I Giggled Out Loud At

It Make One's Mouth Hurt To Speak With Such Forced Merriment.

I'm So Old That When I Started Keeping A Diary They Were In Actual Books, And I Think That's One The Reasons That I've Never Written About Sex. Because Early On You Had To Worry That Someone Was Going To Find Your Diary, So It's Bad Enough To Be Writing Like Joan Didion, But Writing Like Joan Didion About Sex Acts You'd Performed With Somebody You Had Known For 20 Minutes, That's A Bit Worse. So I Would Write In My Diary, "i Met J. And We Had Sex Five Times Last Night." But I Would Never Write About What We Did.

I Had Paid For My Folly And, As A Reward, Was Invited To Take Part In The Nest Builder’s Performance Piece. The Script Was Great. ‘when I Bleat Here, Do You Want Me To Just Bleat Or To Really Let Go And “bleat, Bleat”?’ I Asked. ‘i Feel Like “bleat, Bleating,” But If Mother/destroyer Is Going To Be Crawling Through The Birth Canal Of Concertina Wire, I Don’t Want To Steal Focus, You Know What I Mean?

Hugh And I Have Been Together For So Long That In Order To Arouse Extraordinary Passion, We Need To Engage In Physical Combat. Once, He Hit Me On The Back Of The Head With A Broken Wineglass, And I Fell To The Floor Pretending To Be Unconscious. That Was Romantic, Or Would Have Been Had He Rushed To My Side Rather Than Stepping Over My Body To Fetch The Dustpan.

But I Have No Mind For Business And Considered Staying Awake To Be Enough Of An Accomplishment.