What the smeg. (This is a rant.)
Ok, let's get this out of the way, first. LA LA Land was gorgeous. Sunny, women for miles and miles and a lot of breasts. A lot of them fake. A lot of men wearing bathing suits that made them look naked that should have known better. (When you see some hairy old guy and you can count all his body parts in a row, one two three, there is SOMETHING WRONG. I will never be able to bleach that sight out of my brain. If I end up with Alzheimer's, I'll probably still be able to see it, like that old bat shrieking about there being something nasty in the woodshed. "I SAW SOMETHING NASTY AT THE BEACH!")
Ok, so. Hollywood. WHAT THE FUCK? First of all, you asshole actor, no, I'm not interested in fucking you, you're not half as attractive as you think you are. Patchouli is no excuse for not bathing, not now, not ever, and you smell BAD. Not just bad, but Bog of Eternal Stench bad. (Somewhere, you can hear Ludo saying 'smell baaaaaad.) Secondly, no, I'm not going to go hit on that hot actress with the fake boobs just because you know I'm a lesbian and you think it means you'll get a free show. Lesbian means that I don't HAVE to put on a show for you, I'm not impressed, either by you, your cock, your so-called acting talent or your paycheck that's no doubt as small as your pitiful little dick!
And you! Bigshot director! I didn't spit in your coffee when I got it for you, but if you call me 'cracker' one more time, I will. I am NOT a cracker, I am not from the South. I am a New Englander. Nor am I some kind of freaking puritan, but next time you want to get that assistant of yours to blow you, could you have the courtesy to CLOSE THE FREAKING DOOR? I mean, when I'm trying to go use the single bathroom that's provided, that's /just/ what I want to see is you, sitting on the fucking throne, with some poor bastard bobbing up and down on your decidedly unattractive knob! Also, if you try to get my best friend to be your assistant one more time, you're going to feel my foot up your ass.
Next up: what the fuck is with all the fake tits? Women, I don't care if they're small, they're so much more attractive when they're real, you shouldn't feel like you have to blow yourselves up like balloons just so you can get a casting couch audition with that fuckhead of a director who isn't even going to cast you because you're a bleach blonde instead of a real one, or you're half an inch too to tall to make the leading man feel manly! Please, women, you are beautiful as you are, and I hate to see what you do to yourselves to work with some false ideal of beauty! Skeletal is NOT ATTRACTIVE and if you're starving yourself so that you can look ten pounds thinner, I'm going to point out that Marilyn Monroe still is the known image of Beauty in this country, and she was a size 16! AND she had a little pooch. Yet she was one of the most attractive women ever. Or Sophia Loren, a living goddess! (How old is she? That woman's still insanely beautiful!) And she didn't starve herself out of real curves! GO EAT A SANDWICH! I won't tell on you, I promise. (Plus, fake tits, to quote Robin Williams, don't dance, they don't sing, they just go UNH, like Nazis.)
All that aside, it was one hell of a fun summer. The gossip was insane, the shenanigans were intense, the food was great, and my tolerance for booze has grown.
Dash and I are thinking of doing a type of Film Noir housewarming party, and filling the bathtub with ice for the alcohol, even if we can't have proper bathtub gin. Costumes will not be required, but will be appreciated. We'll let you know when it happens. If it happens. We might buy the booze and decide that Spring Break will be held at our place, early, and no one will see us or our guests for weeks, because we'll all be drunk.
Oh, yeah. I'm baaaaaaaaack!