They are so noticeable. People swimming past them, gawking as they splash by.
The floater just floats. Questions float up to the floater.
Why are you just floating.

“Did you hear? She’s decided to float.”

“What a shame, and with two daughters.”

“No the daughters aren’t floating. Just the mother.”

“I heard daughters were coasting.”

“That’s even worse.”

I was amazed at how much they read. I said it aloud and the table got quiet.
No one asked me what I was reading. And it isn’t there job to ask.

So I told them. I am reading Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, and perusing old National Geographic magazines.

More silence. 

I know it isn’t me. These people know me. The host doesn’t just invite anyone to her dinner parties. I think I just jumped in at the wrong time. Like the hosts new kitten, hopping onto the well-appointed table to take a swipe at the lamb and roasted vegetables.

I do. It is my calling card. It can either lift me up into the stratosphere of popularity–however short as it takes to have my friends eat it.
Or I can go Vegan and let the tofu version sink into their stomachs before revealing it’s true dominion.
Ah, just eat the damn pie and shut up.

I get to tip big and ride to museums. I just discovered the painter Delacroix. Where has he been my entire life. Well last night he was at the Met. He’s been there for awhile but it doesn’t count because I had never seen him.

And my the first painting I saw of him made me weep. I won’t tell you which one. But you’ll know and you’ll see and you’ll say “Doesn’t do a thing for me,” In which case I’ll never want to speak with you ever again. Especially if your that friend who texts me from Miami to gloat that they are in Miami for Thanksgiving.

Relax, Binda. I’m of course not talking about you.

Windra Thrope was a seven year old girl who lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue.

More than anything wanted to know who her father. There were rumors about him, mostly from her drunk mother who claimed he abandoned them before Windra was born.

Kids believed a lot of things. But that did not stop from wanting to meet her father. Someday. One day, when her mother was drunk she heard her mother speaking on the phone long distance to someone named Milkie, which she thought a strange name.

Little did Windra know that Milkie would change her life.

And where to do you want to go?

Nowhere. Just here is fine. For now.

I like the surroundings, the air, my bed, my chambers, furniture, toiletries, refrigerated items.

I like listening to people laugh and plan for the holidays. I like knowing that I have arrived, for the moment. Not standing still, just here. That’s fine.

The sound that your mind makes when you are speaking and you know you’re just making shit up. Trying to sound intelligent or just wanting attention.

I know that sound. I listen to it more and more. Baderps get louder around this year, competing with other noises of the Holiday Season.

When it hits me: I have a very, very good life. No joke.
I have a great boyfriend. Great friends. I’m spoiled rotten.
Now, time for ripening.

All indications are that the committe for which such accidents are relegated to have already made their judgement. I am guilty of making a mess.

Still, I want a DNA test. I want due process.

I want a chance to tell my story to any Network that will have me.

It’s piling around you, like rabbits. Scampering items that are hard to categorize or prioritize or shred. It’s time to clean out that closet.
You find a pair of Louboutins. They are juicy shoes: straps of suede, studded with baubles, bleeding bright menstrual red on their bottoms. Alive and glowing.

How the fuck did those get there?
Oh right: You have stolen them. Well, since they are stolen, you might as well try them on, but they are too small for your manly, hairy feet.
So you have no choice but to treat them as Tonka trucks. You crouch down on the floor and have them chase and crash into each other. Speeding shoes.
The police get involved, tell you to pull your shoes over. You are asked to show identification. You are busted.

You have return the shoes to their rightful owner. She shows clemency, she forgives. She invites you over for brie and apple tartlets. This is you Binda. You are so forgiving.