I’d like to get onto a train, just right now. To spend eight hours in a train car, fsck in the toilet a man met on the spot, and arrive (completely exhausted) on the oceanside. Where I’ll find a big mansion expecting me, filled with furniture and audio/video equipment and computers and food (well, maybe not computers: after all, while we’re at it, I might as well try and make a real break for once). And two retrievers (one golden, one black—which I’ll name Pinky, of course, for those of you who remember what I posted, like, a week before) and a few friends, or a husband. Well, a soon-to-be husband, because there’s no way I want to begin this vacation by fighting with my husband about a supposed intercourse with a stranger on some train.
I just want to go on a holiday. (But not by plane, it’s too constraining, and I don’t feel like getting strip-searched at the airport, it’s never been my fantasy, thanks for the offer.) I really must get myself to win the lottery now. Or make friends with an old eccentric countess who’ll lay me down on her will (and only on paper, hence the necessity of her being a female aristocrat). And, as a bonus, that option will also automatically provide the mansion and its private beach. All the pieces are coming together now.
Imagine that the woman who was watching me as I wrote this text down on my notebook in the subway didn’t imagine for a second that she was in front of the garoo. Actually, it’s just as well. Having to start signing autographs in the subway would be terribly embarrassing, and I don’t know if I’d dare.
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