Chimaera

Changing change change.

There's something lovely about the name Moreau, and the name Finn, or Quinn. If I ever become a novelist I shall be Moreau Finn, Moreau Quinn, Quinn Moreau, Finn Moreau. Finn Moreau, I like this name. Beautiful and strong.

I worry that I will go mad; and people already think me verging on the line between sane and insane. A friend read my palm and said I'd lose it completely by the time I was sixty, and she knew of other things that were already true. And it is a terror.

I would like to be one of the crazy clean people; the ones who must arrange everything at perfect angles and spritz twice a day and only eat tuna, spinach and mud pie cake on Thursdays, with styled hair and surprised eyes and large expressive hands. The sort that rules an empire or opens an art exhibition. I fear that I will be the kind that smells of urine and stool samples, who fears the aliens will penetrate her tin hat.

It's times like this that I would like someone to laugh at me and tell me what they think; family can't really, you need a backup.

I wanted to write about a chimaera.