As Samuel Beckett famously said, “So. I wrote a thing.”

Right.  I’ve written a book, then. I probably shouldn’t have, but it is, in any case, available for sale tomorrow. It is not a terribly important book as it is full of bad sex and largely absent of good politics. There is no noble reason to buy it, and I only recommend that you do so if you crave what may be a funny account of a breakup recovery.

These are the bones: a few years ago, I went completely fucking potty when my long-term partner gave me the sack. I wasn’t really expecting her to leave and even though her company had made me miserable, I missed it desperately. Anyhoo. In a moment of recklessness, I decided to go on one hundred dates inside a year to see if I could cheer myself up, stopping only if I found someone to love/make miserable.

I attended a literary “speed date”. I tried to fuck a Russian (a lifelong ambition). I invited myself to a BDSM beginner’s lunch. I talked to a guy who asked me to dress as a sheep. I went out with some exes. I learned that I could never enjoy the intimate company of persons who enjoy the music of Coldplay/the economic theories of the Chicago School. I also started going to a twelve-step program, and seriously considered becoming religious. These latter decisions had nothing to do with dating, but I *may* have picked up a handjob outside a church.

Obviously, I am not going to tell you if I found happiness etc. as this would not only diminish the small chance that you are going to buy my silly book, but it would also make the false point that “personal growth” was my aim. Which it was not. I was simply trying to survive a period in which I felt, at best, self-loathing and, at worst, a bit like I wanted to top myself. As can tend to occur after a breakup or divorce.

If there is a moral purpose to this book (there’s not, I was really just trying to crack jokes at my own emotional expense, and your actual expense) it is to counter eat-pray-love-ism. We don’t have to learn. We don’t have to grow. We just have to adapt if we want to survive. So, if you want a divorce protagonist who has no aim loftier than remembering to bathe herself, perhaps it might suit you. I should also say that my beloved cat features prominently in this text. This is a cat person book. It is also a book for people who have been dumped, but don’t have any money to go on expensive journeys of self-discovery, and even if they did, would not subject the people of India to their tantrums. Christ. Haven’t they been colonised enough?

Buy it. Don’t buy it. I have already had a go in my life at being famous and found it didn’t make me particularly happy, so I really don’t give much of a fuck. I mean, money would be nice, but I’ve given up on ever accumulating any of that. My publisher is quite nice, though. I’d like her to have some money, at least so she can publish other books. But, basically, don’t feel any pressure.

However. Do please feel pressure to attend one of my “bookstore appearances”. Can you imagine how fucking embarrassing it is to go to one of these things as an author and have three people show up? That happened to me. In 1999, I wrote a book about My Fascinating Depressive Disorder (don’t bother) and some deluded bookstore in Sydney’s North Shore invited me to spruik it. As I have never operated a Thermomix, I am very unpopular on Sydney’s North Shore. The PR guy called his boyfriend so he could pretend he was lining up to have the book signed. Thanks for that, Andy, and I hope you’re doing well.

I mean, please. This appeal to you is one strictly of individual compassion. You don’t have to like me, approve of me or even consider the purchase of this book. You just have to BE THERE. Please. Shit. I am a middle-aged angry Marxist lady without social skills. At least if you’re THERE, I will not automatically feel as though I have failed socially. Again. As I did, perhaps up to one hundred times while I was writing this ridiculous book, and for all my life.

Here are the dates. They are linked to booking information. PLEASE FUCKING COME.

Melbourne, Monday February 6

This event, 6pm at Readings in Carlton has sold out, apparently. But, you know. People will not fucking come. I know this, because those who RSVPed are largely my friends whom I personally nagged. As I probably didn’t turn up for their birthday party/iftar dinner due to my social anxiety/laziness, they are perfectly entitled to return the diss. So what I am saying is that if you happen to be at 309 Lygon St, Carlton, Victoria, 3053 at 6pm on Monday February 6, there will possibly be a seat for you. They also have awfully nice manners at Readings, Melbourne’s best bookstore, and are quite unlikely to throw you out.

It will be hosted by my generous friend Francis Leach, a well-regarded broadcaster and sports guy. So at least there will be someone there for you to like.

Sydney, Wednesday February 8

This event, 6pm at Gleebooks in Glebe, has not sold out. I take this very personally. I have a great fondness for this store, which is the one in which I first spent my own adult wages on books. I also applied for a job there once back when I was at USyd, and even though they sensibly didn’t give me one, they sent me a very nice note in reply. I had told the manager that I intended to be a writer one day, and he or she replied that they would certainly stock my books.

What I am saying is that in failing to attend this event, you are effectively shitting on the dreams of a lonely teenager.

My comrade Eden Riley, of the marvellous and quite unstruck edenland, has kindly agreed to host the event. She knows pain. AND SO WILL I IF YOU DO NOT FUCKING BOOK FOR THIS EVENT YOU SELFISH BASTARD.

Brisbane, Thursday February 9

This event at 6pm at Avid Reader in West End has not sold out. I take this quite personally, as I have long been charmed by a place that stubbornly only sells the books that it likes, and employs writers like the fantastically filthy Krissy Kneen.

I mean. Why do you hate me, Brisbane? Is it because I walked around The Wickham once in 1997 with my left tit hanging out for half an hour before a nice gentleman asked me to conceal it? I can assure you, this was not an intended affront to the fine homosensual gentlemen of that establishment, and I had simply forgot to put it away following its removal in the ladies.

BOOK YOU INSENSITIVE PRICK I AM DYING. This event will be hosted by the eminent ABC broadcaster, Paul Barclay, who will make every effort to steer conversation out of my trousers and into a broader social context.

Thank you very much for booking. Thank you for agreeing to “follow” my very tedious author page on Goodreads, which I just produced instead of doing my actual work. Thank you very much for deigning to read this silly book, available from tomorrow in electronic and printed form.

The rest of you can, in this case, get knotted, as I am feeling very self-absorbed and sensitive, after the fashion of lady memoir writers.

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