Sweet Little Lies
Last night, while tossing back cocktails in one of the City's more anonymous waterholes I was accosted by a young man, a sometime confidante of mine. Apparently he had read the previous post in this journal and was convinced that my less-than-complimentary portrait of the Red Bull was, sans doubte, him. A scuffle broke out, and a perfectly good drink lost when I was forced to throw it in my assailant's face.
Sweet reader, I will tell you now what I told my one-time confidante. You are a unique snowflake of singular specificity, an avatar for all that is good and fashionable and right in this world. You will never EVER appear in this journal.
There, now, doesn't that make you feel better?
Sweet reader, I will tell you now what I told my one-time confidante. You are a unique snowflake of singular specificity, an avatar for all that is good and fashionable and right in this world. You will never EVER appear in this journal.
There, now, doesn't that make you feel better?