|Letters to Ovid
Author: Dianaartemis PM
I am a lesbian with an ancient roman poet as a pen pal. I was happy. I was getting drunk with old men. Then Connie, saint-like-church-mouse Connie, had to walk in and ruin my tipsy parade. FF/femslashRated: Fiction T - English - Spiritual/Humor - Chapters: 17 - Words: 79,632 - Reviews: 94 - Favs: 86 - Follows: 37 - Updated: 04-28-10 - Published: 07-16-09 - Status: Complete - id: 2697897
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Summary: I am a lesbian with an ancient roman poet as a pen pal. I was happy. I was getting drunk with old men. Then Connie, saint-like-church-mouse Connie, had to walk in and ruin my tipsy parade. FF/femslash
A/N: I won't lie, I really like this story. So I am really trying on this one! Give me all the critique that you can shovel on me! But this is just the prologue, so I won't bore you quite yet.
I'll try to explain more about Ovid in chapters to come when it is more relevant, if you're interested.
Letters to Ovid
There is much to fear from a plastered lesbian wielding a pen.
Most people do stupid things when their drunk; make bad jokes and laugh too loud, have sex with strangers, go driving, singing. Yet, at three am on Sunday morning, I stumbled into my apartment and collapse over my kitchen counter, vaguely wondering if I should throw-up now. Instead, I found a discarded pen at my eye level and I stared it down.
And that's when I received the overwhelming urge to write something. I can't remember much after that, but I woke up with a piece of paper fused to my face by my own spit. I peeled it off of me, taking a moment to clear my vision, and read it.
Publius sounds like a dirty name.
You are a dirty old man.
Well, I guess you had to be young at some point.
You're dead now.
Pygmalion was creepy.
He totally fondled a statue.
Think about it.
I think I'm a statue.
At first I was struck by the fact that I write rather well when wasted. I was also confused that I somehow remembered Ovid's first name, especially since I think I've only heard it once or twice. At last I sat there in utter stupefaction and wondered why, why on earth, did I write a letter to Ovid?
And as I sat there, that Sunday afternoon, it became an important question. I haven't really thought of Ovid since college, when I took several Latin courses. But I graduated six months ago, received my first job at the Lakesville Register as a copy editor, and starting living on my own in the quiet suburbia town. Not quite the romantic twenty-something life I was hoping for when I graduated, but I am not complaining that I have a full-time job while most of my old friends are still living off of their parents good graces. Even if most of the time I just sulk around my apartment, wishing there could be more people my age that I could get drunk with. Instead I just go down to the local bars and pretend that the old men aren't hitting on me.
I looked down at the letter again, wondering at the last sentence. In some sense, it could really quite a deep line, like some part of my subconscious crying out to me. I am a statue. I am trapped, unfeeling. Wishing I was living like I used to at college, free and stupid.
Or it was just my inebriated self trying to string words together.
I decided that even if Ovid would never get my letter, or perhaps he could see it beyond the grave, I should write an apology letter. After all, it is like my ex-girlfriend who sometimes calls me at three in the morning while drunk and always sends me a letter later telling me how sorry she is. I used to be angry at her, now I guess I don't care that much. Her conversations aren't too annoying and sometimes I am up anyway.
"Annie," She'd say, "is it really you?"
It would usually take me a while to gather my thoughts to who it is. Then I would remember. "Sue, you're doing it again."
A gurgled cry, she always is crying when she calls me. "I'm sorry! It's just that…that…we never talk anymore!" She would continue to blubber for a few more moments before I could cut in.
"You have to stop calling me every time you're lonely and get drunk, Sue. You live halfway across the country now, you're wasting money." I would pause and she would whimper a little more before abruptly hanging up.
Three days later I get a store bought card telling me it won't happen again. Even though Sue was a good girlfriend to me, she has a habit of subconsciously lying. We argued a lot of her flaw that she didn't even realize she had. No one ever won and eventually it was over.
I would be better to Ovid. I would write him a long detailed draft of an apology. And I would keep to my word. And so, three days later, I wrote this out.
I wanted to apologize for my previous statement. Publius is a perfectly upstanding name and Pygmalion, though still a bit insane, was a well rounded character. And I'm sorry for bringing up your death, I wouldn't want to depress you.
I stopped, looking down at my pen. Well, all apologies set aside, what do I say now? I've never met Ovid, there is no previous experience or conversation I would bring up. This was turning out more awkward than I planned.
I then realized that I was contemplating an imaginary conversation with an imaginary historical figure. I might as well take some risks.
I'm a lesbian, as I guess you don't know. My mother hates me for it, but we don't talk much anyway. My dad left us when I was still a baby, so I don't know what he would think of me. My step-dad still thinks my name Diana, though I've known him for three years. I doubt he would remember if I told him I was into other girls.
I've been living in Lakesville for approximately six months now. I spend every Saturday night in Dave's Grill and Bar. There are three old men who join me. I call them Smelly, Horny, and Tulip. Their names are really John, Ed, and…well, I don't know what Tulip's real name is. They don't mind what I call them, they think any sort of pet name is funny. Especially if it is from a woman who could be the age of their granddaughter. I would hang out with the 'young folk' of the town if there was any, but most people my age have moved out or are pregnant and staying home as to not contract fetal alcohol syndrome. Saturday is a slow night.
Well, it's been exhilarating, Publius. Maybe I'll write again sometime.
P.S. You can call me Annie, if you want.
I sighed and folded up the letter. Staring at it, I had little idea what to do with it. Rip it up? Burn it? Hide it?...Send it?
In the end I put it in my drawer. The one where I put random junk I find off the floor and old papers that serve no purpose, but I feel like they are so important that I have to keep them.