Shut the fuck up about my diary! It´s. My. Diary. I write it and I say anything goes.
I´m a gay man with a gay lover and it´s the first time I´m at his place. He shows me the kitchen. The dining area -- he´s got a diiining aaarea! The living room. And then, when my mouth´s all dry: the bedroom. ”And here´s the hobby room,” he says as we enter and his bed is a homemade composition of aluminum pipes dressed in black leather. ”The stuff scenographers use on stage,” he says, ”it´ll carry anything.” And I love him even more when he shows me the swing he´s made from seatbelts. The guy´s a stellar handyman and he´s got this ability to never lose focus on what´s important in life. I spend the rest of my days naked in that swing between four aluminum posters, and do you know; that´s all it takes to make a man happy.
A cake. It´s my birthday and I want a cake. ”Let´s get one with orange marzipan and a chocolate spider,” says the daughter. ”We always have one of those.” No, I think not. This is the first time in ten years that I get to celebrate something resembling a grown-up birthday because the son, with whom I share my birthday, has already had his party so I´m not reduced to witch-mom-who-live-only-to-serve-big-bunch-of-Halloween-dressed-kids-who-crave-scary-food-and-clever-treasure-hunts. I want a cake that thinks it´s royalty. I want fancy dark chocolate, sculpted cream and meringue with perfect texture. And I want to be Marie Antoinette when I let it melt in my mouth.
This and phone calls. Search your minds; have you phoned me today to sing and cheer and say you love me and are in awe over my brilliant existence?
My grandson is named after the greatest Swedish director of all times and he´s painfully cute. He gives me a necklace that he´s made himself from an old spoon and I immediately take off my favourite one, the El Día de los Muertos–one with the dancing skeletons, and put his on and I feel blessed. Truly blessed.
I´m rich. So frekkin´ loaded you wouldn´t believe it. In the mornings I take out my favourite horse and go for a ride, I only ride Icelandic horses, that´s how eccentric I am, and her name is Stjarna which means star. We go up the mountain hills and down, the dogs running happily around us, shitting all over – oh, the smell of healthy metabolic systems! I´ve paid someone to train my horses to pick mushrooms for me, so every night I come back with loads of yellow gold; chanterelles that go into a stew suitable for kings and gods. I eat it and I chew and I laugh, chew and laugh, ch nd ugh
Okay! Let´s finish this off with a poll:
I´m heavily sedated/bored/equipped.
Your guess is better than mine.