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Monday, March 22, 2004

Looked at the news today, oh boy, oh boy...

Belle has been outed. I wish she had been outed as me, but no, she got outed as some silly journalist from the Guardian (with a less-than-flattering picture) that she obviously is not, and the non-story fizzled out after a news cycle after the evidence was revealed to be flimsier than Donald Rumsfeld on an extra dose of Ambien. ("We know where Belle is. She's in the area around London in England and east, west, south and north somewhat.") C'est la vie. Belle's secret identity is safe for another day.

(disclaimer: not an actual quote. Come on.)

But why isn't everybody looking for MY secret identity?! I scanned the article with my heart pounding, hoping to find something along the lines of "A cursory look at Ms. du Jour's blogroll reveals such stunning sights as the sultrily succinct sylliloquies of the silly slut, Leticia McKenzie. Who is this mysterious masturbating matriarch, and what is it with her and being ground into raw meat? Find out as the Times investigates: The Cunt Caressing Caper!-- or, Curious Cunnilingus Confounds!" (excitedly draws a storyboard on a napkin) What?

But no, no love for meeee, or any of the (far more worthy and experienced) authors on Belle's blogroll. But hey! More publicity for Belle means more publicity for me, which means I can go to sleep at night visualizing "Tainted Love: The Best-Selling Trashy Sex Novel By Leticia McKenzie -- Now With 20% More Come Stains!" from the alternate universe in which I am a superstar and people will pay me thousands of dollars to watch me masturbate.

And you know what? All the sacrifice and hardship it took to make me Queen Whore of the Universe would be ALL WORTH IT because I could go down to Dante's house and, despite him having long, hot sex with his darling fiancee (they never got married, they're always about to, just to spite me) as well as Belle, Brielle, Killbunnie, and every single girl I've ever admired (as a friend! sheesh), sprawled out on the couch and enacting Dante's wildest fantasies (he has a thing for swords-- actually, the Dante Sword Vibrator would be pretty damned cool, just ONE MORE REASON I would make a better life partner than that bitch), I would be COMPLETELY UNAFFECTED by all the sex because I would be in my warm, impenetrable bubble of conviction, with the ability to come in, show him my best-selling trashy romance novel "Naked My Whole Pie Plus -- More than 30 WEEKS beneath your nightstand!" my impending movie deal, as well as my best-selling porn magazine (tantalizingly hidden in a brown paper bag) and launch a satisfying glob of saliva right in his face. (Or... wait. Is a spit just a long distance kiss? Ye gads, I never thought about that.) (shivers)

(And "that bitch" really isn't that bad a person. Okay, so she's a pretty bad person. Okay, so he's only a moderately good person either. I didn't say this grudge was rational. You know how women work.)

(Accept, if you're a man, you don't, and it's best we keep it that way, lest you figure out the pressure points that make us pop open like crash dummies, at which point our remaining limbs are at your disposal the fry up with tartar sauce. Hey! That's pretty sexy. [writes it down...])

So anyway, the purpose of all this nonsense is--what is it--ah yes, Times, I'll pay you 300 squid to out me as Angelina Jolie. Come on. You know you want to.

(Suzy [whisper]: It's "quid!" "QUID!")

But most importantly, I scanned the Guardian weblog (which is all over the Belle story of non-stories) and found no mention of my website (sad; oh, but I'll get over it. Most people like me--that is to say, with a constant, insatiable need for attention--would be satisfied with a LINK from Belle), but I did find mention of her kind cohorts Beau de Jour and Belle de Jew. What?! Why didn't I think of that?! I should've called myself Belleticia de McJenzie! I could have my book deal by now! Curse your brilliance, bloggers! Curse it!

So, in any case, do prepare yourselves to be taken by storm by trashy porn novels with names like "Cherry Pie: A Subconscious Introversion into the Necessary Stakes of Time, But With Lots of Girl-on-Girl Scenes, by Leticia McKenzie, But With Inspiration Given By Her Wonderful Imaginary Boyfriend Steven, Who Had Better Hurry Up With The Goddamned Whipped Cream Already." Ha, ha! There you go! I'll make the New York Times, easy. People will be outing me as Emily Dickinson.

...Or at least, Emily Raisenhauff.

...Which sounds kind of like Dickenson, if you squint and tilt your head.

...Good night.

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THIS JUST IN: Leticia McKenzie is actually a pathetic teenager with nothing better to do than pretend she knows anything about sex! More as it develops.
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