FRAN LEBOWITZ

12:55 P.M.—I try to get back to sleep. Although sleeping is an area in which I have manifested an almost Algeresque grit and persistence, I fail to attain my goal.

:20 P.M.—I go downstairs to get the mail. I get back into bed. Nine press releases, four screening notices, two bills, an invitation to a party in honor of a celebrated heroin addict, a final disconnect notice from New York Telephone, and three hate letters from Mademoiselle readers demanding to know just what it is that makes me think that I have the right to regard houseplants—green, living things—with such marked distaste

I read. I smoke. The clock, unfortunately, catches my eye.

3:40 P.M.—I consider getting out of bed. I reject the notion as being unduly vigorous. I read and smoke a bit more

4:15 P.M.—I get up feeling curiously unrefreshed. I open the refrigerator. I decide against the half a lemon and jar of Gulden’s mustard and on the spur of the moment choose instead to have breakfast out. I guess that’s just the kind of girl I am—whimsical

The acceptance of construction boots as suitable attire for members of the fair sex

. The provision of the southern portion of the United States with a topic of conversation

Very few people possess true artistic ability. It is therefore both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort. If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass. Your life story would not make a good book. Do not even try

DINNER AT A FINE RESTAURANT—2 YEARS to earn the money; 27 years for the collective to decide on a restaurant.

All too often children are accompanied by adults