Gatsby and Daisy

I hope she’ll be a fool — that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

I decided I probably need to come clean (with you the reader). I’m not really the people hating hermit I’ve probably portrayed myself to be in my first few posts. A female curmudgeon is never attractive. I definitely work hard and without being self-proclaimed, my friends and colleagues will tell you I am a workaholic. But I play hard, very hard. When I’m out with friends or lovers it’s like I become someone in a Fitzgerald novel (all his characters loved pearls too by the way). The martinis flow (or wine, or whatever else floats my fancy), the music is loud, and the conversation is a bit intellectually stimulating (and if it’s not, I’m likely to yawn and move on or excuse myself to powder my nose — ha! I love that phrase.). I did mention I’m Irish? Somehow in these moments, usually in the dark of night I become prolific in my thinking. (Probably why I try to write mostly at night b/c whatever I crank out during the day seems sub par in comparison.) Or maybe I just think I sound prolific.

And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Mornings after these evenings are usually described as “epic” and require copious amounts of hydration. And then there’s a curious question as to why my mouth tastes like dry cotton, my hair smells like smoke, and I’m either in last night’s dress or no clothes at all. Now don’t worry dear reader, I am not an alcoholic. I’m Irish. There’s a difference (or at least we tell ourselves there is). Libations are part of living. And without them, we tend to be cynical. But with them, life is Gatsby-esque. It’s a whirling circle of sounds, color, and laughter. It’s an orgy of cacophonic words. It’s poetry you write in your head but can never remember after a night’s sleep. Or the text for a novel that slowly dissipates word by word before the sun rises.

As you open your eyes, tasting the left overs of last evening, you smile — smirk actually. And then you realize it’s morning. And you’re not Daisy. And Gatsby is an illusion. And Fitzgerald was a genius. And a drunk. And Irish.

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