“Non, Je Ne Regrette de Rien”
miniMAG piblishes a confessional piece
As a woman who perhaps, maybe unhealthily, finds herself having sincere Edith Piaf singalongs a bit too often, and may take “Non, Je Ne Regrette De Rien” a bit too literally as I pull myself from the ashes of my own pyres periodically, I have once again overshared TMI (“Too Much Information”) about my current pyre and conflagration.
Dido, Queen of Carthage is not my style. I do not die for love, I just move on after tending to my wounds and build myself another pyre. I’m more “Trick Baby” from Saint Lydia Lunch. Perhaps my favorite song to dance around the living room to or have blasting from my car windows at traffic lights.
My technically creative non-fiction piece “Crypsters in Charteuse” is up on miniMAG #94 “libations”. Grab a copy of my latest published confessional at -
Yes, that’s the actual picture of me from 1990. Thanks to childhood best friend/platonic high school sweetheart off-and-on ex Brian (I know his middle and confirmation names)) McHale for finding it amongst his family photos and treasures.
I had him fill in as my senior prom date as Jerry Reilly had dumped me three weeks prior to prom and I’d already reserved the limo and paid too much for that amazing dress that belonged on a floor but he was too good a Catholic Boy to stand against me and fled the relationship with our virtues still intact so I asked my best friend Brian to take me to Prom.
I went to Prom with a chip on my shoulders. I still had to prove they hadn’t broken me, especially after my mom had died that year. We were at Denny’s by midnight after ditching the horrors and bad music of my Prom early and escaping the humiliation of my another of my high school ex’s proposing to his future ex-wife at Prom. The dress was donated to Goodwill in 1995 for someone’s Scarlett O’Hara curtain dress cosplay. It was never on the floor or worn again.
Irish Catholic boys are a weakness of mine, even now. Every woman has an Achilles Heel. Mine is men with a mouthful of Saints names, an allergy to the sun, occasional guilt that rivals my Jewish guilt, and whole milk or skim milk skintones.
