Am I dead?

No. Contrary to the horrible rumours that bastard Etienne has been spreading, I am most certainly not dead. Nor am I in a Palm Springs mental facility, nor am I overdosed in a Hong Kong opium den, nor am I held hostage in Elton John's London home, chained to his bed.

Very simply, I have been away on holiday, but now, my loyal, salivating readers, I am back. Thank you for your patience. I know this has been a difficult time for you without my dreadful life to compare to your own.

I am sorry to disappoint you, however. All of the horror in my life has been vanquished. Last week was one of the happiest times of my once miserable, gloomy existence. (Well with the exception of a few tragic incidents, see below) Last week I enjoyed a most relaxing vacation in the Oregon wilderness with my lover Bryce and our primate-child Srinivas. Oh, poor Srinivas (again, see below). Bryce and I were staying at the cottage home of our dear, dear friends Rachel and Adam of the folk duo Norfolk and Western. It was a charming country home, dearly appointed with all manner of antique pianos, radios (radio! so very quaint) and furniture. The home smelled of natural scents, animals and pine trees. Infact no more than twelve feet from the front door stood two massive douglas firs in which lived a feral raccoon and her three raccoon cubs (again, see below).

...

My sincerest apologies. I had to take a brief moment to compose myself before I relate the terrible tale of how these bastardly creatures terrorized my dear infant, Srinivas. It was Saturday morning the 30th of July. I was enjoying a sunrise cocktail of Bloody Marys, Alprazolam and video head cleaner. (Don't you dare judge me! I was on vacation for God's sake.) There I was, communing with the mountainous milieu of the Oregon country side.

I daintly (dizzily) stepped onto the smooth river rocks that lined the walking path from the cottage to the gravel road, the only access to humanity, when I heard a faint, gutteral purring from above. I took my blood shot eyes heavenward and among the pine cones and bark of that tree lay a fat raccoon. She lolled with her tiny paws at both sides. Her black beads made contact with my own eyes and I realized that she was nursing three baby raccoons! She was a mother! As am I! ... As was I... I dearly sought to share the wonders of nature with my own child.

I ran to the house to find my tiny monkey Srinivas. I tripped on the door step and gathered myself. I found my darling and took him outside. I was a fool to do so. It took no more than four seconds for my fucking monkey to freak the fuck out and leap into the trees! Srinivas lost his shit, literally. I was covered in poo and the raccoons barked and scratched at my child as he flung pinecones and battled seemingly for his very life. Then my child screamed! He screamed so loudly birds clamored and flew from bushes. I held my ears and my mother's wail wakened our hosts and my own husband (it was four a.m. after all).

They came running to my aid, but it was too late. I had collapsed, sobbing and delirious to the lawn and my dear child, my dear monkey, Srinivas was gone... In retrospect it was probably for the best. The little guy was a terrible nuisance, always using the bathroom on the furniture and he hated Bryce terribly, constantly biting and hissing at him... But still, if I'm unable to nurture a wild, illegally obtained, African monkey, what kind of mother will I be with wild, illegally obtained, African children someday? Sobs!

I was an absolute mess and we were only six hours into our holiday. Bryce put me to bed with my isolation helmet and I slept the remainder of the morning away listening to pre-recorded nature sounds piped from within the hermetic environment of my egg shaped headgear.

My apologies dear reader. I'll post further details of our vacation at another time. Remembering that horrible morning has so very shot my nerves... Where is my Alprazolam?