I tell ya, feast or famine... Today I was in midtown (yeesh) for a meeting with my thesis adviser at MoMA. I didn't wear my mohawk proper because I didn't want to shock the prof (too much) or get my damn picture taken by tourists, which has happened more than once in Manhattan and it creeps me the fuck out. Somewhere in the world someone has my
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and because "real" women are NOWHERE to be seen, i guess men are just left to assume that we're all as easy as the images on TV. (actually, you and i are a great experiment: we often dress a lot alike, in our tees and jeans and leather cuffs, and now you've got the short hair. but you get catcalled and i get "sir?" bc of my height and small breasts. what happens if we're together? are you my girlfriend? am i your boyfriend? NOW what do they see? we must investigate further.)
i am TOTALLY willing to bang a guy twice my age. Mr. Rickman can violate, degrade, and objectify me anytime. you don't even have to call me, Alan. happy 60th, daddy...
i'm starting to work up a thing for Tom Wilkinson, too. what the fuck is wrong with me???
more than you realy wanted from
- jen
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I have NO idea what's up with your daddy thing, but you own it!
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