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2002-12-06 | 7:58 a.m.

So many things I’ve been wanting to write in the diary this week. What Felony said at dinner Tuesday night, though I’ll never be able to reproduce what made it so funny to me. First she interrogated me on the mechanics of spaying pets, then--in this ridiculous gravelly Satchmo voice--she imitates the hapless sperm bouncing off some stitched-up tunnel: “Now I’ll nevah get this fish, or this egg, or whateVAH it is, to be mah PRIN-CESS!”

And here comes Criminy to say that “that” show, “with Santa and the frozen boy” is on, as if this is something I have been dying to watch. When I say I don’t know what she’s talking about, she says, “Well then come ON!”

Driving home tonight I heard a deplorable country song on the radio about regrets and what you would do differently if you could. The singer ticks off a few things, like he wishes he had told his brother he loved him before he went off to war, and if he had known it was going to be the last time he ever danced together with some woman, he would have asked the band to play on and ON and ON. Then he says, rather presumptuously, that he supposes we all have things we’d do differently.

It occurs to me, not for the first time, that pretty much all of the memories I’d delete involve penises. Other people’s penises. O.P.P. Not so much things I’d do differently as things I would not do in the first damn place.

Oh well. Just going to be some things you can’t undo. If I’d been more of a slut, possibly these incidents wouldn’t pain me so much. Which is a kind of backhanded compliment, I guess.

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