Stuffed on goose. Too much mulled wine， and still furious.
I suppose Harvey thinks that keeping this diary will help soothe
my constant angst， the ennui that haunts me when I envision
the ghastly void my life might be， were it not for Fashion. If I
couldn t do headdresses as well as Mr. Rinaldo does hair， I d crawl
under a shrub in Jersey and die. ! mean， really. I try to explain
this to Harvey， but nothing. He tells me there is more to life than
Fashion， and I tell him， \"O yeah， name two things.\" Mr. Rinaldo
knows， though. When he s doing my hair and I glance up in the
mirror and see the total attention he pays to detail， the swift little
way the comb wisps at my hair， I know that he knows what I
mean. We re artists， plain and simple. Harvey， he s just a C.P.A.
O， it s fine for paying the rent and buying accessories， to be sure，
but when it comes right down to significance， Harvey is a total
zero. Like Christmas eve， I get this huge package and I m just
sure it s that wool sweater with the red angle stripes across the
chest that I craved soo in the window at Barney s. I must have
dropped a hundred hints if I dropped one. So I tear open the
package， and what do I find? This! That s what I find. A goddam
leather-bound diary with a gold key to \"keep my secrets in，\" as
Harvey puts it. Secrets! Well， my only secret to you Harvey is
that I hate this diary with tears in my eyes. I want Fashion. How
many times do I have to tell you? I m leaving you， Harvey. There，
that s another secret. I m planning to run away with your boss，
Mr. Finster. I murdered the cat and put her through the Cuisinart.
How s that for secrets?
I wonder how many other gorgeous younger lovers have the
problems with their older lovers that I have with Harvey? Trying
to be au courant and getting just no help
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