As yet unknown to woman. Still.
Diary, I am perturbed, a sensation as foreign to my tender emotions as avarice, envy or possibly even sloth.
Why entertain I such a distracting tizzy?
Well, Diary, I shall tell you and you alone. And I will do it with my secret purple writing pen -- a treasured gift given by the Lady Lennox on the occasion of my 16th birthday.
It is so much fun, this pen. You see, when you hold it one way, a wayward young lady is portrayed in a cartoon-like state of shameful undress. But when one holds it as to write, garments descend upon her, therefore restoring her dignity. The Lady Lennox said she purchased it for me in a market whilst doing missionary work in Tijuana.
As this pen contains ink, this ink will be my voice, albeit in a darker-purpler hue. (Can a voice have a hue? Will have to drop a stickie in my Musings Box for later.) It's nib shall be as t'were my lips against your ever-accepting page, dear Diary ... which I suppose would be like the mirror upon which I practice that blessed first kiss at next year's Cotillion.
Or perhaps the year following. No rush, really.
My apologies, dearest Diary. I fear that I am a-rambling, and so I will come right and straight to the point.
If my father is King (and he is) and my dear departed mother was a Queen (and she was, as well as an unmitigated Saint), then ...
Why, oh, why does nobody call me Young Prince Malcolm?!
There. Now I feel better. I just had to ask someone, even if it was only you, dear Diary.
Sweet, understanding, two-dimensional you.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Why isn't there a Cotllion scene in this show? Add it.
Post a Comment