| OCR Text |
Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 55 Anyway, as you've no doubt observed from the sloppy handwriting - I'm feeling no pain. I think I've discovered the answer to my twice weekly drinking binges. Instead of getting drunk, or wringing my hands, calling long-distance, or making endless lists (oh, I make all kinds of lists, budgets, plans, etc.) I'll write you instead! As it happens we bought a lot of stamps, so until they are gone you may get a bunch of dribble in the mail. Dear, dear Jenny. She drinks too much. Jenny came to Hollywood at nineteen, a year older than I was. Her hair was red, her eyes dark brown, and her cheeks dimpled. I thought her very beautiful. She thought her nose was too large. "It's my father's nose," she used to wail. We shared a furnished apartment of horrid small rooms with orange furniture and dark prints of roses on the walls. Sometimes we talked all night long, whispered to each other things we had never told to anyone else. We understood each other, and as we grew from children to women, the ties between us became stronger, the friendship mellowed. "Life is shitty," Jenny informed me when we first met, exercising at the ballet barre, sweating, stretching tight back |
