Why on earth you can't have your cat back is... well I don't know what it is. Unfair is what it is. How long has Liz had her, a couple of months?
Drear Diary
In which I weigh up my relationship options, by which I mean, I return to passive aggressive whining about why David, who doesn't measure up and sickens me with his foie gras eating and dirty ways, didn't want to throw me up against the column when I was young and fair. Because that's easier than taking some responsibility for my own feelings about him NOW.
Is it because I didn't HAVE a column back then? Is David really just in this for the column and the cashmere and the gold Dunhill lighters? Is life better without David and his inconsiderate procreative tendencies, and with more room for product placement? VB VB VB? What does he see in me now I am old and haggard? Why didn't he want me when I still had breasts? Is he a latent homosexual? Is that why he loves to bite my bottom? Or is it simply that he knows my bottom is gluten free and won't upset his coeliacs like the bread he piggishly insisted on eating while we drove from the South of France with my wedding finger still bereft of adornment? Does he simply want to devour me? Lord knows I would not be very nutritious due to my decades of anorexia which once saw me hospitalised on the end of a drip. Though I am at least grass-fed. If only I could convert David properly to veganism I wouldn't have to worry about that, at least.
I suffer from such low self-esteem because nobody ever told me I was pretty as a child. That is why I wanted to become a model, because everybody knows models look like aliens in real life. It was a horrible wakeup call to me to realise that I could not even be a model. One of the friends I always claimed not to have, but that I now admit to, told me I should just accept that I look like a perfectly normal human being, neither hideous nor stunning, but neither of these is acceptable to me you see. Years of malnourishment both cultural and physical left me with only one option: to be extraordinary.
Oh Dreary it is so draining to be extraordinary all the time! I have had to work so hard to cultivate my bile, you really have no idea. Every day I immerse myself in woman-hating media just to remind myself of my failings, so that I can lash out at someone. Anyone. Anyone at all! You, over there! You look like the carefree girl David aged 31 went off to play squash with 30 years ago, a little, if I squint. I blame YOU. For it all! ALL OF IT!
And then there is my family. You have no idea drear Dreary how fortunate it is that I am profoundly deaf. That ensures that their quiet middle-class expressions of gratitude go unheard. It makes it much easier for me to reveal their alcoholism and other failings in public. For that is not what an ordinary person would do, you see. No. It is the act of one who is extraordinary.
Extraordinary. Yes, I am that. That, I have achieved, though the upkeep is neverending. Worse than the plucking of my beard and knees. But David. David. Where I am extraordinary, David is... merely... extra.... ordinary.