Who is Kate Burns? I don’t know, darling. I never knew her as Kate. What I do know is the day Lady Lane turned up on our doorstep, everything went to shit.
From day one, she was trouble. Thorn in my side, cloud to my silver lining. Which isn’t to say I didn’t love her, baby, don’t get me wrong, I loved her. I did. But I also loved booze and blow and bearded boys on bikes, by which I mean, you know, I’d always loved things that hurt me. When I was a kid, the boys beat me bloody in the bathrooms for being so feminine, and you know what? I didn’t mind it. I wasn’t a masochist; I just liked the affirmation—at least I was coming across the way I always saw myself. As a girl. When they called me a faggot, I shrugged. When they called me a girl, I blushed. I was! I was! I was!
Oh, you want me to talk about Lady? Sure, I guess, but know that you’re hearing the wrong story, because, baby, I am a hell of a lot more interesting than her.