Dismay Disco original notes [6: ver. 1 & 2]

2 Jan 2009     [Highlighted: Dismay Disco Chapter 6, indicating that these are the notes for chapter 6, not the draft itself.]

In old black and white classics there is often a [scribble] main character who thinks he’s charming, handsome and sophisticated. Some [scribbled out: “modest”; “office worker or rich art dilettante with” (scribble) — these don’t make sense because they’re misc. notes] suited professional with cuff links and a full-service bar in the corner of his living room. A dilettante in both art and literature, his library is filled wall-to-wall [left margin, scribbled out: “and floor to ceiling”] with books he’s skimmed and marked. Famous paintings hang single file in his hallway: they’re originals he bought at auction. He always [insert: “carries” above, scribbled out “has” (scribble)]  a glass of [insert: “champagne” above, scribble (possibly “brandy”) below] in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He speaks slowly and with feigned thoughtfulness to ensure that what he’s saying sounds profound, [scribbled out “and”] elegant, and most importantly, sexy. For all of this haughtiness, for all of these chocolates decorated with flecks of gold and served on silk, for every bottle of Merlot, you would be surprised that [insert: “all” scribbled out] his wealth and all this brouhaha are merely a byproducts [the “a” is a mistake; the line formerly read “a byproduct”] of his father’s nepotism and not the reward [another mistake] for years abroad studying his craft or any other genuine source of pride.
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Notes for story codenamed “Lifetime” (20 Nov 2008)

3 July

It’s nine o clock.
My [written above: "second"] boyfriend and his cousin are out prostituting themselves. He told me they were running errands. He calls it this because he doesn’t know that I know where all [scribbled out: "the" above "that"] [above: "this"] money is coming from. He thinks I don’t know that’s not his cousin. That Santa isn’t real. That one day, my parents will die.

I lay on the guest room bed watching a tape of a soap opera I found on top of the VCR and eating pink ice cream I’ve had out for so long it’s melted and looks like nail polish. The carton is between my legs and I’m spread out like I’m giving birth. For the bottle-blonde on the screen, the one actually giving birth, having a kid in real life would be a dream. She’s really forty-five, but on soap operas everyone is twenty-four for at least a decade. The children become teenagers in a matter of months, but the parents never age.
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