In Feri Trad, there's a lot of talk about one's Fetch. I have a shaky-at-best grasp on the concept of the triple soul. Probably because my talking self is so goddamned loud (yeah, we're cussing again, welcome). Like she never shuts up and she's that terrible guest at the party everyone (God Self/ Primal Self) wants to suddenly need to go home or pass out drunk enough to shut the fuck up but without alcohol poisoning (yeah we're also back to stream of conscious, pull up a seat). So they're silently hating her from across the room mouthing shutupshutupshutup to each other. But she won't, because see: Talking Self.
Okay, so Fetch. Your Fetch needs to be fed with food that your Fetch finds delicious (shoes, booze, recreational drugs, sex, modern Irene Adler activities, chocolate cake, sushi, watching the Twilight trilogy for an entire evening, I don't know, it's your Fetch. You know what crazy shit she's into better than I do). They're kind of like Gremlins, I guess? If you feed them little pellets of whatever they're into, they're reasonably docile. You feed them after midnight (or not at all) and life becomes very, very real all of a sudden. Because Fetches are also liars. They're pathological, if it's any consolation so they believe it themselves. If they feel neglected for too long, they start a full campaign. Like, it's no longer enough for you to be tied to the bed post by your spouse but hey you know what would be a great idea? A ball gag with a new partner while in full shibari bondage. You met yesterday, surely this will work out fine, right? (Spoiler: Um, no) Half a piece of cake? Loser, there's a whole fucking cake in the fridge. You should eat it all. It's going to be amazing.
My relationship with my Fetch is (quelle surprise) antagonist, much like how I have a dysfunctional relationship with my Muse but still counsel on working with yours, even if she's a total pain in the ass. Left to her own devices, my Fetch resembles Aubrey Plaza's character here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtOToiIDNRA
Obvi, she should not be left unattended. But I promised her that we would have the summer off. You saw some of our adventures, Queen of the Night, another visit to the McKittrick, lush farmer's markets, any place that would serve us tea and scones, a midsummer's revel party at our house, drinking tequila and eating amazing food in the Mayan Rivera with rowdy brits, brunch at a restaurant Justin Timberlake owns with my PEH. But she's greedy because she's a Fetch, so we went to a festival and watched star showers, started a cult to Mary M, ate ice cream for breakfast washed down with beer and got seduced into evening cocktail parties in the woods with handmade bacon Manhattans in the woods with chandeliers and Turkish rugs and fat babies for me to hold by a rather charming, gorgeous boy. When my Fetch feels underfed, she's unbearable to live with. Her mantra is, I need to be off my leash, I need to be off my leash. Jared, the charming boy in question suggested it wasn't so much needing to be off the leash as off the res. I suspect he was right. My leash is long enough, but I needed time to decompress from my new occupation and adult life can wear one down.
I say this with the utmost love and devotion, but I needed a little time to be away from you, Charmers. I needed to find my voice again. Somewhere between word-vomit, bleeding all over the internet and stark academia is where I needed to be.
One Last Fling Before Fall Claims Us
During the summer, late one night, Jow and I came up with Vagine. In Broad City, Illana rather charmingly refers to one's vagina as a vagine. Somehow, this morphed into the idea of Vagine as an alter-ego. Vagine came up in the French suburbs which is like saying straight out of Compton in U.S. terms. She went to a fancy French boarding
Eat, drink and be merry, Charmers. For tomorrow we start the Books of the Dead.