the little minx's diary: the day, the night.
(previous entries) (email the minx)




3:47 PM *
"Be good to yourself, be good to others, and be sure that the people in your life are good to you"

(Brunch in Toronto)


12:01 PM *
get obsessed and stay obsessed. this, i can respect.


10:18 AM *
I believe that American politics is marvelously self-correcting. We go left, then right, then back again. It's never pretty at any single moment on the course. It's much like rowing with one paddle, in that it's possible to get to any destination, given a frantic back-and-forth motion. It is maddeningly inefficient when one is attached to efficiency as a goal. When I step back from that attachment, I am reminded that Democracy said nothing about efficiency, and the balance in the exchanges becomes apparent, and I am whole and complete with it.

Yet a part of me, today, on this day of a president's funeral, is stuck remembering a denial of AIDS until 1987, years of inaction that directly led to a generation's demise, and that part of me will only speak good of the dead.

"My mother told me only to speak good of the dead. Joan Crawford is dead. Good."
Bette Davis

[thanks to boyfriend for verbatim quote]


6:28 PM *

yes, i made the cover.


11:55 AM *
Eric Bana shirtless.
Sweaty beard and biceps
totally working.


9:27 AM *
Boyfriend and I were at DTPM. Like most European clubs, everyone seemed to be having a great time. Lots of drugs everywhere, but none of the sad, unsmiling, New York megaclub tragedy that I associate with clubs back home. This place was multiculti, polysexed, and jumping. Besides, they're all my anglo peeps.

We watched as the young-rich went away from the bar with buckets of ice and champagne bottles, little-stepping their way through our little dance territory, elbows up, trying to keep the flutes from spilling out with the ice. I searched boyfriend's face for the story he was recalling: a set of dim memories from when he was living here, working for a large bank.

Music throbbed and pumped. Lights were colored.

“That was you, wasn't it?” said I, stating what he already knew I would say. As usual.

“When I lived here, money lost all meaning for me.” His tone was edged with resignation. Although he didn't want a drink, I could clearly see lingering in the corners of his words a tiny bit of past excess. No regret there, but a long journey had been made nonetheless.

You'll please remember the very first words my wise friend Carl said to me? One man's meat is another man's poison.

Boyfriend's past excess, his poison, is my meat. I long for this experience, something cutting enough to teach.

Money lost all meaning. How fucking gorgeous. “That's exactly what I want, but for opposite reasons.” Of course, now I see they are not so opposite.


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