LOVE: Oceans 8: For some foolish reason, Jessica doesn’t appreciate or trust my impeccable taste in films. I don’t often want to go to the movies — I don’t love […]
I have had many sensitive plants over the years, and they are one of the very first things I purchase at the Marché des Fleurs in Paris when I arrive in my beloved city. I have a spindly one at home right now that my cat worships. He loves to stick his face in the plant and watch it curl up at his touch. But this post has to do with another seemingly cognizant plant, the Venus Flytrap.
The best part of learning is that it’s never over, you know, and when you start looking into one thing, you discover an entire world that should have been in your face the entire time.
If there’s one thing that I love, it’s the architecture of the Antebellum South. I think plantations are sumptuous and gorgeous, and I oftentimes dream of buying a crumbling one in Louisiana and restoring it. With what money, I don’t know. I just imagine someday I will have money to do these things that I dream of. One day before I die, I will sip a mint julep whilst lounging on my expansive patio that overlooks an allee of live oaks drowning in Spanish moss.
This turned out to be yet another divine concoction thanks to that wonderful grocery store. Honestly, reader, who would I be without ALDI? Where would I be with ALDI? I don’t want to think of it.
I felt like I was back in Paris. I felt like I was in 2009 again and Barack Obama was newly president. I felt like I was twirling tipsily in front of Notre Dame. I was in Métros and searching for clues about my grandmother’s life along the Côte d’Azur. And Patsy was there. And Eddie was there. And I was never so content.
It came to me in a dream, a gastronomic fever dream. In my mind, whilst dying of what could have been the most severe headache in human history, I saw toasted corn tortillas stuffed with curried egg salad. Upon awakening and rejoining the living, my stomach lurched, and my legs propelled me into the kitchen. After downing about four liters of espresso, I began concocting my divinely inspired culinary creation.
I love movies. I have longed to be working in that magical industry for the most of my life. I never really longed to be a star; I don’t think I’m an actor. I’m too much myself to ever become another character, you know? But to direct or write or design would be a dream. Many years ago, famed and beloved psychic, Sylvia Browne, told me that my destiny was in Hollywood as a producer. The older I get, the more I see that she was right. I mean, I’m not on a direct path to producing by any means, but my diverse interests have led me down some strange paths that could end there.
One of my dream jobs is to work at the British Museum. There is not a role I would not happily do there. I would love being a janitor. I would clean displays. I would do, quite literally, anything. It is my great ambition one day to call them an employer. I don’t love London, not by any means, but I love that museum with passion. I have applied innumerable times in the past, but I have received so many polite rejections that I have given that up.
Those who say that both Hillary and her opponent were equally bad are perplexing to me. I struggle to understand and empathize with their viewpoints. And I think they’re fools. They might not like Clinton, but when you have a choice to choose between somebody who knows what they’re doing and has the cool resolve to lead in a troubled world compared and a hotheaded businessman who singlehandedly keeps the self tanning industry alive, I’m flabbergasted that anybody would struggle making a decision. And when you could literally choose between anybody and somebody who proudly discussed grabbing women by the pussy…how could you make a wrong choice?