"There's a reason there so few photos of Marlissa and me," she said. "For Marlissa, the explanation is fascinating, but sad, too. For me, though, it's just ego plain and simple. I'm a proud old broad who can't stand the way she looks, especially when compared to the way I used to look. Ego, pride."
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She wagged her eyes and took a sip of her drink--chartreuse and soda, an exotic liqueur unfamiliar to me. "Name a conceit. I delude myself that it's okay because I admit that I'm vain. I haven't reached the age where my body only embarrasses others. Why advertise what you've lost and can never recover?"
It is a novel, I confess, I have not read (and am not sure I have any interest in reading), but I couldn't keep this passage to myself once I came across it earlier today.
I am still alive-- I won't promise to write for you soon, much as I'd like to, because it seems that for me to make such a vow is to assure several weeks of unbecoming silence. In the meantime do visit my latest diversion the telephone's out of cigarettes, which I can promise is full to bursting with all manner of oddity and spectacle such as inspire your humble bloggess.
I am still alive-- I won't promise to write for you soon, much as I'd like to, because it seems that for me to make such a vow is to assure several weeks of unbecoming silence. In the meantime do visit my latest diversion the telephone's out of cigarettes, which I can promise is full to bursting with all manner of oddity and spectacle such as inspire your humble bloggess.
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