Sunday

WINTER PARTIES

For the last month, with very few exceptions, Elizabeth has gone to bed not merely sozzled or tipsy but stoned. And I mean stoned: unfocused, unable to walk straight, talking in a slow, meaningless baby voice like a demented child. The boredom, unless I'm drunk, too, of being in the presence of somebody to whom you have to repeat everything twice is like a physical pain in the stomach. 

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