2003-05-06

It�s pissing down rain, and this morning my CD selection was The Boatman�s Call by Nick Cave. Honestly, it�s a wonder I didn�t string myself up with my bootlaces as soon as I set foot in my cubicle. Count your lucky fucking stars I�m not writing free-verse poetry about the dank black well that is my soul or some shit. Fuck. If I get any more depressed I�m going to start channeling Ian Curtis.

All this �working for a living� crap is really trying my patience. I want to be one of the Victorian idle rich who spent their entire lives indolently puttering around abroad. I want to live on a generous annuity left me by some well-bred relative, consulting my Baedeker for the best season to spend in Athens and insisting that I absolutely MUST winter in Florence because the climate is beneficial to my delicate constitution. I want to wax poetic about the sophistication of Italian Renaissance art, and in the next breath declare that I simply CANNOT abide the hedonistic ways of the papist locals. I want to be presented to minor royals at tiresome society functions, and commiserate with my fellow debutantes about how truly vexing it is not to be able to get a potable cup of tea ANYWHERE in Venice.

Until that happens, however, I must console myself with the thought that I should be visiting New York in the next month or so, if I can find a relatively inexpensive mode of transport. Any Diarylanders down there want to show me a good time? C�mon kids, step up to the plate if you think you can keep up!