So I figure I would never have to write this thing if Velma weren't writing
her goddamn memoirs. Memoirs, she calls it, like anyone's going to want to
read them. I don't know why she's doing it, we're making plenty of money
these days. The only thing I can think is that she's trying as usual to
get one up on me. See, I know she's going to write whatever she thinks she
can get away with about me, so instead of having to sue her for label and
probably break up the act in the bargain I figure I'll just write my own
memoirs. Besides, if anyone's going to write memoirs it should be me.
Velma never did too good in English in high school, she told me.
Anyway, you probably already know some stuff about me. Like that they arrested me last year for plugging Fred Casely, and you probably know I met Velma there for the heinous double murder of her husband and sister. She's crazy, that woman, and that's what you have to know from the start. Then Billy Flynn got us both off, and we had to go into show business together because no one wanted either one of us alone. She's mostly there for the shock value. She's kind of washed up now. Anyway, so me and her started an act together, and now we're doing fine, and the only shit part is I get to put up with her antics 24/7, seven days a week. Including these goddamn memoirs, which I have to write my version of so she doesn't screw me over.
So, speaking of her screwing me over, that's the first thing you have to get straight. Velma Kelly never screwed me over. Or if she did, it wasn't my fault. I was a moth caught on the wheel, a burned-out butterfly. She was the one who was the lez before I ever came along. And in prison it's not like you can get at any men, right? I mean, it happens all the time in prison. I bet there have been dozens of sociologicolol studies about how when there are no men around women get a little crazy. But anyway it wasn't my fault, except I know she's going to say it was. So here's how it happened.
I was sitting in the cigarette room, knitting some bootees for my soon to be born baby, who I tragically miscarried soon after I got out of prison. None of the papers gave a shit though, so you probably didn't hear. Anyway, so I was knitting bootees for my poor soon to be not born baby when Velma came up behind me. I pretended like I didn't see her, because she was getting kind of desperate for publicity lately and I figured she was just going to hit me up for some more. And she was. Oh, was she ever.
She stood behind me, and I know she was twirling a cigarette around her mouth because some ashes fell on my neck. I turned around to wipe them off, and she said to me, "I know you want to fuck me."
I was horrified, of course. You couldn't expect better language than that from a notorious double homicide murderess, but I've always believed in believing the best of people, and I believe she should be held to just as high a standard as many convent nuns, because we can all be as virtuous as a nun if we only try hard enough. Unless we have to tragically shoot an unscrupulous man in order to save the life of our unborn child, of course. Anyway, even if you ignore the language, what she said was inignorable. I have never been a lesbian. I love my ex-husband very much, and it's a shame he felt he needed to divorce me. So of course, I told her that.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Velma Kelly. I love my husband very much. But I forgive you for your lying," I said to her.
That was when she stuck her hand down my shirt. I pulled away, naturally, but there was a wall nearby so I couldn't go far. And then I passed out. I don't remember a thing, except it wasn't my fault that we ended up on the floor with no pants on. Anything else she tells you is a baldface lie.
And that's how it started.
Anyway, you probably already know some stuff about me. Like that they arrested me last year for plugging Fred Casely, and you probably know I met Velma there for the heinous double murder of her husband and sister. She's crazy, that woman, and that's what you have to know from the start. Then Billy Flynn got us both off, and we had to go into show business together because no one wanted either one of us alone. She's mostly there for the shock value. She's kind of washed up now. Anyway, so me and her started an act together, and now we're doing fine, and the only shit part is I get to put up with her antics 24/7, seven days a week. Including these goddamn memoirs, which I have to write my version of so she doesn't screw me over.
So, speaking of her screwing me over, that's the first thing you have to get straight. Velma Kelly never screwed me over. Or if she did, it wasn't my fault. I was a moth caught on the wheel, a burned-out butterfly. She was the one who was the lez before I ever came along. And in prison it's not like you can get at any men, right? I mean, it happens all the time in prison. I bet there have been dozens of sociologicolol studies about how when there are no men around women get a little crazy. But anyway it wasn't my fault, except I know she's going to say it was. So here's how it happened.
I was sitting in the cigarette room, knitting some bootees for my soon to be born baby, who I tragically miscarried soon after I got out of prison. None of the papers gave a shit though, so you probably didn't hear. Anyway, so I was knitting bootees for my poor soon to be not born baby when Velma came up behind me. I pretended like I didn't see her, because she was getting kind of desperate for publicity lately and I figured she was just going to hit me up for some more. And she was. Oh, was she ever.
She stood behind me, and I know she was twirling a cigarette around her mouth because some ashes fell on my neck. I turned around to wipe them off, and she said to me, "I know you want to fuck me."
I was horrified, of course. You couldn't expect better language than that from a notorious double homicide murderess, but I've always believed in believing the best of people, and I believe she should be held to just as high a standard as many convent nuns, because we can all be as virtuous as a nun if we only try hard enough. Unless we have to tragically shoot an unscrupulous man in order to save the life of our unborn child, of course. Anyway, even if you ignore the language, what she said was inignorable. I have never been a lesbian. I love my ex-husband very much, and it's a shame he felt he needed to divorce me. So of course, I told her that.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Velma Kelly. I love my husband very much. But I forgive you for your lying," I said to her.
That was when she stuck her hand down my shirt. I pulled away, naturally, but there was a wall nearby so I couldn't go far. And then I passed out. I don't remember a thing, except it wasn't my fault that we ended up on the floor with no pants on. Anything else she tells you is a baldface lie.
And that's how it started.