We have all heard at this point that there is going to be a
Gilmore Girls
revival on Netflix sometime in the next year or so. It may be good or it may not. I do not care. I have modest but specific hopes for it: namely, that Amy Sherman-Palladino make Emily Gilmore a late-in-life lesbian.
Prop yourself up in the plaza: dispense optimistic, folksy wisdom to townsfolk whether they want to hear it or not.
Dedicate several hours a day to revenge fantasies/plotting.
Commission a mural directly over your bed so you have something to look at. Make it something you will never tire of. Perhaps a tasteful nude portrait of Peter Falk? You are after all, one classy invalid.
So, right-ho, Ganymede's abduction has been, as you can imagine, a
rich source
of material for painters throughout the centuries, many of whom had
significantly different
ideas of what male beauty and also "wine-pouring" means.
Eileen Brennan at her absolute blousiest, blousier than Bloomingdale's on a Tuesday, Tuesday being the day most retailers receive new shipments of inventory. Cybill Shepherd tearfully tap-dancing through her pain. And Madeline – the eternal Madeline – cocking her hips as she belts "JUST KICK HIM OUT OF THE HAY."
These are facts: three years ago you were 23, you were in graduate school, and you had cancer. This wasn’t always the case, of course, but that’s what became of you over a single Thanksgiving break. Other facts will emerge over time, many will begin to feel as though they had always been a part of yourself, but these three are constants. You hold them close to yourself.
I don't have any jokes to make about these, I just think this is what it means to be happy in Our Capitalist Society and I someday aspire to be so rich I never have to get up from a recumbent position.
Sometimes the best dinner is burnt cheese on toast (!) and some cold cuts (basturma, for the curious). It's been a WEEK. Filled with disaster but also incredible generosity and love.