I missed a commemoration of my late friend, but finished up my Sex and The City rewatch this weekend. Which might seem like an unfortunate snapshot of my headspace as we enter this new year, if I’d started out with any hope whatever—I would have had little enough if Harris won—your country shoving you aside for enough years does kind of mean that you disappoint Journey and “stop believing’ “but I guess I needed some fantasy to get me through the last few weeks.(And it’s hard to be a woman this age with a lot of stuff that you “couldn’t help but wonder” and not have Carrie with you in your heart, sometimes, however tarnished the rescue-fantasy ending now seems or because your own lady-posse may love you but they’re not exactly…yours to command. Or, you know, all ladies.)
I wanted to do it one last time—even with the acknowledgement that it’s sort of like giving your brain a lot of pretty pixy-Stix, in case Comstockery truly does have the floor in this country and I’m not quite tech-savvy enough to get it from Canada or Germany or wherever pre-Handmaids will get our hands on naughty shit (a strong possibility since I have not started streaming HBO yet.) I wanted to pretend that I could watch JD Vance throb with pain, and maybe something else he could lie about for his next book, as I contemplate Samantha Jones coming so operatically and wonder for the eighth or tenth time:
Whether a: That’s some bullshit that hardly ever happens—no offense to Kim Cattrall who almost makes me believe it. 2. I’m kind of a quiet comer, either by nature or because I never can stop thinking that people shouldn’t know what I, or on super-rare occasions—think Ling-Ling the panda—we might be doing. Or 3. Nobody has really rocked my socks yet. Or D: All of these. (All of us Scantron babies know that when you’re really confused, D is a decent bet. Right?)
I feel shy about posting that, but in the spirit of making resistance naughty this time, I’m going to, and not just because I don’t have a kid to point to and be all “No fair…she’s going to have fewer rights than me—that’s some *bull*shit.” Even though, yes, it is, but that’s not my experience. I’m not exactly at peace with my experience, either, but word-power is like other power: Use it or lose it. At least, I’m not Melania, or Usha, or with any of the male podcasters who thought that Cardi and Megan were lying because they never felt one before, if you get my drift. Which brings me back to my very quotable friend, gone these ten years already—although if we could just go “ollie, ollie, oxen free,” or something they say in Jamaica and get her back, this would have been a decent decade to skip, being that it sucked and all, but the finality is the hardest part. Anyway, she had frequent droughts and reminded us to always feel good about the awful folks we never slept with.
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