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Description
Hello, Journal. My name is Lady Forbes. This is the name I respond to- I don't remember any other. It was awkward in kindergarten, but since then I've found that my title bestows a certain dignity to my person, infuses me with some elusive grace. This is the only place that I can be truly honest- my reputation (a socialite, as you've undoubtably concluded) does not allow for the broadcasting of my personal thoughts. My friends are not really my friends, they are more "connections"; even my husband maintains a frosty distance. I used to fear that he was unresponsive to me because my devastating beauty intimidated him- now I know that a tragic gardening accident rendered him permenantly "disfunctional", if you know what I mean. Viagra can't solve his problems- he's got no equipment to work with. You'd think he'd have mentioned this before our wedding night, but he feared losing me, and it honestly never occurred to me to ask if he had a penis. I'm a rather inexperinced woman, naive to the workings of the world beyond my wealth, but I assumed it was a given. I self medicate with alcohol (a woman has needs- the booze drowns them out). What else is there to do than inhale cough drops by the dozen, invaluable for disguising morning breathe. A lady must keep up appearances, after all. I find it particularly amusing to carry on political discussions with friends when I'm drunk. They find me quite insightful, and are all too lady-like to question me when I tackle unsuspecting guests and tear off their underwear. Wearing it on my head provides my imitations of political leaders with a unique and distinctive flavour. By now you've formed a picture of me- a gorgeous, lonely woman- no friends, dickless husband, chronic drinking... (God only knows how I maintain my flawless complexion). It's difficult to carry on- the only thing preventing me from giving up completely is my subscription to "The Alcoholic in YOU!" (Great recipes!) Gardening also eases the ache of loneliness, though my fragile blossoms can do nothing to ease one infinitely more shameful and persistent. How titillating to recall that the very action of plunging hands lily-white and unmarred in their idleness into rich black soil and nurturing my precious greenery with all the devotion of a loving mother is the same one that stole from him my husband's manhood. In that way I feel more married to the earth than anyone. At least my relationship with my garden has been consummated with an action more satisfying than the pressing of lips, shrivelled in their self-loathing, to my own sadly neglected mouth. How shocked my frilly comrades would be to hear me now, spilling my proverbial guts to the world with no thought to preserving my spotless reputation. They'd find me quite perverse, denying the mind-numbing cave of their repression despite the mold that has taken up permanent residence in all their nooks and crannies, though personally I believe pancakes to be much more perverse than honesty. Seriously, what rational human being would eat CAKE for breakfast, and drowned in syrup nonetheless? Sigh... if only there was someone, somewhere, who could sympathize with my situation and make me feel less alone, who could distract me from my life, or at least provide me with some high-quality mood-altering drugs... yes, it's hard to be me. I've begun to fantasize a pet monkey, affectionately coined "Gopher". I wasn't bothered by these hallucinations in the least, actually began to depend on them for the unflagging cheer they provided, until the incident in which I chased a little girl with the misfortune of being exceptionally hairy down the street, pelting her with chunks of corn-meal and shrieking "Goper!! Gopher, my love!! DANCE FOR ME, DARLING!!" Thank goodness she tripped on a stone and slid screaming into an open manhole, but still, I was quite shaken when I came to my senses! I had no clue that sexual deprivation could lead to such madness! *sigh* Any suggestions on escaping this cycle of manic psychosis would be gratefully received. Wait a moment- do I honestly expect this sheet of paper to respond to my desperate request?? Who am I to dismiss the unexplainable? Paper could very well have some excellent, intelligent suggestions for me! If not, I could always fold them and wedge the crisp squares beneath my arms to absorb my deliciously fragrant, fleshy juices... Ladies do not sweat, they seep.
Sincerely, Lady Forbes

Description
Hello, Journal. My name is Lady Forbes. This is the name I respond to- I don't remember any other. It was awkward in kindergarten, but since then I've found that my title bestows a certain dignity to my person, infuses me with some elusive grace. This is the only place that I can be truly honest- my reputation (a socialite, as you've undoubtably concluded) does not allow for the broadcasting of my personal thoughts. My friends are not really my friends, they are more "connections"; even my husband maintains a frosty distance. I used to fear that he was unresponsive to me because my devastating beauty intimidated him- now I know that a tragic gardening accident rendered him permenantly "disfunctional", if you know what I mean. Viagra can't solve his problems- he's got no equipment to work with. You'd think he'd have mentioned this before our wedding night, but he feared losing me, and it honestly never occurred to me to ask if he had a penis. I'm a rather inexperinced woman, naive to the workings of the world beyond my wealth, but I assumed it was a given. I self medicate with alcohol (a woman has needs- the booze drowns them out). What else is there to do than inhale cough drops by the dozen, invaluable for disguising morning breathe. A lady must keep up appearances, after all. I find it particularly amusing to carry on political discussions with friends when I'm drunk. They find me quite insightful, and are all too lady-like to question me when I tackle unsuspecting guests and tear off their underwear. Wearing it on my head provides my imitations of political leaders with a unique and distinctive flavour. By now you've formed a picture of me- a gorgeous, lonely woman- no friends, dickless husband, chronic drinking... (God only knows how I maintain my flawless complexion). It's difficult to carry on- the only thing preventing me from giving up completely is my subscription to "The Alcoholic in YOU!" (Great recipes!) Gardening also eases the ache of loneliness, though my fragile blossoms can do nothing to ease one infinitely more shameful and persistent. How titillating to recall that the very action of plunging hands lily-white and unmarred in their idleness into rich black soil and nurturing my precious greenery with all the devotion of a loving mother is the same one that stole from him my husband's manhood. In that way I feel more married to the earth than anyone. At least my relationship with my garden has been consummated with an action more satisfying than the pressing of lips, shrivelled in their self-loathing, to my own sadly neglected mouth. How shocked my frilly comrades would be to hear me now, spilling my proverbial guts to the world with no thought to preserving my spotless reputation. They'd find me quite perverse, denying the mind-numbing cave of their repression despite the mold that has taken up permanent residence in all their nooks and crannies, though personally I believe pancakes to be much more perverse than honesty. Seriously, what rational human being would eat CAKE for breakfast, and drowned in syrup nonetheless? Sigh... if only there was someone, somewhere, who could sympathize with my situation and make me feel less alone, who could distract me from my life, or at least provide me with some high-quality mood-altering drugs... yes, it's hard to be me. I've begun to fantasize a pet monkey, affectionately coined "Gopher". I wasn't bothered by these hallucinations in the least, actually began to depend on them for the unflagging cheer they provided, until the incident in which I chased a little girl with the misfortune of being exceptionally hairy down the street, pelting her with chunks of corn-meal and shrieking "Goper!! Gopher, my love!! DANCE FOR ME, DARLING!!" Thank goodness she tripped on a stone and slid screaming into an open manhole, but still, I was quite shaken when I came to my senses! I had no clue that sexual deprivation could lead to such madness! *sigh* Any suggestions on escaping this cycle of manic psychosis would be gratefully received. Wait a moment- do I honestly expect this sheet of paper to respond to my desperate request?? Who am I to dismiss the unexplainable? Paper could very well have some excellent, intelligent suggestions for me! If not, I could always fold them and wedge the crisp squares beneath my arms to absorb my deliciously fragrant, fleshy juices... Ladies do not sweat, they seep.
Sincerely, Lady Forbes