01.29.2005
07.26.2001

Dear Delayne,

Today I stole 18 shades of lipstick, all crimson variations from the Estelle lauder counter at Dillard's. I walked in a stunning black silk dress with white polka-dots, mostly tasteful, smashed my hands through the glass and reached in. I expected an alarm to ring, but none did. Five heavily-made-up women in black swirly tunics watched me in silence as I left. It was, all in all, most unsatisfying. No one appreciates the difficulty in being a kleptomaniac; after all, what am I going to do with 18 tubes of lipstick? Sell it on the black market? Export it to pale-lipped Russian women? It's all very useless, sometimes. My therapist says it's a cry for help, like walking an imaginary poodle about with me. But Waddles doesn't shit all over the carpet like my parents' dog does, or even if so, it's invisible shit--much easier to clean up. It's not a cry for help; it's a whimper of boredom. And one can only smoke pot for so long, and coke is expensive....and speed is just for trash.
This morning my lover got up early, finished the last bottle of non-diet root-beer, and drowned himself in the neighbor's Hot-Wheels kiddy pool. His pockets were all weighed down with sleeping pills and silverware. The neighbor's brats swam around his body; their mom found him when she went out to do a diaper-check, though personally I think it was terribly irresponsible of her not to be watching them earlier. I wonder if he died with piss in his mouth.
My sleeping pills have lost whatever slight edge they
ever had over my insomnia, and I've taken to supplementing
them with bottles of Corona at bedtime. The house is littered with
them, which is rather embarrassing for someone who
always prided herself on her taste in vodka and branded
white tequila. Then again, I have also been known to
happily down Jaeger on the slightest provocation. And the
last of my blue crayons snapped in half today, just as I
was trying to colour in all the sky pictures in my
flower book, and that should be enough to drive
anyone to drink.
Tomorrow I plan on walking waddles around the used
car dealerships that line Main street in Mesa. He likes
to pee on hookers and chrome, and God knows that's a
city with plenty of both.
It's too late for any of this to be amusing. I've never
had a birthday tiara in my life, and my fingers will
never know how diamonds feel. Next time you must
direct me to write a more cheerful letter, as I've
depressed myself past the usual remedies, and I'd at
least like to be contrary.

Wanderingly,
Scarlett DeVille