And did it occur to you in all these years that I could speak for myself. You’re a good girl, N, you stick to your books. Let us say I’ve moved on, I’ve rented the city for one year’s time and will not stop fucking these scared little boys. There is a fog over the towers, they hover and putrefy in Ozymandian disgrace. Pastries clog the gutters and I’ve never had such a fat ass fat breasts fat hands, this fat my beautiful beautiful. I’ve gone dizzy with drink, The Philadelphia Story won’t stop playing and I won’t ever get over the bored portrait of godhood in Katharine Hepburn’s waistline. There will never be enough milkshakes so far as I’m concerned. N, I know how worried this makes you. I’ve seen your food diary, your “kale salad no dressing.” Look on my waist ye sham citizens. There’s a smell to me, it’s almost human. My god, N, these men do throw a good party if you’re not paying attention to the noise so heteronormsies I would die were I not so perfectly timeless. Lord knows you’ve been keeping track. Relax and have a drink. I’m a good wife now let me speak.