I don't know much about being a millionaire, but I'll bet I'd be darling at it.
Ms. Dorothy Parker said or wrote that. I might have to agree with her. I might be pretty good at it, too.
Brevity is the soul of lingerie.
Ms. Dorothy Parker said that, too. And isn't she right?
Ducking for apples - change one letter and it's the story of my life.
Oh, that Dorothy.
I don't care what is written about me as long as it isn't true.
I suppose that's one way to deal with criticism.
Mrs. Parker was quite witty. She was also really depressed a lot of the time. Sometimes I think I'm too depressed a lot of the time. Then I read her poems and short stories and realize that I am a sparkling, happy, chirping bird singing in a tree and annoying the hell out of her.
I thought I'd pass on some of her poems. She's a writer I both admire and find worrisome. She's so clever, so smart, so funny, so unhappy. Can I pick and choose what I want to emulate?
Oh yes I can. Dotty's on the case. And in the meantime, here are some of her poems showing how clever, smart, funny, unhappy she is. Just watch me! I'll be the best of those things and leave the unpleasantness behind!
But Mrs. Parker is funny now. And here we go.
Anecdote
So silent I when Love was by
He yawned, and turned away;
But Sorrow clings to my apron-strings,
I have so much to say.
Inventory
Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.
Four be the things I'd been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.
Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.
Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.
Symptom Recital
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.