Dear Universe

Hello again. Remember my last letter, when we got all my karmic debts squared up? I'm sure you have it on file somewhere. It was agreed that after that odyssean voyage I made, I would be considered in the black.
So, what gives? I am trying to be a debauched lesbian slut here, and you're not cooperating. I thought that, after what you put me through in adolescence and college, sending me to France was recompense. I mean, it's France. They're French. They practically invented sexual liberation, right? Gay Paree and all that. They had the Marquis de Sade for christ's sake! Dude, what the fuck [she wrote in an elegant hand]? You stick me in a French version of my hometown? Don't get me wrong, I like Verdun, it's just the right size, it's relatively cheap to live here, there are other assistants my age, but come on. The only other gay person here is Matt the New Yorker, with his nice little American boyfriend in Germany.
And that's another thing. What's with the defective gaydar? Everybody knew about Matt except me, and of course now it's so obvious. My gaydar wouldn't pick up on Elton fucking John. About the only thing it's good for is picking up on completely unavailable straight women. I'm considering writing a strongly worded letter to the Complaints Department at Lesbian Central Headquarters as well. They made some very big promises during the recruiting sessions, which they have yet to make good on. Where are the aggressive bulldaggers? I was promised aggressive bulldaggers! Predatory homosexuals preying on suggestive young things! I'm young! I'm suggestive! Why are you always making me be the assertive one? It's not in my nature, as you very well know. My Homosexual Agenda book is pathetically empty. You know what I have planned? "December: buy La dixiéme muse"
All I want is to make up for the sobriety of my youth; I would like to claim adjectives other than "nice" and "well-read". But you seem to insist that I be an old lady, spending my Friday nights knitting while waiting for the water to boil for my decaf herbal tea [this is true]. My god, I'll be eating prunes next. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of old ladies; Miss Marple is my role model. But how can I regale the grandkids with tales of my dissapated youth if the best I can manage is watching the France vs. Germany football game? True, I did spend the wee hours of Saturday morning retching into the toilet after a night of dancing at Les Parents Terribles, but that's not what I had in mind. I promised myself I would never do that, and I hadn't, until now. Debauchery, yes, alcoholism, no. You know my dad, I'm not going through that again. Les Parents Terribles isn't half bad, it's tiny but it's fun, and you did provide a cab service specifically for the club, which I appreciate. But I'm not going to meet anybody there. I could bring someone there, but that isn't looking very likely, now is it?
Get on the ball. I've paid my dues (remember sophomore year of college?). You owe me big time. And while you're at it, see if you can't do something about the reading material at this place. I would consider hiring a new librarian, if I were you. The current one has crappy taste.
Yours
Anne