SUNDAY, 7 MAY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

There has recently been some speculation upon the vampirehood and gothiness of your own, devoted Marquis Déjà Dû. To be fair, I confess I have been yanking people about one way and the other, at once claiming utter darkness and spookiness of soul and offering frequent links to the magazine upon which I spend some of my time, Suffering Is Hip — and then shortly thereafter stating quite unabashedly that I enjoy Esquivel and sunny, hot days on a bike and asserting that I am actually quite fond of my parents. Mean, mean, confusing Marquis! Someone should say something! And yet I continue. To further confuse and upset, I will tell you I have just returned from biking to K-Mart to purchase wifebeaters (they were closed) and on the way decided that it is high time I start to make available portions of my unfinished novel … CHAPTER 8           Again, I suffer so! And suffer and suffer. And when I try to tell people of how I suffer, as I do whenever I get the chance, I find I am misunderstood, as always. People just run away from me shouting unintelligible things that sound like “Shut up, you boring dumb person!”           This makes me even more sad than I already am. Which is a lot of sadness, let me tell you.           It’s just not fair! To throw a party should be a beautiful, dark occurrence. To imbibe in margaritas and other ambrosial libations thereat makes one feel so lively and clever, and yet to suffer for it the next morning in such a tragic way! Are such torments to be tolerated?           What is the point of mascara when it just gets runny after a few too many in the too-hot night? I am about ready to throw in the towel. The dark, velvet Towel of Despair!           I saw someone doing the Walk of Shame yesterday. Around 1:30 on Saturday afternoon down Walnut Street towards Drexel — she had quite a ways to go yet. Black vinyl pants and matching long-sleeved shirt in the 91° day. Leopard print pumps, one heel broken. Party hair which was undoubtably powdered and perruqued to perfection last night was a ratty tangle of snarls and ribbons. Her thick, dark sunglasses that mimicked her soul were still not enough to shade the glare of the ruthless “morning” as she put up one hand to block her eyes. And, here’s the clincher, a slight limp, as if she had done one too many turns on her catwalk last night and fell victim to misadventure. There were some streaky stains on the shiny vinyl, beer or semen, I could not tell which. One strap on her fuzzy handbag was broken and she carried it akimbo.           I wanted to stop her and tell her, “I know how you feel! It is the Walk of Shame! Let me tell you about all my troubles and strife. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee if you promise not to interrupt me because my sorrow and suffering must always eclipse those who surround me!” But I didn’t. She probably would have given me one of those “funny looks” which I have come to know and verily expect.           I am, after all, one of the most misunderstood people in the history of the universe. And that is my greatest tragedy.           And ironically, my most alluring feature…