And to be honest, that isn't all. Certain shades of limelight wreck a girl's complexion. Even if a jury gave me the Purple Heart, this neighborhood holds no future: they'd still have a rope up from LaRue to Persona's Bar and Grill - take my word, I'd be about as welcome as Mrs. Frank E. Campell. And if you lived off my particular talents, Cookie, you'd understand the kind of bankruptcy I'm describing. Uh, uh, I don't just fancy a fade out that finds me belly-bumping around Roseland with a pack of West Side hillbillies. While the excellent Madame Trawler sashayes her twat in and out of Tiffany's. I couldn't take it. Give me the fat woman any day.
Aaron Whyte-Reiss doesn't really believe I love the word twat, but I do. And this is why.
If I post at all in the next month, it will be from foreign ports. I'll have to buy my New Yorkers
off the newsstand. Maybe I'll read the newspaper, or bring along some out of date NYRB to review . . .