…pursemonster

April 5, 2008 at 9:11 pm (Mr Right, Omni) (boxkick, Brian, chat, clair de lune, claire, cocaine, coffee, cool, girls, gossip, insecure, jagermeister, love, lunch, lunch date, mcmurphy, monster, phonecall, POPCORN, publishing, purse, pursemonster, wrestling)

My friend Claire de Lune is in publishing. I met her years ago and watched her rise the ranks from tea-making coffee procurator to Queen … She wears those big black square spex even though her eyes are perfect and likes to think she’s cooler than/dresses better than/has better friends than everyone else. I’m sure you out there in the REALWORLD have friends like Claire. I love her, but hate her in equal proportion. And she’s not the kind of person I can tell how I feel, she’s FAR too insecure, FAR too needing of praise, FAR too fragile…plus she scares the crap out of me. When she says ‘jump’, I say ‘fetch me a trampoline’.

Claire is into cocaine, jagermeister, and POPCORN.

I’m not entirely sure where the popcorn addiction comes from. It’s some from of diet I’m led to believe.

“I’m loosing loads of weight” She says, “It’s just like falling off my bones.”

“Your bones aren’t fat. I think you’ll find the weightloss comes form the sherbertdibdabs you’re walking around inserting up your nostrils.”

“Yeah, but that’s…” Of course now is when she runs out of excuses. We made a pact not to talk about her addictions a long time ago. Suffice to say I’m no saint, but I’m strong enough not to succumb to that shit…at least not in the way a lot of people do anyway.

So back to Claire. Claire is ‘cool’. You know the kind of ‘cool’ I mean. She’s the kind of ‘cool’ that takes effort but tries to look like it doesn’t. In fact Claire’s ‘cool’ is almost like something she keeps in her purse. Everytime she opens it up and looks into it (this happens a lot: sherbertparanoia) I envisage a little man, a little JimenyCricketMan saying, “Buy that. Do this. Say that. Listen to this. Work that. Shake that. Kiss that. Eat that. Don’t eat that. Imbibe this. Spit that out. GO in that store. AVOID that store. Call X. Fuck Y. Opinionate wildly about Z….” He’s a very demanding little PURSEMONSTER called Cool.

We had coffee today at a place Cool picked. We had drinks Cool ordered. We ate food Cool could stomach. We called people Cool liked. We had Cool conversations about Cool places and things Cool liked to do.

Mid-conversation I open up my purse to see if my pursemonster had the balls to point out I didn’t like this restaurant, wasn’t thirsty, didn’t like the people we’re talking about nor had the inclination to care about them… It mooned me.

“Your phone?” Claire asks opening up a bag of Butterkist (exactly HOW that is slimning I don’t know).

“I’m checking on my pursemonster.” I respond with mixedupBillyBibbitcrazy eyes. My pursemonster it turns out is a small pink hephalump called Brian. He thinks I look lovely today in my skinny jeans, white blouse and fat red belt. He isn’t so keen on my earings and thinks I need to get my bangs trimmed. I will tell Brian later he sounds like my mother.

“Fuck, is that what you call him these days.” She laughs, lighting up another long, black, cinammon cigarette following instruction.

She offers me one. I decline. “Call WHAT?” I ask.

Claire smiles. “MR. He not called you in the last hour and you’re getting the sweats?”

“Fuck off McMurphy.” I say. She looks at me in confusion, it’s not usual for me to be so blunt with her, and I wasn’t even deigning to use sarcasm to sweeten the pill. “MR is busy.” Claire introduced me to the other half by the way. “Saturday morning run. He’s Pee.Eee.Arr.Eff.Eee.Cee.Tea.” I say with pride, thinking of those nice thighs.

“You know what. He’s too good for you.” She comes out with. I feel like slapping her. I feel like point out how uncool it is that she’s stating the obvious. Then I remember it’s ‘cool’ to be blunt and bitchy this month.

“Hey, you’re meant to be my friend.” A little bit of sympathy here wouldn’t go amiss. Insert at your pleasure.

“I know. I know. I’m only saying what you’re implying. He used to call you all the time. Like hourly. What’s up with that. You need to sort that out.” Like I DONT know.

“He loves me.”

“Still not called this morning though has he?” She says in a cloud of cinnamon smoke.

Somewhere in purseuniverse my pursemonster Brian jumps out of his pursehome, strides accross the marble table top, through the uneaten salad infront of her, down the table leg, onto the concrete sidewalk over the discarded gum, cracks open her purse and bitchslaps her monster in a very uncool way.

“Oh go D.O.A Claire.” I tell her sarastically.

 

“You know I love you right?” She says in the way that she does. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. You need to do right by that guy.” Brain takes a boxkick to the temple.

“Love you too.” I say as I pick up the cheque, because Love is cool and I’m magnanimous. Plus she’s right, and I’m worried, and I do love her, despite her moments. Brian facebusts her monster, chokeslamming his tiny sweatting form.

MR still not called today. It feels good to talk about it here.