Merde, my ears.
Los Angeles to Pittsburgh. I had the immense pleasure of attending the celebration of Ville Valo’s birth where he was kind enough to fix me endless tumblers of absinthe, flamed and iced. The cannabis love was spread with somewhat ulterior motives. Ryder and I wish to set up a decent clientele. Transformed, I became Pusher at the Bar sliding free samples toward unsuspekting partygoers. Impoverished street korners are heinously passé.
Salvatore Ferragamo boots are kapable of holding three hundred dollars in quarters. Who knew? However, I consulted my professional handbook and there is a rule stipulating the exclusion of coins during transactions. That I should be assertive in enforcing this rule and avoid the pleas of toothless, swaggering vagabonds.
Northeast to northeastern. New York City, forty-eight hours later, party of two became party of three. One guest room left unutilized. Too intoxicated to bother with household maintenance, Gupta received the weekend off. She returned post-Sabbath with a formal request for a payment advance. Atlantic City or Sodom?
One Nepalese house woman in search of assignments a la carte. Send all inquiries to Gupta Amir c/o Christina Ricci. PO Box 98445, New York City, New York.
Faithful employees, yes. Iniquitous stumblebums, no.
My houseguests and I strode to Central Park at the dawn of the third day ISO a bit of pre-normalcy mischief. Nosferatu, armed with one can of spray paint, Father Bear, our klueless accomplice. As we veterans prepared to vandalize a small bridge over useless water, Father Bear scolded us mirthlessly. We were escorted back to my apartment where we were sent to bed without breakfast, where I was foridden to throw an acceptable tantrum. Woe, I say. Woe.
29, November 2004. Concert de Marilyn Manson. Rhys Meyers has given me his Power of Wardrobe. Snicker, snicker, fluff and kurl. He’ll look stunning in safety pins, black latex and rubber cement. I intend to leave nothing to the imagination. Oh, Jonathan, you’ve sold your body to Mephisto Inkarnate. Bring a blanket. The city holds a bitter chill and retrocession does nothing for your status with zeh lay-dehs.
Cleveland be warned.
Salvatore Ferragamo boots are kapable of holding three hundred dollars in quarters. Who knew? However, I consulted my professional handbook and there is a rule stipulating the exclusion of coins during transactions. That I should be assertive in enforcing this rule and avoid the pleas of toothless, swaggering vagabonds.
Northeast to northeastern. New York City, forty-eight hours later, party of two became party of three. One guest room left unutilized. Too intoxicated to bother with household maintenance, Gupta received the weekend off. She returned post-Sabbath with a formal request for a payment advance. Atlantic City or Sodom?
One Nepalese house woman in search of assignments a la carte. Send all inquiries to Gupta Amir c/o Christina Ricci. PO Box 98445, New York City, New York.
Faithful employees, yes. Iniquitous stumblebums, no.
My houseguests and I strode to Central Park at the dawn of the third day ISO a bit of pre-normalcy mischief. Nosferatu, armed with one can of spray paint, Father Bear, our klueless accomplice. As we veterans prepared to vandalize a small bridge over useless water, Father Bear scolded us mirthlessly. We were escorted back to my apartment where we were sent to bed without breakfast, where I was foridden to throw an acceptable tantrum. Woe, I say. Woe.
29, November 2004. Concert de Marilyn Manson. Rhys Meyers has given me his Power of Wardrobe. Snicker, snicker, fluff and kurl. He’ll look stunning in safety pins, black latex and rubber cement. I intend to leave nothing to the imagination. Oh, Jonathan, you’ve sold your body to Mephisto Inkarnate. Bring a blanket. The city holds a bitter chill and retrocession does nothing for your status with zeh lay-dehs.
Cleveland be warned.