Reading

I used to assume almost nobody read this blog. Now I know that’s not true. But I never check my statistics. And I didn’t then either. I don’t care.

The thing is, I’m tired of my words being purposefully twisted. Or shall we say, Lacey’s words.

So let’s do some explaining. It’ll be fun! Then you can disavow yourself of your useless delusions they only harm you or you can comfort yourself with the warmth of actual realty. Yay! *eye-roll and handclap*

Lacey begins:

“1. I’m not sure I’m illegitimate. My father who raised me worked for the man named Tom. As his personal caretaker. And my father who raised me was actual friends with Margy who I suspect may have been my mom.

The thing is, when I told my counselor about my memories and suspicions she suggested I might be Tom’s daughter. *laughter* But at the time that seemed unlikely to me. He was an old man and I had other ideas. So she let it go, mostly. But I think that was her initial thought. She thought I was Tom’s daughter. Although, she may or may not have tried to talk me out of that one too.

…No. I thought David A. Kennedy, son of Robert and Ethel was my son. *she laughs* I looked like him in the eyes. It felt like our souls were similar. And I had a wild, hair-brained idea. *she laughs* I think subconsciously the things I’ve experienced seemed explainable if I was just an illegitimate child.

“The Kennedy’s will want your money.” said my counselor.

And why did she say that? Because I was worried that they’d think I was after their money if I did find out I was illegitimate. In truth, I had no desire to ever go public. Unless they wanted to. …But, no.

“How do you know you aren’t his illegitimate daughter?” asks a Liberal.

“I’ve done research. And he’s told me that himself.” says Lacey.

“True.” says Joe Jr..

“I’m not your father, but I could be.” he offered with great compassion when I first asked him.

“But you look like Tom?” asks someone.

“Yes! I’ve done a cheap, quick facial analysis and I resemble him a lot. He was English and Dutch and possibly German?” says Lacey. “So it’s possible I saw the genetic combination in David along with the supernatural and combined them all to make sense of it.” says Lacey.

“If your father is Tom you could have been David’s aunt.” says Joe. “Not just because I find you so attractive. But because you almost physically could have been there.”

“If Tom is my father, and his long-term mistress Thelma tried to see me or get pictures of me until the day she died, then it’s comforting to think I was loved or am loved possibly.” says Lacey. “And that’s the hope you hear or sense. It’s not about the fame or glory, really. It’s about feeling loved.”

Which leads into

2. My family really is that elegant, old-money and posh. They just are.

They don’t love me. They’d claim otherwise, but I doubt they genuinely do. They’re loyal. But that’s not necessarily love in this case. It’s not not loving. It’s certainly better than nothing. But it’s not real love.

They aren’t that wealthy. They have a lot but they aren’t billionaires so much as millionaires. And we aren’t…well-known. But it’s not a family that makes me feel intimidated by wealth. I feel liberated from it not intimidated.

3. Ghosts really do interact with me. Or demons.

4. Tom might see me as his daughter, regardless.

5. I am a Christian.

6. I’m not ugly, stupid, or stupid or etc.. Stop idiotically comforting yourself with that cheap attempt to feel good. It’s just self-destructive nonsense. I’m sorry you even feel the need to do that? *eye-roll*

I really was and possibly am unusually intelligent and beautiful. Why does that matter so much to my haters?!

“Is that all for now? That’s a lot!” says Truman Capote.

“It’s not that much. I’ve been saying this since 2016.” says Lacey. “On this blog.”

“Is it like repeating the spelling of your name?” he asks.

“Yes! I keep adding another r to Karrie. Insisting it’s spelled Karrie not Karie.” says Lacey.

“Your legal name is Karrie. That’s right.” says Truman.

“Why do you insist on spelling it Karrie not Karie.” says a hater.

“Because that’s the way it’s spelled.” she says. “In reality.”

“So you really wonder if you’re a secretly adopted child?” asks a hater.

“Yes!” says Lacey. “I will be so confused someday if I do DNA research and find out I’m not illegitimate. But I’ll have an inheritance then. Because it’ll be after at least my father is dead. And I can process it over something pleasant, like tea made in a new sterling silver teapot.”

“Process what? How birth parents could be so dramatically different than their kid or how they could be so passively cold or both?” asks a gay man.

“Both.” says Lacey.

“So you think adoptive parents tend to be heartless?” asks a hater.

“No. But I think it’s harder to understand someone else’s kids.” She thinks. “Everyone is so unique. And it’s harder to fully instinctually empathize with someone else’s kids.” She thinks. “It’s possible. But it’s challenging.”

“Do you feel that different than your parents?” asks a man.

“Yes. They’ve pointed it out themselves my whole life. Profoundly. Repeatedly.” says Lacey. “My mother did literally. She was ashamed of it. My father tried to over emphasize his similarities to me that didn’t exist. It felt like brainwashing after a while I learned to ignore it.”

“So your father repeated how similar you were to him numerous times a day or what?” asks the man.

“At least once a week.” says Lacey.

A gay man laughs. “What did he say?”

“‘Oh! We are so much alike!!’ he’d say literally. But then he’d add to that regularly.”

“Like what?” asks another gay man.

“Like, I’d do well at something or I’d have a bad day. And he’d respond, ‘Oh! That’s so much like me. I had that problem too.’ Or, ‘Oh, that’s so much like me. I excelled at that too.’”

“Do you think he’s lying? Or do you think he’s confused?” asks the gay man.

“Possibly lying. Possibly trying to comfort himself somehow.” says Lacey. “Because there was often no real similarity.”

“Did he use your gifts to brag about himself?” asks a gay man.

“Yes. Or his mother.” she says. “I was always also so much like his mother.” She thinks. “Like, ‘You remind me so much of my mom. I wish you could have known her when she was young. You two are so much alike.” She thinks. “I think somehow I really did remind him of his mom at times.”

“And you just wonder if he found it comforting to repeat that lie?” asks a gay man. “Should it have been a lie.”

“Yes. Like, his life really did somehow make sense.” says Lacey.

“Like you could have been his daughter even if you aren’t actually his daughter?” asks the gay man.

“Yes! And once he said to me, ‘No, I can’t imagine having any other daughter but you. You just are my daughter.’ He paused. ‘I just can’t imagine what it would even be like to have another child. You know?’” says Lacey.

“He said that out of the blue?” asks a conspiratorial man.

“Yes. At dinner.” says Lacey. “Within the last year or two.”

The conspiratorial man says, “That does sound like an admission almost.”

“It does. Almost. It still has plausible deniability. But it’s a strange thing to say.” says Lacey.

“He says stuff like that out if the blue?” asks the conspiratorial man.

“Yes! It’s not entirely out of the blue, but it’s close to that.” says Lacey.

“That’s heartless.”

Lacey makes an inquisitive face.

“Did he ever tell you he loved you? Or hug you?” he asks.

“Yes! My parent’s great, grand love for me was emphasized often. Made a point of.” says Lacey.

“If she’d had a nanny for hugs and correction and love, and parents who rarely saw her but gave her real love and money…she’d be herself but happy.” says Joe.

“Why?” asks the conspiratorial man.

“Because that would make sense to her. Parents who actually do love you but are distant. And a nanny who offers love too.” he says.

“So does she think of the nanny as her mom?!” asks a perfume hater.

“In a way. The good, kind, carefully monitored and assessed nanny is also an extension of her parents.” he says.

“So it’s weird to her psychologically to think her parents would be the nanny too?” he asks.

The conspiratorial man nods in understanding.

“It’s confusing in the sense that mom and dad should be too sad or busy to be so emotionally present.“ says Joe. “Or even present at all. She’d expect it to be exhausting to do all of it.”

“Even as a child she thought that?” asks a hater.

“Yes!” says Joe. “But that was her explanation. That her parents were overemphasizing their love for her because they were insecure about it. Because they felt exhausted.”

“That’s sad that it’s unlikely to be true.” says Truman Capote.

“It’s not something I’ve been able to piece together until relatively recently.” says Lacey.

“That your parents are faking their love for you?” asks a Millennial.

“Yes!” says Lacey.

“Why are you so nonchalant about it?” the Millennial asks with smothering hostility.

A perfume hater freaks out as she sees herself in the last Millennial. What does this mean?!??

“Why do you care? Are you threatening me?” asks Lacey.

The Millennial acts aghast, wounded and nervous.

“I-I-I’m just wondering!” she says fearfully.

“But why? People cope with their pain in different ways.” says Lacey.

The Millennial woman rolls her eyes and walks away in a huff.

“So, you just don’t care?!” asks another Millennial. “I mean you sound heartless or like a sociopathic freak!“ she says with an attempt at the imitating the moral authority of Heaven.

“I’m being strong. And I shouldn’t have to spell that out for you. But you’re both so narcissistic and stupid you can’t comprehend it naturally.” says Lacey.

They laugh nervously.

“Fuck you!!!!“ shouts the first Millennial bitterly at Lacey. “Stop embarrassing me you bitch!”

“Well yeah! I mean she was literally just living her life and minding her own business and it had nothing to do with you but you made it psychotically all about you.” says Diana.

“Do I exist to you or am I just a television show and I misrepresented you somehow in my writing?” asks Lacey.

“Like, we took everything as being about us?” asks a group of narcissistic people.

“Yes.” says Lacey. “If I’m stronger than you, and I’m sorry one of you or a few of you have tipped me off to your experience with me as that, then that’s just all it is.“

“So you’re our worst nightmare. Finding out that we haven’t evolved to be stronger but weaker and narcissistic genetically?” asks a perfume hater.

“Well, you guys have strengths too though. That I don’t have. But that’s how evolution would work if I am illegitimate. It’s both forwards and backwards and something else.” says Lacey.

“I wonder. Do you think I’m actually weak? Or do you think I’m just narcissistic about everything?” asks the woman who called her a bitch.

“I doubt you’re as weak as you perceive yourself as being.” says Lacey.

“So it’s really my heartlessness that bothers you?”

“Yes!” says Lacey. “It’s like panicking in a crisis. It just inevitably causes destruction.”

The narcissist breathes deeply. “I don’t look like you.” she says.

“But that’s sad up until a point. Aesthetically it is sad maybe. But…it’s like old architecture versus new. And that’s all.” Lacey says. “Then it gets down to brass tacks. And actually, that’s more sad for me.” Lacey says.

“Because your men are dead?” asks a hater.

“Yes.” says Lacey.

“No, you’re right. I can see that. It’s not that your not extremely beautiful. It that your Georgian Architecture and I’m contemporary and chic and fresh and present.” she says.

“So it’s really just that I’m envious and hateful and we have almost nothing in common but a love for perfume.” says a perfume hater.

“I hope not, but I seems so.”

“What’s that like being so beautiful but so…somehow off-putting at the same time?” asks the Millennial.

“It’s exactly like that. One feels confident. But then nothing ever happens that would logically make sense to happen. And it’s not that beauty is unequivocally loved. It’s not. But it’s been weird.” she says.

The Millennial smiles. “No, you’re either like a purebred Norwegian with old-money added for flavor, or you’re like dead stock that’s been found in an old department store.”

“Like a rare, super expensive chypre. Or an unopened vintage found in some closet.” says a perfume hater.

“You don’t think I’m that stupid necessarily. You just can’t figure it out otherwise.” says the Millennial. “Because what I was saying was stupid.”

“True.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asks.

“Yes. You have larger features than me. But it’s very pretty.”

“And yet you and your family have more refined looks. But it’s about personal preference.” she says.

“Yes. And in the past my features were more common and en Vogue. But my kids have their father’s more contemporary look too, thankfully.” she says.

She cries and nods. “But they still have old-school flourishes! Thankfully.”

“So you still look black!” says someone to Lacey.

“Yes. But when you stand out its-“

“If you’re dead stock-“ says a black man. “Do you miss the past?”

“Yes!” says Lacey. “Constantly.”

“What do you think you miss most?” asks a woman.

“The wealth. Everyone was wealthier.” says Lacey.

A black perfume collector smiles and looks at her. Smiles.

“Funny how it comes down to that.” he says.

“It’s not that money is the point of life. It’s just that it’s necessary to survive in a fallen world.” says Lacey.

A woman nods. Understanding.

“And that fear of the future is why we find you so scary.” says the Millennial woman. “It’s not we aren’t pretty. It’s that we fear we’re all about to fall off a cliff.”

“And how do I fit into that?” asks Lacey.

“Some of us, should you be dead stock, want to hold you accountable for other people’s sin, so to speak. And other people want to figure out how to relate to you, but it’s very difficult.”

Silence.

“It’s like, who are you?” she asks.

“Hmm. I’ll have to ask for help. It’s the problem. I’ve been lied to and told the truth both. So my understanding of myself is accurate, but spotty.” Lacey says.

“I know Chanel No. 22 is your signature fragrance, but do you have a better example?” asks a perfume critic and collector.

“Chanel No. 22 isn’t my signature.” says Lacey. “It was. But thanks to people’s hate I’ve realized it just isn’t quite right.”

The Asmats smile.

“It’s alright. It was an accident.” they say to Lacey.

“It’s just that it was so close. And I’d never smelled anything closer.” says Lacey.

“But it wasn’t yours!” protests an Asmat.

“True. But I tried to carefully delineate that.” says Lacey.

“You should have said it was close but not perfect.” he says.

“You’re right. Because it isn’t perfect.” she says.

“You stole some other woman’s signature. By accident.” he says.

“It was close. And I’d given-up fundamentally on finding perfection.” says Lacey.

“Is it perfection or what’s actually correct?” he asks.

“More the latter?”

“Entirely the latter!” he yells.

“But then what’s correct is the same as perfection.” gently protests Lacey.

“It often is!” he says.

“To me perfection is something far off and otherworldly.” says Lacey.

“But God is here now too. Maybe you’re right. There is a difference. But not that often.” he says smiles. “Actually, they’re different but often are the same thing.”

“I’m becoming genuinely curious. What was it about Chanel No. 22 that you found correct?” asks a platinum blond perfume collector.

“So perfume is like an olfactory sculpture. And there’s a line in No. 22 right through the center of gravity that’s almost perfect.” says Lacey.

“Any idea what those notes are?” the blond perfume collector asks.

Lacey looks suddenly awkward.

The woman looks at her ready to viciously attack.

“What is it?!” asks the loudest perfume hater.

“It’s lily-of-the-valley.” she says.

The blond woman’s mouth opens. She looks shocked. Closes her eyes.

“But it’s lily-of-the-valley warmed by Chanel and rose and tuberose.” says Lacey.

“So it’s Chanel lily-of-the-valley.” says the loudest hater.

“But that’s such a faint lily-of-the-valley.” says a perfumer.

“Yes! But that’s it, I think.” says Lacey.

“So you love Diorissimo too?” asks the perfumer.

“Isn’t that a bit personal?” asks a dead woman.

“I take it men like that one?” asks the perfumer of the ghost.

“Isn’t that like being asked by our grandkids if we shopped at Victoria’s Secret for our boyfriends.” asks a Millennial Christian.

“There’s a reason people were different.” says a dead black man.

Silence.

“Do you find oud dirty?” he asks Lacey.

“No. Not really. That’s just what people today say.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s beautiful not dirty to me.”

“Yes!” he says smiling. He thinks. “Rose is more erotic on my wife. Or vanilla!”

“Okay! So it was Chanel lily?” she says. The blond perfume collector.

“Yes.” says Lacey.

“Like Mediterranean Lily?” asks a hater.

“Did you know it was lily?” asks the blond perfume collector.

“No.” says Lacey.

“Elliott figured out it was lily. Didn’t he?” asks the blond perfume collector.

“Yes. It was perceptive and intelligent of him.” says Lacey.

“You don’t think you’re an opulent tuberose?” asks a gay perfume collector.

“No, unfortunately and fortunately.” she says.

“Tuberose is for Marilyn. Not you?” he wonders.

“Yes. Possibly.” says Lacey.

“I’ll find her perfume. I’ll be right back.” says an Asmat.

He returns hours later.

“You’re a coconut made by Floris.” he says. “For women.”

“Not like Tom Ford?” asks Lacey.

“No.” He shakes his head no. “No. It’s a gorgeous, English Coconut.”

“Could Serge Lutens make it?” asks a perfume collector.

“No.” he says. “Only Floris.” He thinks. “Chanel could almost make it. But it’s going to smell a little wrong.”

“Actually, No. 22 is sorta close to that. I get why it felt…similar enough to be convincing.” a gay perfume collector says. “But I bet this would be more refined, airy and sweet and yet also earthy.”

“It was never made.” says the Asmat.

“Is it wrong to think it might be in Heaven or would that take away from the glory of and focus on Jesus?” asks Lacey sarcastically of some Christians. “I hope you’d answer no.”

“Only if He can wear it too!” says a Catholic sarcastically.