certainly, in every respect, not true, fake news. If anything, she gives too much of the rat’s ass for what others think.
V owns a prodigious red stone Victorian mansion——a beautiful example of late nineteenth century architecture——that her father left to her after his “mysterious death.”
Her passion for going against the untangling evolution of time and fashion became part, but not parcel, of her persona. She had a good act. Most of her haute couturecame from yard sales and thrift stores. She knew how to create the eye-popping illusion of opulence with good taste.
V saw herself as a theatre person and all her friends would agree. Most thought of Victoria Aires as a drama queen, but the fear of her unexpected screeds of literary maleficence should anyone speak out of turn, or out of place, elevated the consciousness of her friends to an unexpected level of agreeability. Bipolar people leave little to the expectations of others.
V held a high opinion of herself as an artist. She knew she had a natural flair for directing. She daydreamed of having her own little theatre where she could show off her talents. Without quarrel, few would dispute what had become fact, that her talents and directing skills went far beyond the walls of theatre. V challenges herself to create and perform her own life with joie de vivre, a brava performance indeed, until she gets bored. And, when she is bored, V sharpens her directing skills on the lives of others; to the dissatisfaction of friends and foes alike. Distinguishing friend from foe needed a great deal of effort and appreciable skill. Once, V had a mercurial epiphany,“Perhaps I am a bit overbearing.”And then she forgot about it.
Once, Sir Geoffrey Hemphill pleaded, “Will you marry me, Miss Aires?” She replied with, “Oh, Sir Geoffrey, if I will I would have long ago.” V performed a spirited rendition of shy with a touch of coy and a whole lot of no. Poor Sir Geoffrey, looking spiffy in his white linen suit, pale blue shirt, dark blue with yellow diagonally-striped tie and vibrant yellow socks that poured into his brown and beige saddle shoes; dressed to the nines and all for V. “Poor Sir Geoffrey, wouldn’t it be easier to come out of the closet rather than getting married?”He attributed the question to the voice of his smart-ass conscience.
The mere thought of “coming out,” making himself visible, frightened Poor Sir Geoffrey beyond description. “A life in the closet isn’t living, but it’s safe,”he thought. V smartly rose and said as the actress she never was, “You are so cute.” Then she left the room at warp speed.
Feelings of shame, anger, sadness and self-hatred with suicidal tendencies are often exacerbated in the wake of unrequited love. “It’s not about love, kiddo, and you know it.”Poor Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t listen to his higher self. So, he felt himself doleful, witless, a man of little consequence as he sat dreaming he was still awake in the parlor with Maxfield, who had recently returned from safari in Africa, and so he borrowed Sir Geoffrey’s ear well into the night to relive it.
Cruelty would certainly be one of the many last things to enter V’s mind, but when people pose a question they ought to know exactly what it is they want to do with the answer. Do they want the truth, or do they want to postpone the inevitable by going on a long and arduous expedition through the maze of V’s rhetoric?Poor Sir Geoffrey.
V’s father, The Late Reverend Aires, once a man of the cloth, probably synthetic and made in China, became a radical disciple of an unknown Roman Catholic denomination whose teachings had absolutely nothing to do with Jesus nor the amelioration of Humanity; not too unlike so many of Jesus’s later-day followers waiting for the joy of a Theist America, sooner than later. Many a Christian is a Christian in name only——nothing new there; followers of the Anti-Christ as proven by their political aspirations, their hate and violence from consuming too much red meat, no doubt, contributed greatly to V’s appreciation for seeing a thing in its proper perspective. “Rose colored glasses are for the flock to view the Good Shepherd; not for the Good Shepherd to view the flock,” the Good Shepherd often told his Little Princess Victoria before sending her off to pass the collection plate. With the restrained smile of a sad, starving, disconsolate, but hopeful, orphan V created a short piece of theatre impeccably played. Those who looked into her watery crestfallen eyes, who sat and waited for the end of their world, dropped more cash into the collection plate than they could otherwise afford. The Little Princess had that effect on folks, which left many worshippers feeling guilty for their own poverty. The late Reverend had also gained considerable recognition from his missionary work which took him around the world converting to whatever, saving whomever, however, for a price. Jesus can be an expensive business. While still in her teens, the Little Princess had become a world-class traveler. When the Little Princess reached her forty-first birthday——thirty-fifth again and an another over-priced regenerating cream reason for supplemental anxiety——she made up her mind to leave for posterity a certain and indelible contribution, which now only left her to settle upon exactly what that contribution might be; further cause for anxiety.
V is not quite the controlling, argumentative creature that some have mistakenly mis-thought. She can be of course, but it is not one of her full time personas. V learned the long and hard way, that it is no longer beneficial for her sense of wellbeing to make confrontational choices, or to take unnecessary chances. A new leaf? V is unquestionably smart, intuitive, often overreaching, overbearing and rarely knows what is good for her own good; however, she did turn over that godawful new-leaf metaphor with the help of psychotropics. V has an inexplicable desire for lasting fame which she disguises as, “leaving something for posterity.”
V is easily bored and she does not suffer fools willingly; as evidenced by those who have exited her life only to find themselves transformed into the walking wounded, limping back to their zombiehood. Before the medications, V was perceived as a bitch. That’s not to say she was or she wasn’t; it’s all a matter of degree and interpretation. Now, through the magic of chemistry, V could be more deliberate, thoughtful and carefully rehearsed before launching into anything that could be deemed the least bit provocative. V does gain a great deal of satisfaction from her supposition that by the time her victim realizes her villainy it is too unreasonably late for a counterattack.
V rarely goes out unless it is necessary, or there is the promise of fun, or she simply must get out for no apparent reason. Her switch to isolationism came after her realization that, on balance, the heavy side of the scales snores with sleeping people who have chosen their ignorance, their lies, their deceptive euphemisms born of prejudice, hypocrisy, and rampaging hatred. People, generally speaking, cannot be easily trusted, or trusted at all. No way. No how. No one. Except Lily, of course. WOW! Really?Maybe her darker moods were all just a passing cloud of negatively charged particles of self-consuming acridity.
Oftentimes, V sincerely thinks herself far too complicated for most mortals to grasp for more than twenty seconds, or so. There are moments in her days, sometimes entire days, when she believes herself a genius. Then, time persists and she finds herself in a Ground Hog Daysort of way. “There must be something better! Days should not be indistinguishable nor interchangeable with the day before, or the day before that,” V pouted in a world weary, muted outrage.
It should be pointed out that after V dropped out of community college she never stopped educating herself. V is one of Gertrude Stein’s biggest fans. All of Stein’s books fill the top shelf of her bedroom bookcase. Once that shelf was filled with Ayn Rand, but when Ayn Rand began to smell like bullshit and rotting fish, V tossed her Fascist greedy ass into dumpster-hell along with a copy of The Art of the Deal, for which she paid a quarter in a yard sale, to make room for Gertrude Stein. She credits Stein with teaching her the ever-interesting elements of subtext. How to read, basically. V has been using education in sublimity ever since to mystify with seemingly never-ending layers of indirection and subtext which she claims, “…should not be mistaken for ambiguity.” V told this to the man seated next to her at one of Minnie Beach’s dispiriting dinner parties. When the man barked in return, “I don’t get
