF DEATH, EXPENSIVE RAINCOAT, HAT.

Rest your shoulder Peaches and Cream

The car ride being hotair and venting, tissues a wad in the purse’s bottom and the same joke the same when I die bury me at night and have everyone turn off their lights the same well the funeral home would love it bring more business and isn’t that the point of everything, the stockbrokers and broken windows.  O the last time you saw her she looked so much older, her famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder and beneath the fabric what skin could say, what her skin told and taught you.  Lie.  Bury.  Blanket.  Being graveside in warmmist and cloudspit.  Being graveside the stray dogs whose bodies were graves of themselves with ribs grates.  Being one of the dog’s legs raised and pissing against the stone.  Had you gone to the station, had you welcomed each train in, still your face would be blur in her memory now notmemory, now something about a hat’s brim tilted above the left eye and poker cards poking beneath his thumb.  Something of trainsmoke, whistlemelody.  The pills’d be much easier but who can afford them these days, steal them off the hobblers hobbling from the CVS door, vacuum air and sealant, Tylenol and bandage.  Believe and belief.  Living for nothing now, nothing living.  The dog awaywandered and gravestone stillwet.

In Which Vivienne Discusses the Inappropriate Nature of Her Youth

Circumstances have arisen that have led to an odd necessity, this odd necessity being that Vivienne must look through Photographs of Her Youth, particularly Photographs of Her Youth as a College Student, in order to find An Entirely Appropriate Photograph of Her Youth as a College Student.  I admit that I thought this would be an easy undertaking.  Apparently, however, in the years since her graduation from college, Vivienne seems to have Completely and Entirely forgotten what her Life as a Youth as a College Student was like.  Vivienne found one photograph.  She was wearing a black velvet bra and a man’s suit jacket.  This, obviously, was Not Entirely Appropriate.  Vivienne found a second, third, fourth, and fifth photograph.  In all of these photographs, she was holding a wine glass.  Not Entirely Appropriate.  Vivienne found a sixth and seventh photograph.  She was shotgunning a beer in both.  Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate.  Vivienne found an eighth photograph of her smiling pleasantly in a pleasant pink wool sweater.  Vivienne felt hope.  Vivienne looked closer.  Her roommate’s bong was in the background.  Absolutely Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate.  Vivienne finally found a ninth photograph of her working hard at her computer.  Finally!  Appropriateness!  But for the “Militant Agnostic: You Don’t Know and I Don’t Know Either” bumper sticker plastered to the wall behind her left shoulder, not to mention the sight of a shirtless man behind her.  Absolutely Most Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate.  Vivienne now despairs, and thinks An Entirely Appropriate Photograph of Her Youth as a College Student is a non-existant myth.

Which brings us, fashionably, to this evening’s exercise, based on the fourth section of Ulysses, in which Mr. Bloom defecates in the outhouse.  In this evening’s exercise, Viv and Zel have agreed to mention something unmentionable.  Enjoy.

Wanting I think she wants a man who’s got no time for her because she doesn’t want to have time for a man.  Well, maybe she doesn’t want a man.  Has that made its way to your thinking?  The whole morning a fourcoffee haze, slim white grave in the trashcan and outside the evidence of the well-packed pack all smoked and your thinking what doesn’t kill me now may kill me later, your thinking the smoke can do the job I not brave enough to do.  In the meantide convincing theself of living by the cat who without me will have no freshwaterfoodbelledplaythings, she a black prrr in the blacknight.  In the meantide not speaking of the notness to the women who heelthump down hallways, coffeesteam and questions your weekend your morning all right?