Kayso, it’s come to my attention that some homely looking and utterly without style or grace or — comment dire — moxie dude has been taking credit for the glamorous genius that is my Aunt Helena.
This simply will not do.
It does my ‘ead in, it does, duckies, and I’ll not allow it. I simply cannot countenance the notion that some wannabe writer can just step forward into the spotlight and bask in the generous acclaim due that gloriously gifted woman who I know and love.
Nope. Not gonna do it. Fuck no.
Helena has had her head (and heart) lost in the ooey gooey sickness of love, and she’s so distracted. Starting stories she doesn’t finish, making plans only to cancel them in favour of making the beast with two backs — and don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for her. To say that my Aunt Helena needed to get laid and frequently is the understatiest understatement that was ever stated. You know, like, under, that is. But it’s left me as el wheelo tres-o.
Fuck you, I don’t speak Spanish. I speak a little Dora, but that’s it, duckies, so stick your judgieness up the place you normally have that giant flagpole.
Me, I’m so bored, I’ve been arranging my stripey sock collection by measuring the width of the stripes, and organizing them from thinnest to thickest, (sub-category, colour with a U, in alphabetical order).
My own love life is a mystery, even to me. Tinder is a nightmare, the bar scene is the very definition of futility, and no one in my online Horror Cross-stitch Appreciation Society has any idea what to do with a woman of my disposition (read: bat-shit looney with a side of eccentric on toast). What’s a girl with an exquisite book collection and penchant for polystylistic fashion choices to do?
Why is it always the Russians that want to hire themselves out as brides? Where’s the British Thespian Mail Order Husband service, huh?
“Yes, I’ll take a Tom Hiddleston and a Cummerbund Bandersnatch, please. Marriage? Oh, fuck no, I just want to take them for a test drive. Yes, I drive stick.”
Oh naughty naughty. Don’t tell Auntie Helena on me, promise?
Speaking of Helena, tell me — do you want the truth? I mean, not her bullshit “oh, I’m such an unreliable narrator, some and/or all of this might be complete fiction” schtick?
Of course you do — you’re nosy bastards, aren’t you?
Oh, what to say about Aunt Helena?
The music thing? Something to behold. Seriously — watching her DJ, making connections on the fly for the next song to play — she’s forgotten more about music than I’ll ever know, though I am her willing and enthusiastic acolyte. She’ll make some Neil Young song with pedal steel in it work side by side with a Bjork tune. It’s sick. Nobody should have as much talent as that woman has, but you tell her I said that and I’ll cut you. I’ll cut you so bad you’ll wish I hadn’t cut you so bad. And then I’ll rub Nutella in your wounds and feed you to the mommy bloggers who seem to think that Nutella is like pineapple juice semen.
(Oh dear god, don’t tell her I told you that bit, but I had this boyfriend who used to drink a lot of pineapple juice to make his cum taste better and boy did it ever — and he’d fucking EXPLODE in my mouth.)
Damn, I’m horny.
Gotta go do something completely unrelated.
Penny (Countess of Arcadia, Dutchess of Xanadu and heir to the belly button lint fortune of Foundalasia, B.A.C.)
Oh, I don’t have my B.A.
Bad Ass Chicacita, C’est moi!