Dear Denille,
I have questions and queries buzzing in my head. Queries and questions, questions and queries. Round and round they go.
I’m sorry to burden you with them, but, frankly, I don’t have anyone else to turn to. Under different circumstances I would talk to Earth-Pig Fish, but, as I have explained before, I worry she will interpret my attempts at communication as divine intervention, thus increasing her religious confusion. All I can do is hurl her fish food into the bowl from a considerable distance and beat a hasty retreat.
This is not ideal for her (it makes big splashes) and not ideal for me (I miss her advice – and sometimes the bowl).
Question 1: Why are lawyers in New York very young, intelligent, exceptionally well-dressed and bursting with enthusiasm?
Is it just that they are American? I ask because I visited a lawyer yesterday in an effort to divorce my parents. I made little progress, in part because the lawyer in question was more interested in Property Conveyancing (whatever that might be). Based upon my television viewing (such as it is), it seems you can’t throw a stone in New York without hitting a lawyer prepared to take on a juicy case like the one I presented. My lawyer might have been intelligent, but he was missing the other characteristics (youth, a stylish suit, enthusiasm and United States citizenship). This is not surprising. If he was all of those things he would certainly be in New York, which never sleeps, rather than in Albright, which does little else.
He showed me the door, Denille.
I don’t mean he pointed out all the interesting characteristics of the door (if there were any), but rather that he asked me to leave. I did, after giving him my home phone number should he change his mind. His body language did not leave me feeling optimistic.
Follow-up Question 2: Why do American television lawyers look like surgically enhanced Year 11 students?
Over here, it takes years and years to become a lawyer. Over there, most seem to get a licence to practice when they hit puberty.
It is possible I am mistaken, so please correct me if that is so. Anyway, none of this is relevant. So, better yet, don’t correct, ignore.
I wanted to divorce my parents because they failed to rally round after I escaped a watery death only through a birthday gift of inflatable breasts. I trust I make myself clear. I felt the threat of divorce would focus their minds. This is no longer an option.
Question 3: If kisses are so wonderful, why are they sloppy and messy, and why do they involve exchanging bodily fluids?
I believe you will be a fount of information on this subject because, being American and called Denille, I assume you spend much time at high school lip-locked with football players (and possibly baseball players).
To place this question in context, I should explain that Douglas Benson From Another Dimension kissed me after I escaped death. This was the first time I had been kissed, but, as it turned out, not the last. Yesterday, I went to his ravine, as always, in case he tried to transport across dimensions by throwing himself off the edge. He turned up, which gave me quite a start. In my worst nightmares I see him blurring across my vision and plummeting to oblivion. Instead, he sat next to me.
‘What are you doing here, Candice?’ he said. This was, under the circumstances, a reasonable question.
‘I’m here to stop you killing yourself,’ I replied.
I am addicted to the truth, Denille, which occasionally causes problems. I explained my reasoning.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t jump off the ravine. I promise.’
I was relieved, but needed further information.
‘Why?’
‘Because if I can’t get back to my own dimension,’ he replied, ‘there will be some compensation.’
My last question had been an overwhelming success, so I tried again.
‘Why?’
‘Because I love you,’ he said. Then he kissed me. For the second time.
Now I know that you are meant to close your eyes when a boy kisses you (or a girl, I imagine. I don’t see why it should be gender-specific), but I was fascinated by the close-up of his face, which the situation afforded. I saw his pores, a couple of which were clogged and on the fast track to zits. This wasn’t romantic, as I understand the word. Apparently, the pressure of lips is also meant to be pleasurable. Tingles are supposed to run down your spine. My spine was tingle-free. I checked. His tongue then pushed through my lips. It was large and the texture of certain meats that my mother used to try to get me to eat when I was younger. I resisted it then and I resisted it with Douglas. I am not altogether comfortable with my own spit. Swallowing someone else’s did not fill me with desire.
And love? Everything I have read suggests the emotion of love is so intense it cannot be mistaken. Stomachs plummet. Blood races. Heartbeats quicken. My stomach stayed stationary. My blood plodded. My heartbeat slowed because it was keeping pace with my blood. Obviously I cannot comment on what was happening to Douglas Benson From Another Dimension’s body.
The point I am making is that kissing is supposed to be nice. This wasn’t. It was messy. And that leads me to:
Question 4: Am I weird?
One positive from all this was that when Douglas Benson From Another Dimension had finished trying to find my tonsils with his tongue, he leaned back and a worried expression swept his face.
‘The thing is, Candice,’ he said, ‘I must get back to my own world. I simply have no option.’ He ran his hands over the knobbly contours of his head. Then he lowered his voice. ‘Even if it breaks your heart.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I said.
‘But I will find you – the alternative you – in my world. Is it too much to expect that we could be soulmates across different dimensions?’
‘Probably,’ I replied, but I don’t think he heard me.
‘Then again, we might be destined to remain star-crossed lovers.’
Anyway, as you can imagine, all this was exciting in a distasteful way and I felt I had made a dramatic start to my teens (I have just turned thirteen – don’t worry about sending a card). I supposed this made Douglas Benson From Another Dimension my boyfriend, rather than just my friend who is a boy. There is a big difference, it seems, though I cannot explain it.
But then everything became really exciting.
‘I have a solution for the goldfish problem,’ he said. This struck me as an abrupt change of subject, but that was fine by me. I wasn’t getting along very well with the old one.
‘You’ve made an automatic feeder for Earth-Pig Fish?’ I guessed.
‘No. Much better. A simple solution. I’ll come to your house tomorrow and show you.’
Exceptionally exciting. If Douglas Benson From Another Dimension can pull this off, I’d be prepared to let him kiss me again. I just wouldn’t like it.
Best wishes,
Your penpal,
Candice