Charles: I have disturbing news Cecily. Sit down if you aren’t already seated. Or sprawl out on an ottoman or something.
Cecily: I am sprawled. And I’m in the best place for bad news. I’m at the Plaza.
cecily and alexander
Charles, on hedonism.
Charles: Apparently your sense of smell and taste become dull with age. If that isn’t a ringing endorsement for unbridled hedonism, I don’t know what is.
Charles, to Cecily.
Charles: Am I your one “straighty-180” friend, or do you have a retinue of people that don’t exactly comprehend what you are?
Charles, on money.
Charles: I saw my psychiatrist. Didn’t help. Was more exhausting than anything. Nine cocktails would be a far better use of my money.
Cecily, on Fashion Week.
Cecily: I am knitted together tonight by malaise and luxury, in an old hotel room in Saint Germain, gifted to me by a client because it is Fashion Week, and this is how fashion people represent their gratitude. It is well received — I love luxury.
Cecily, on cats and babies.
Cecily: I am going to name my child Soba… or my cat. Neither exist, and maybe I’m condemning these foetal beings, still in their ideational infancy, to gluten-free, Japanese-centric lives. But, I’m cool with that. I like names with two syllables. I like names that can be pronounced in any language, and ones that go well on a Starbucks’ cup. When I take my cat or child to Starbucks, they’ll order their soy latté grandés without the extra stress of having to invent an alias.
My second born shall be Millefeuille.
Alexander, on a rare porpoise and a man.
Alexander: I was talking with James about how he saved one of the last ninety-seven vaquitas in the world today.
Despite the fact that I bear no romantic inclinations towards him, one must admit that a man who knows how to save a vaquita is by default attractive.
Cecily, engulfed by malaise.
Cecily: Love is an unproductive feeling.
Two friends, on love lost.
Alexander: There is comfort in knowing you fucked up, and exactly how you fucked up. Self loathing is a hell of a lot more satisfying than hating the cruel universe which rips a chance at true love and happiness away from you.
I could not stop crying for three hours. Could not stop thinking, knowing that we would still be together had I not had to leave France, had we had a little more time.
There’s a comfort in being able to make your own mistakes. No matter the pain, so long as you own your mistake, you’ll eventually be alright. It won’t be an avenue which your mind travels down daily, wondering if you would be together in that moment were it not for the circumstances.
Cecily: I disagree. I prefer so much more to hate a cruel universe that tears things asunder with its own, uncontrollable power. When we do it, we do it less cleanly. We leave our love lives strewn across the streets we walk along every day. And we see them there like road kill. Every. Fucking. Day. The universe would not do that to us. Only we would do that to ourselves.
Alexander: I found comfort for a time, in various pipes and joints, in my hashes and subsequent visions. Yet that cruel mistress sobriety has somehow found me, even in my perpetually altered state. To what does one turn, when one can no longer find solace in substance abuse?
Two friends, on love.
Cecily: I am in desperate love.
Alexander: How wonderfully romantic. And you live in the same city and there are no dark forces beyond either of your control stipulating your relationship’s demise. How incredible it must be to experience a coup de foudre without worry of the immediate future.
Cecily: I worry even more because there is none of that. If it fucks up, it will be because of one of us and not some dark force catalysing or forcing our inevitable demise.
thedailymails 