It’s hard to disagree with you when you’ve so much conviction, and I’m growing sleepy and warm lying the wrong way on my bed listening to your voice late at night. The truth is, I think most of the things people do are full of shit; especially what I do and what I want to do. It doesn’t mean anything, we are all just filling in time until the end comes and only survive in conversation as long as there are people still living who remember us. For most people it stops at their children.
I want to believe you, but I’m siding with Bukowski. I wish I could be a pretty, well-kept and manicured girl but I’m just not. I’m a slob if you’re lucky and just plain cranky if you’re not. I’m always frowning and thinking about stuff that makes me unnecessarily anxious and I just discovered mascara six months ago. I would drink way more and write that way all the time if I could get away with being drunk so often, but I left that behind in London too. I love O’Hara and Buk equally, though I think Buk would have offended Frank’s tastes greatly, or they would eventually grow to be good but temperamental friends with me half-heartedly playing peace maker.
Frank would want to make us a nice mixer while Buk would want to swig straight out of the bottle, cue some choice words and animated eyebrows. I would drink both, to be honest.
I know you think I am great, and good, and can do something meaningful, but I’m telling you…I just don’t think I have it in me; and if do, I talked myself out of it a long fucking time ago.
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