drunkencynic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the dead ophelias write the worst romance novels ever Here's a fairy tale for you. When Elena and your clever drunken protagonist were around twelve or so they started a story. Not just any story, no, a novel. And it was a novel novel, since they passed it back and forth via email, adding bits and pieces then forwarding it to the other to continue. Flash forward to present day, when you charming drunken protagonist is looking for something light to read. She passes over Les Miserables, shakes her head at Richard III, and comes across The Story. Cleverly typed up and set into book format by Elena, it's an alluring draw. Said protagonist picks it up and begins reading. And laughs her fucking ass off. We start with Anna, whose name endures many evolutions including Anne, Annie, and finally, Abba (my favorite). Her charming hero is called Vincent, although for some odd reason his moniker is fond of often reverting to Victor. Abba and Victor survive what seems like billions of setbacks, including (but not limited to) jail, gunshot wounds, hospital matrons, and most importantly, several passing infidelities. It's the summer's must-read. Don't be left out of the crowd! My favorite line occurs when Anna is forced to choose between cut and hunky ex-husband (despite her being only eighteen- and that's an improvement, since she started out sixteen) Mark (whose name also has a strange way of turning into Mike), and cut and hunky new long-suffering boyfriend Vincent/Victor. "Please, let me sleep in it," she begs sincerely. Ah yes, it's chock-full of lovely little gems like that, including, "Listen, Anne, it's not a fairy tail!" and about twenty billion references to Vincent's 'sweet/spicy masculine smell' and his 'icy cold fiery blue sapphire eyes'. :) Oh, dear, I just love making fun of myself. I could go on for hours. Apparently Maddy (one of the twins from the play, the not-Ian obsessed one) is playing opposite JR in the Christmas play. She gets to kiss him. I say 'gets' because she's truly madly deeply in love with him, or so she thinks. She calls him 'foxy'. Anyone who uses the word foxy should be locked up and never be allowed near the opposite sex. But she gets to kiss him. Harrumph. Elena and I are starting a band called 'The Dead Ophelias'. So far we have the singer (me) and the drummer (Elena). So unless we want to sound like an even more stripped-down White Stripes (artsy!), we're in the market for a guitar and bass player. And possibly a pianist, as well. 12:23 p.m. - 2003-10-19 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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