Thank you, Nicole. I had such a wonderful time cleaning up after you, you with your penchant for drama, your deluded self-image, your inimitable flair for disorder, which can only be matched by your bent-headed arrogance, your total lack of manners (etiquette not being part of your vocabulary, limited though it may be), your lowbrow ways–bordering dangerously on salaciousness, and your annoying habit of caterwauling at my door, like a stray, intent on wheedling her way into the relative calm of my private sanctuary.

Nicole passes through my colocasia garden, leaving in her hateful wake twisted metal and laying waste to a perfectly good and colorful collection of foulards.

This is what Nicole thinks of pineapples (la vieille folle).

Nicole hates bananas and I hate Nicole.

Aside from having a distaste for bananas, Nicole does not care for papaya.

Nicole, this may be what your hair looks like in the morn, but this contagion is an outrage?

Your black heart has blackened my pear tree’s once green leaves.

Was this necessary?

You couldn’t burn the figs up like the leaves? For shame.

The Inca peanut vine was too lush for your taste?

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