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262 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 20, 2020
“I spend my days staring at the wall and fantasising about disembowelling my cat as an offering to whatever bitch goddess has been organising my life lately. I am so depressed that if I could motivate myself to it I'd commit suicide, but it's too proactive for me.”
“Hep then named an hourly rate which made even my overinflated self-indulgent subconscious blink, and between the emotional blackmail of being reminded how much I owed Denis, the memory of my empty cupboard, evocations of the pitiful dead kid, and greed, I was persuaded—provisionally, with confirmation to be given once I sobered up—to give up my career as a call girl and become a detective.”
“These days, I was so deprived that I didn't trust my impulses. Anyone warmblooded, intelligent, and healthy, interested me. Even some people who weren't.”
“I didn't have much of a life. In a traditional narrative, the subplot would have intervened by now. Another friend with another problem. A kooky, loveable family. A liking for gourmet cooking. A workout at a gym with a cute hunk after my ass.”
“He was now too valuable to give away, kill in a fury, use as a plot device, or even call a rude name.”
“In a traditional narrative, or a movie, there'd be at least a montage of drag club scenes, if not an unbalanced amount of time devoted to a semi-prurient, semi-anthropological survey of the scene for the armchair voyeurs. I can't supply it.”
“I had to interpret their pronoun that way, because I couldn't believe the other option, that they were politically aware of the gender-critiquing diorama played out in the choice of of high-camp female tropes to create a topos of female construct confounding actual genetic sex and backgrounded against issues of orientation politics, and had chosen to use the semantic signifier to indicate recognition of the radical linguosocial statement inherent in the transvestism of queer/drag. No. They didn't seem that complex; they seemed like old-fashioned thugs, not at all post-modern.”
“Clearly clothes did not make the man. Or, in my case, the heterosexual.”
“He smiled. This guy didn't grin, he smiled. He was a cultured fellow.”
“I guess that qualifies as an excellent subplot. Come to think of it. Which I hated doing; it made my head hurt. Clichés abound, and I wanted to refuse the rags-to-riches one.”
“"Let me get this straight," I said "well, not straight, but let me be sure I understand this."”
“Leaving my living room full of detectives, not one of them with a fucking clue. Not that I was any better. My clues weren't fucking either.”
“"But now what?" she said. One of the existential questions. I certainly didn't know the answer.”
“"Zat is terrible" (You get the accent, right? So enough with the zeds already.)”
“Apparently fraud is like speeding only more so—lots of people do it, but very few actually get caught.”
The process was more like divination with entrails. Except, because I can't afford a new cat every time I have a life crisis, I leave the entrails in situ. It did have something to do with entrails throughThis is the MC describing using the cat...as a sounding board. Who could resist?
...because I couldn't believe the other option, that they were politically aware of the gender-critiquing diorama played out in the choice of high-camp female tropes to create a topos of female construct confounding actual genetic sex and backgrounded against issues of orientation politics, and had chosen to use the semantic signifier to indicate recognition of the radical linguosocial statement inherent in the transvestism of queer/drag.This bit is actually a tension-reliever - read it in context to laugh and feel awed, too. Who can even put a sequence of words like that together!? And still make sense. PS - The MC used to be a social worker, so it works coming from her. But it is so tongue-in-cheek!
No. They just didn't seem that complex; they seemed like old-fashioned thugs, not at all postmodern. (Ch 52)
