Rose Red and Snow White, matriarchy only turns to shite.

Well, I have overate stupendously today. Not as stupendously as is possible, but I'm fairly stuffed currently. To assuage the consumption of fifteen hundred calories before half past eight in the evening I think I shall write a little story.

There was once a girl. Who could have anything she wanted, anything at all, except she had to overcome one thing to reach that insurmountable obstacle...

I don't know.

Maybe I should write the story I always write. Of me and someone else, of them seeing me as I'd love to be seen and falling into their arms. That is stupid and pathetic, yet I glean comfort from the cyclical and reassuring nature of it, reassuring myself that someone could see me as pathetic as I ever was and still want to touch me or put their arms about my neck. But then again, everyone is their own hero, or heroine aren't they? I hate being a peripheral character.

One of my friends is writing a book. She is very clever, and she knows she is but her book is lacking something. It's easy to criticise; I don't write novels, so I should shut my teeth. I certainly lied through them; well, one must be appreciative of creation. Why should that be? Isn't destruction important too, of things like fascism and racism? Destruction and creation; diametric opposites irrevocably linked, that's probably why sex and death are linked as well. You have sex to create children so that you won't die completely; I know that isn't what it's about. I suppose its also about grasping that one moment of the sublime in all of the moments you haven't got, so that you'll make the stand against the rest of the world falling away with that one momentary flame. But I think that the poetry of it, the desire and everything else... is ultimately because we don't want to die. And not wanting to makes it all the more imminent and necessary, sex and death, because you can't live at a high octane forever.

Anyway, my friend's book. It's about a woman who knows there is something wrong with her all along, and falls in love with two men. So who is my friend? The woman, her rich and inventive husband, or the perspicacious and ultimately favourite, the artist lover? It is a plot that is obvious. Maybe this is only because I know what will happen. I think she could be... the woman? Yes. She wants to be... clever, unknowingly. In the tendrils of thought that slowly hitch onto pride, I think the woman she describes is one of our mutual friend's many girlfriends; her heroine is tiny and pliable to patriarchy. Really, I'm surprised she wrote something so generic. Unless she wants to be pliable to patriarchy? I can see her book going down in the annals of pulp fiction churned out by chick lit lovers everywhere... but we'll see. One never knows do one?