Sorry to have worried you. Sorry to have caused you to conduct impromptu memorial services in my name and to cry over empty six-feet-deep holes (sexxxy) and ash-free urns and to sob inconsolably as big black ships crash into the rocky shores of long-forgotten Mediterranean coastal towns and to start charities and scholarships and lingerie lines in my name. Sorry to have made you apologize in your nightly prayers for all the wrongs you’ve done me and all the names you’ve called me and all the diamonds you never mined for me or pearls you never unoystered for me.
I am alive. I am here. And I’m kinda queer. So get, you know, used to it. And love it. Love me. Oh, please, love me!
I was in Brooklyn for a week, dogsitting the ever-adorable Lola. And as everyone knows, they don’t have the internet in Brooklyn. So blame Brooklyn for my absence.
Tomorrow, I resume my regular hilarity.
Thanks for your concern. :-*
Wherein I end your worrying