I’m supposed to be quoting a certain The L Word script and asking you all if I’m Alice. But I thought I’d quote a different episode and make a statement about how I feel about my life and my art and this whole fucking fairytale.

So, from the episode Lacuna with my favourite character, Peggy Peabody:

Peggy: Did anyone happen to see the surrealist show at The Met a few years ago?

Leigh: “Desire Unbound.” It was brilliant. Brilliantly curated. The Man Ray’s were completely brilliant.

Peggy: Fuck brilliant. I’m talking about how those people fucked.

Bette: (chuckling) Those surrealists certainly fucked a lot, and it’s very well documented.

[Helena folds her arms, looking miffed.]

Peggy: Eluard the poet was with the beauteous Gala, and then Gala slipped off and seduced Max Ernst, who thought he was very much in love with Louise at the time.

[Bette smiles Peggy as she speaks, seemingly enjoying the segue.]

Peggy: Then Gala ended up with Dali, and that left Eluard and Louise to share another woman, the very strange Denise Levy, who was being courted, and boinked, I believe, at the time by –

Bette: Breton.

Peggy: Breton, yes, and boinked by Peret, and blabbity-blabbity-blah.

[Bette chuckles, enjoying Peggy’s presence.]

Peggy: Well, at least they wrote fabulous, tortured, sick love poems to one another.

Helena: Yes, mummy, ’cause that – that absolutely redeemed them.

[Mother and daughter once again stare daggers at each other.]

Peggy: Well, you know, all that fucking, with no art, is really rather dreary.

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