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Memento Mori, Mon Amour


by James Lloyd Davis


         If I were not a man; if I'd been born a woman instead, I would be a lesbian chanteuse, a performing artiste singing Leonard Cohen love songs in Quebec in a small, trendy, dimly lit lounge called “Villon's Nightmare,” nightly.  My hair would be long and spectacularly black.
         I would not shave my legs.
         I would have history about which some would whisper and titter.  I would have slept with a famous actress, four heads of state, three poets, two designers, and a lovely young student named Renee.
         I would not be famous, but quite satisfied with the murky edges of celebrity.  I'd live like an indie movie starring Minnie Driver and Terence Stamp, rated R for violence, language, and strong sexual content.
         I would be stunning in a black dress, have a cat named Augustine, a parrot named Justine, a very sad lover named Julie, a stalker named Bromstein, and a twelve-string guitar named Neal.  I would not own a ficus lyrata.
         If I were not a man; if I had been born a woman instead, I would love myself incessantly and so would you, ma chérie, so would you.


 

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