Yes, it’s true. My father is remarrying. I literally can’t believe it. I cried and I screamed and I threatened, but he won’t listen to reason. The bitch who’s manipulating him into this atrocious act is a dental hygienist named Sabina. Her ten-year-old son is called – I’m not kidding – Elvis. I can’t even focus on vetting the publicity team my publisher is putting together to promote my book. It’s so like Daddy to ruin everything for me.
“You’ll always be my little girl,” he told me when I tried to convince him that Sabina was an objectionable, East European skank. That’s well and fine for him to say, but where does that leave me when he dies? Did you know, that even if he wanted to, he can’t disinherit the faux redhead cow under New York law once they get married? Isn’t that insane? I am frantically looking into other state laws on the subject, in the hopes of convincing them to move. My only other option, of course, is to stop the wedding.
My future ex-husband is looking over my shoulder and informs me that I can’t write that I “literally” can’t believe something that I know to be true. He’s such an asshole sometimes. He’s lucky that he drives a Cabriolet.
And worst of all? Tonight we have to go to Lysette’s house in some place called Kew Gardens. She said she’s written some poetry, and she’d like to show me some now that I’m a writer. She asked us not to bring wine because her boyfriend is a recovering alcoholic. And they’re vegetarian. I can’t even muster up the energy to be sarcastic about tonight. Please pray for me.