Note: I was living in an attic with my boyfriend Thomas and longing for thrills. One night at two a.m., a young lady called and immediately started thrilling me. She said her name was Dame Darcy, she was nineteen years old, and she had hated me for a long time because I’d come through her town (San Francisco) on tour the year before and all her friends thought the show was “so-o-o cool” but today she decided to start being my friend because she didn’t want to have a colostomy bag by the age of twenty from eating her insides away with stress and jealousy. That was all said in one breath, the very first thing she ever said to me. She talked for an hour straight and hung up and then called back to say, “I have a crush on you! That’s all!” and hung up again before I could say anything else. Thus began a mutual, frenzied courtship, made possible by USPS, UPS and MCI.
March 25, 1991
Darcy has a gap between her front teeth and no cartilage in her ears. Her thought process is as floppy as her ears. A couple of weeks ago, she had a premonition that her boyfriend was cheating and that she should visit this one post office where she never goes. And lo and behold there he was, she told me, mailing a letter to what might have been another girl (or might have been his landlord but Darcy doesn’t think like that). So Darcy ran home, with Boyfriend chasing, and drank a whole bunch of cough medicine to kill herself. You’d think that would have made her tired, but instead she kicked her boyfriend down the stairs! He dragged her to a mental institution, where she stayed for forty-eight hours and taught her fellow patients how to knit. Darcy told me she wishes she really was crazy. Then she wouldn’t feel guilty or care if people didn’t like her. It doesn’t occur to her to wish she was a little more sane. I like her. I like all the things she says.
Today, after hanging up with Darcy, I got an uncontrollable urge for a large chocolate chip cookie, so I went out and bought one. I came right back and called Darcy, and before I could say anything she told me she was eating a large chocolate chip cookie! I told Thomas and he said we’re
hysterical, like witches. Darcy said, “Just say you’ll marry me and move to Dogtown!” I said, “Yes! Okay!” (Dogtown, California: population thirty, soon to be thirty-two). We’ll have gerbils named Lisa and Darcy and we’ll make people take us on dates to fancy restaurants when we get hungry.
I’ve pulled out about two hundred hairs today. I can’t stop. My hairs make a fine carpet on the path I pace with the phone. I sleep between two and four hours a night and still I have so much energy. I really should think of something better to do with all of it. I’m sure I could accomplish something more significant than making myself bald. I know this sounds vain, but I think I’ve been extremely charming lately (bald spots and all). People keep wanting to be with me my friends fight over who will accompany me everywhere. This always happens when I get suicidal, I guess because I feel that I can give away everything of myself. When I’m calm and I want to live, I gather up myself and my charm. I hoard! I like myself better when I want to die. I am so happy. Oh, I am so miserable. Oh goodness, I think I’m in love!
Darcy called, crying, to tell me that she is manipulative and selfish and fickle and unfaithful and that she monopolizes the conversation. I said, “Well I already knew that.”
I told Darcy that I love her like I love Chunky Bars, except that she doesn’t make me sick when I have too much of her. She whispered that her roommate says she (Darcy) “moons about,” thinking about
kissing me (Lisa). When I said “What?” (I heard her, but I wanted her to say it again), she said she had to go. Her date had arrived. She said, “My rotten heart will love you from the grave. I’ll never stop loving you.” Then she slammed the phone down and, I assume, ran away into the night
with some man who isn’t me.
Darcy is flying out to see me, and then we’re going on a cross-country tour with Jean Louis, as Suckdog. Darcy and I are very nervous. We’re trying to find the proper form for our love. When she arrives (in ten days!), we’ll go from never having seen each other to never not seeing each other (when you’re on tour, you can’t just wander off someplace). Darcy’s always saying stuff like she has a really hard time falling asleep, but if someone puts their mouth on her ear she goes right off. I pretty much take these things as an invitation. She said she doesn’t know if she could cheat on her boyfriend (with me, she seemed to be saying). But she does cheat; she’s a cheater. I guess she’s worried about the lesbian stuff. I never pursue the subject too closely because first of all you’ll never get a straight answer out of Darcy and second, I worry about it too. What if I’m a lesbian and I never have children especially with me cutting my hair short and trying to pass for a boy lately! But if I’m worried or scared about something, I consider that a good reason to jump into it. I hope Darcy’s like that too.
2000 postscript: I did move to California with Darcy, and I watched her seduce and juggle my exes, the neighbors and useful people all around the country with the same mad energy that got me. But I had to admire her. Like Anaïs Nin, she just had too much imagination and too much need for one person. She required a coterie. What else was she supposed to do? She’s not a normal person, she couldn’t be satisfied in the normal manner. I never stopped liking her, no matter how much I found out about her. Today, Darcy is a great comics artist and dollmaker and actress. Experience and a bleeding ulcer have mellowed her. No more dancing on tables, or so she tells me. Rumors still make their way to New Hampshire from the Midwest or London all the places she visits, leaving angry or confused or in-love people in her wake.