I'm vastly bored today. I'm at work. I'm not selling because my co-worker needs the commission more than I do for health insurance. I'm a mensch like that. I don't feel well, really, either.

What I said above though, is true. My mum does think Cat Stevens is going to make a secular comeback. We discussed it the other day. I'm not going to burst her bubble. Cat Stevens going all religion crazy was one of the three major heartbreaks of my life at the age of 19. The other two were being too old to date Holden Caulfield and finding out that Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell were not in fact an item. That last one totally ate my soul. I don't think I've been the same since. I'm still upset about that. And the Cat Stevens thing. Not so much the Holden Caulfield thing, because- although my preference for fictional men has not changed, my taste in fellas has. Somewhat.

Catherine, my co-worker, is a charmingly eccentric French woman- and the only way I have found to accurately describe her, is to say that she's quite a bit like a Tennessee Williams play directed by Ingmar Bergman. She desperately wants everything to be beautiful always and gets frustrated when it isn't so. I can understand that. I want everything to be interesting always and get frustrated when it isn't so. I would prefer things be absolutely terrible and horrible and miserable than boring. If I must do boring things, I must do five of them at a time.

In eleven days, I will have a super cute new Jill Stuart dress. Catherine says it looks "very smart" with my new haircut. I am expecting another present also! The Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay. I'm excited. I've always liked letters and diaries. When I was little I used to read the letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning, and I loved them inordinately so. Although, this, understand, happened before I found out Marvin and Tammy were not an item and I got all jaded and shit. I wish people still wrote real letters. I really do. I think letters are lovely. Everything now is so ephemeral. I will always prefer my words tactile.

The only song I want to hear currently is "Harpo's Blues (I wish I was a Willow)" by Phoebe Snow. In case you saw my, update thing or whatever it's called, that should explain it. I listened to it for an hour straight last night. I don't think it has anything to do with Harpo Marx. I wish I had it at work, but I do not. Catherine and I are listening to Edith Piaf. Which is also lovely.

So a bunch of douche's chanted "Iron my Shirt!" at Hillary Clinton while she was speaking in New Hampshire. Charming, no? I love people. Tell me now how sexism isn't a problem anymore?

I talk way too much. I need to stop myself. It's practically compulsive.

Catherine wonders if I'm not being a bit obtuse concerning my reluctance to try caviar. She says I should only date men who are either over 40 or not American. Because I am too refined. I like her. She is constantly appalled by everything. If something is not "exquisite" or "refined" or "charming" or "fabulous"- it is clearly the end of the world. She "likes man who like woman, you know?" And I do. I think. 

I am going to smoke a cigarette now.