Thursday, 25 June 2015

Gregoire Delacourt, author of The List of My Desires
Grégoire’s Delacourt’s The List of My Desires is the story of a woman who wins the jackpot – 18 million euros. How would you spend that much money?
You could get:
An island. A facelift. A diamond. A Santos Dumont ladies watch from Cartier. A hundred pairs of Louboutins and Jimmy Choos. A pink Chanel suit. Pearls, real pearls, the kind Jackie Kennedy wore, oh, wasn’t she just lovely?

Maybe you should get yourself a nice man. I mean, we are nearly forty. If we don’t meet a nice guy this year we’re all washed up. And if he isn’t nice? If he is a man with balls but no brain, whose ignorance is vast and possibly tragic?

You could end up being very unhappy, suicidally unhappy. In which case, don’t rely on advice from your friends. At least not your Facebook friends.
A young girl wanted to die. She told her 237 Facebook friends in advance, and no one reacted: What did you say?
In any case, think carefully, about how to kill yourself. There are many options. For example:
Throwing yourself off a railway bridge as a train is passing. You couldn’t miss and there wouldn’t be any pain. Or: Cutting the veins in your wrists. Because there is something romantic about that. The bath, the candles, the wine. My body would slip down, my face would sink and I would drown in dense, comfortable liquid red velvet; like a womb.

Maybe there is no need to go that far. A diet might solve your problems. Just don’t do anything radical. You lose weight and become a hard woman, colder, more angular, like the grieving heroine of The List of My Desires: My merciful curves melted away. The ice was taking shape, and it had a cutting edge to it.

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