One of the things I will never do (like us all) is the Tango with Al Pacino. But this scene gets me every time.
Sometimes I wish I had the guts to say I don’t want to get old, I don’t want kids. I wish I could sell up and have a week at the Waldorf Astoria at Christmas. Blow out one last final time. Eat lobster and drink Cristale champagne (i’m not capitalising it because it’s probably not so good. I’ve made better in my soda stream with cheap white wine. For reals.) Have a suite, eat croissants for breakfast. Shop for clothes I’ll never wear and things I’ll never use. Buy presents for my dear ones and send them express post. Isn’t it better to go out in style than just furrow away, thinking about adopting more cats, never living up to your or anyone else’s expectations, dying alone with a cat eating your face?
I like to think maybe I’ll do this one day. That at some point I’ll have enough equity (and drugs) for a week of hedonism, ending in a peaceful retirement from the world. I’d miss books and music and poetry, but I’d doubt they’d miss me.
I’ve loved poetry and literature as much as it is possible to do so. My greatest disappointment is that I couldn’t write anything worthy of the authors I worship. But, c’est la vie. I could regret but that would be pointless and stupid and would serve no purpose.
So, I am. And I shall remain so until someone else tells me to fuck off. Also, I’m going to learn guitar, so you can all get stuffed neighbours I don’t like and especially the woman upstairs I suspect of having some kind of cottage industry going on in your apartment. There’s only so many times you can drop things (like spindles or such) on the floor and make noises like whittling until 4am without me getting a) irritated and b) annoyed to the point of dobbing you in. Oh god. I AM LIZ LEMON. Shit.