Zelda

One night after sharing
a bottle of whiskey
and some pills
with Zelda Fitgerald,
she told me she thought
Hemingway was "phony as a
rubber cheque."

I told her not to give him
that much credit.
He was just a gigantic asshole.

"Bah," she continued
and at this point, I encouraged
her to drink more because I love
to watch pretentious assholes
get drunk and emotional.

So she tore into another bottle
and before I knew it she was tearing
her clothes off and vomiting all over the place.
(Zelda Fitzgerald was a crazy broad, that's for sure.)

Then she told me, "You know, Hemingway's not as macho
as he let's on. It's a show. I've caught him
in bed with my husband."

I convinced her to go public with the truth.

Hemingway and Fitzgerald laid out such a campaign to
discredit Zelda that they drove her nuts,
but still carried on their excursions in Paris.

This period of my life was a treasure.
These writers were all a bunch of troubled
drunks, and I loved
watching them all unravel before my very eyes.

American literates, these are your heroes. Not mine.