Sunday, January 7, 2007


Cristobal told me today that he’s leaving me for Duane. I’ve been expecting it for weeks now. He’s been moody -- one might almost say sullen. Oh hang it all, I will say it. He’s been sullen. I first suspected what was coming when I read his diary, written in a simple letter substitution code. His obsession with George Michael has grown to monstrous proportions. My worst fears have been confirmed.

Duane has become more erratic than ever. He wears a slab of raw bacon on his chest, suspended by a necklace of discarded orthodontic braces that he has knotted together. None of us has dared ask him where he obtained them. I fear it has something to do with the bloodstains in his backseat. The backseat of his car, I mean.

I’ve been thinking more and more about the operation. MediCal will pay for it, thanks to the state supreme court ruling. It's a basic human right to live in the body you were meant to be in. Mercy knows I won’t mind losing the old ball and chain, but my hands are just so deucedly big. I don’t want to be conspicuous in the clubs. I have a forehead you could crack coconuts with, boney as an ape’s -- hardly what you’d call the ideal of classical feminine beauty -- but Doc Svensen assures me that it can be spackled in. I’d hate to have to use a needle every day for the rest of my life, for the hormones, but they tell me there are implants available. Cristobal prefers the suppository form. What is it that's holding me back? I guess I just don't like knives.

Yes, I’m avoiding dealing with Cristobal. I’m such a coward. I was crying on the divan when he came in earlier, and he just flounced by wearing that salmon tafetta and lamme pirate shirt I made for him for our anniversary. Like I was dirt. So I spiked his valtrex with canthaxanthin. He’s turning orange as a cheese doodle at this very moment. That’s how I deal with Cristobal. If revenge is a dish best served cold, call me Birdseye. Wait til he tries to use his toothpaste. I had to buy a special machine, for that little masterpiece. He’ll know the taste -- just not who it’s from. Or should I say “what”.

Mother called from Aspen. Chichi was sucked up into the vacuum cleaner and smothered to death. Mother was inconsolable. I told her to fly to San Moritz for the Coco Festival, but she just wanted to be morbid. Thank heaven for nembutol.

I think I’ve given up on the Jack H character. He started as a joke, but he was such a caricature. I never really felt a connection with him. So mono-dimensional. We’ll see. But I had him do some good writing, for all that his opinions were always wrong. And we can love even our bastard children, sometimes.


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