Is this, The Bucks, thing ever going to end? And booooring, such a total yawn. And bogus, I mean if you even read that kind of stuff. ‘Kat of the streets’? Get real. The closest I ever got to a street was being carried across one in the arms of a servant.
I’ve been more than patient, really. Part 8 coming up? I’m being cut off from my followers. It’s not that I don’t understand the fantasies he writes. It’s hard to be macho with a name like that, Buckminster . . . And it fits. He’s such a total pussy . . . cute, I must admit. Cuter than me, and that’s a lot of cute, well, I don’t need to tell you.
Sometimes I think Bucks is gay again. Whatever. I don’t care . . . except this stupid endless story he’s been making up. It’s true, he was a painter, more or less unknown of course, and gayer than a pink flamingo. Paris was lifetimes ago, and not at all like he’s telling it . . . this said in case of the unlikely chance of you’re reading it. I can’t imagine why anyone would be reading it, but whatever.
I complained to the servants and have been given an hour of computer time this week. You wise kats will be happy to learn I’m thinking of something intellectual, perhaps a monolog on 20th century painters . . . a Swede . . . maybe a Russian.