Word has it that I am a cold fish and paradoxically that I have a preternaturally large libido. It depends upon whom you ask. James, were he alive, would attest to the former. Michael Pemulis, John (N.R.) Wayne or virtually anyone else would contest that (if it did not mean imminent expulsion for them and statutory rape for me) and label me as the slatternly sluttish latter. What is the penultimate erotic reality of one Avril Mondragon Incandenza? I wish I knew. I doubt that I exist in any one particular carnal niche. Fifty Shades of Grey got nothing on me. I exceed all sanctioned boundaries, but lapse into none. I am my own person, balancing whatever I deem necessary for personal gratification and propriety at any given time.
So what if heel prints in my approximate size are visible on the interior of someone's windshield when the weather turns humid and foggy? Can anyone really pin those heel prints on me, as if tracking some sort of prey? And why would this turn anyone's head, anyway? We all have our dirty little secrets, do we not? (Do you read me, dear Orin?)
It has been said that I was seen wearing a green and white cheerleader's costume and performing a full-on split while a near-naked student was in my office. What utter nonsense! A woman my age could no more perform a full-on split than a mere youngster could titilate me. Obviously the unnamed observer of said incident had consumed some mind-altering substance and confused both of us with some other adventurous, wild and crazy couple. I assure you it was NOT me sporting pompoms and John Wayne in a football helmet, athletic supporter , socks, shoes and nothing else.
Some have even gone so far as to suggest that I am involved in incestuous relationships with my very own son and my very own adoptive brother. To that I can only say, You Go Girl! By that, of course, I mean go away, you silly females who would besmirch my prestigious unsullied name. Oh yes, you know who you are. And be advised I know who you are. (Do you read me, Joelle and Millicent?)
Forgodsake. Get over your puritanical morals, already. We live in Subsidized Time now. If what we do in the ETA offices (with or without doors) does not incur the wrath of our corporate sponsors, it should not offend anyone else. And now I must prepare a lovely dinner at HmH for my dear young sons Mario Love-O and Hallie the Genius, neither of whom give a feral rat's ass what their mother does, so long as she affords them the same rights.
(End of Entry)
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