Voices clatter and clammer in my head.
They tell me to do various things. One time, I shoved a zebra ornament up my vagina. Friends always tell me, "Edith, you're one crazy Victorian bitch." I usually respond by flinging pickled cabbage in their faces.
"Improper," they say. "Edith Fitzgerald is an improper Victorian lady!" Hogwash. Absolute hogwash. At least, I know I'm alive.
Occasionally, I'll run around downtown Dublin in my knickers. The town constable furrowed his brow and talked about indecency and moralistic jibberjabber.
Granted, I'm not the most popular Victorian-era woman on the block. Mrs. Reingald doesn't invite me to her prim-and-proper tea parties with her sophisticated dollies, chintzy china and half-baked crumpets. Whenever she sees me on the street, she turns up her nose. Hmpfh. Hmpfh.
What Mrs. Reingald doesn't know is that I urinated on her hydrangeas one October morning after drinking a pot of fresh cider.
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