Inspired by Joey Lawrence joining CHIPPENDALE'S, and can we PLEASE mention how smug he is acting in interviews about it? Dude, you're the "whoa" guy. That's your claim to fame. Deal with it.
Me on the other hand, Honey, I'm fam-us for my games. Emotional, sexual, card and dice, I'm always game. Ha ha see what I did? I used a word as a noun and as an adjective-like thing. That's an adjective, right? Or. Wait. That's another noun, a state of being. Ha ha who am I kidding? I HAVE NO state of being. I'm all adjectives without a noun to associate the characteristics with. Let's play a game.
First, let's prepare for the game. After days of not eating due to an illness caught in Mexico NO IT'S NOT HEP C I've been, as ladies like to say with their calories, "catching up." I have DIET cheese and crackers in front of me, a lazy too-rasiany tasting Italian red in my glass, and a stupid food show on the television that I am inhaling because it's like celery--negative calorie intake. Can you imagine that? Celery is like negative calories. It is truly God and God's other at the same time.
Now, here's a fun game. It's called Shame. I'll start.
You Know It's Been Awhile When...
you put on mascara before going to get a massage.
you have more than one kind of bubble bath in your bathing area.
a man as gay as a unicorn with a rainbow mane and a black leather studded saddle grabbing your breasts made you feel funny
you call your cat "my lover, my baby"
YOU ARE THINKING ABOUT BEING IN YOUR 30S WITH NO MONEY, NO PROSPECTS, SUPPORT BRAS, AND BACK ACHES
you are making a list about your lack
NOSE HAIR!!!!
you spread out on your bed and sigh every night
you hold your Mr. Knife tight under the pillow
you hold a selenite orb in your left hand and act as conduit
you are more magickal because of the last time you weren't in lack
you are watching television without worrying if YOUR SMART LOVER IS JUDGING YOU because, well, you don't have one
you found a line on your face that you think looks cool
you don't care as much what you look like anymore
you worry about dying, sure, but you aren't worried about forcing it
eh, you're fine, so have another drink, because NO ONE IS JUDGING YOUR LACK OF MODERATION, and deal with this, you fucking freak who's having a good time with your games
Ingredients for this My Time: Immodium AD, Hint flavored water, bed, an Iphone, a gay life partner.
Well hello there, Honey. What are you doing? Oh, that's nice. Work, vacay, coffee, morning cocktails. Your life sounds so normal and nice. Oh, me? Thanks for asking. I'm here. You know. Here. Let me tell you how it began.
I was in the Mexico City airport, again, as an elegant woman finds herself in occasionally. Whilst before there I had seen a strange yet alluring man playing a ukelele and humming a tune, following me with his gaze while I was trying to eat my huevos rancheros WITH NO CHEESE in private shame, and I thought, who is this strange man, and should I talk to him
Dr. Suess-shaped-face of musicians
it was already too late. Thus, another husband squandered due to your little Dag stuffing her face with LOVE AND SAFETY. While men can do things like compete in "The Biscuit Challenge" for no gain, emotional or physical--just pure prowess and intrigue--we women, as you will see below, have deep emotional bonds with our eating. But this time, I was on a return trip to Los Angeles, or as Shas of Sunset call it, Tehrangelos
I was remembering my incredible arrival into MX City when I found a whole new kind of lover
who I sang to, with all my heart, how you're my best friend, but I am just to close to love you, but I can't stop loving you, but I am too close to love you
After working so hard on the final chapter of my project, I shoveled that good lovin' in (under a large, expensive sun hat, of course, to hide my shame and orgasmic glory, which often go hand-in-hand), and celebrated a special day in any woman's life who has worked an office job and gets off in time for the happy hour at Acapulco Restaurant and Bar while still wearing tan stockings and a poly-blend suit jacket with diminutive shoulder pads--like only an inch thick--
But you know what I was thinking on this return trip to the airport, on my way back to the Shas who live and love in "the ghettos of Beverly Hills," as they say? I was thinking, no Dagmar. If you ever want to get married again (haha, I kid, I was thinking, if you ever want increase your alimony payments by getting another divorce. haha I kid again, I was thinking about how all I want is love and the roll around my waist named WineChips and the lines on my delicate pale skin will prevent that from ever happening haha) you better learn some manners. So what did I do, Honey? I ordered the clear vegetable soup with chicken broth. Consomme. Can you believe it?
Upon arriving to my summer home in Malibu-Lite, I started to feel a little, how should I put it, effervescent on the inside. Having recently purchased a diamond-studded IPhone, I immediately went to text various rich friends to tell them what I was experiencing a little to much of. Realizing my fingers are far too fat to text on the IPhone, I was resolved in my choice to order the consomme. Honey, I said to myself in the bathroom mirror one of the fifty times I was in there, I'm asking you to change your ways. As I tried to punch the fucking so fucking little letter keys with my long, elegant, feminine nails, "it was then that I realized," a phrase spoken on Sex and City almost as many times as I was running to the bathroom (seriously, you want to click on and read that link immediately), that my fingers weren't the problem. My elegance was. I ordered a sopa like a lady. I had long, perfect nails. Why was this horrible thing happening to me? Once I could, I did what every rich, lonely straight (unless we're talking big money) woman does, I texted my gay male life partner to explain my situation. Now, on SATC, if the vapid Carrie Bradshaw had texted her gay male buddy, he surely would have bemoaned her state, sent her flowers, and canceled a date with a model to be with her. Because he'd be rich and for some reason Carrie B. is like a gold-dusted chocolate fountain to everyone in SATC's New York.
Good Job, Sociopath.
But my gayelle life partner, raised in the buffets of Hawaii, the only place buffets in the USA have been shut down by the amount of eating the masses can do, responds: "Hahahahaha." And then, "at least you'll lose some weight." And then, after I explained that this concern is what got me in this mess in the first place, as I ordered soup over nachos, he tells me: "Big mistake. Bitch it's always about nachos."
"It was then that I realized"
It's true; it is always about nachos. And that's the lesson here. I've learned it for all of us, Honey, so you don't have to go through what I am right now. I can't even drink red wine! Sure, a white wine spritzer between runs to the gold-plated toilet seat, but nay a Bourdeaux in my Bourdeaux-hole.
Ingredients for this My Time: natural phenomena, wistful thinking, scheduled drinking.
Hola, Lovers. It seems like the farther along I get with my project, the less I am able to connect with my "fans." It is atrocious of me, I know. And if I had a human heart enough to care, I wouldn't be using this sentence to pretend that I care. But hear me out.
My pure bred, feral linx got sick, and I was with her in the exotic animal vet. Then, I drove across the country to one of my summer homes in Malibu-Lite, then all these boys visited. Boys! They came from the muscular farm sun of Missouri and the mysterious clouds of Washington, with Iphones and tight jeans, with proper shaving and nice white shirts, with lisps and foul mouths, with cocktails and appetites. It really brought me back.
After being so long in my project that I was sure I would not gaze upon such greased up gorgeousness again, I was just dumbstruck. I drank margaritas, I smelled their hair when they weren't looking, I thought about all the things they could say to boss me around, I ate their hand towels, I worshiped at the altar of the patriarchy, and loved every minute of it. While they watched other women, I lasciviously watched them. I devoured their desires through breath and, as if exhaling is having, I made them my own. I imprinted them on my body, and like that, it was if their desires for the women around us were desires already writing on my skin.
That reminds me, I need to cash another alimony check...if I won't ever be able to fall in love again--ha ha, I kid--I've never loved anyone except God and Mr Grey Goose--ha ha I kid again--my heart is so fragile that it breaks like each marriage egg and fucking fries, Lovers, fries like a bad simile--
then I will spend their fucking money. Which reminds me. You know how I really knew my marriage was over with the fucking classy man? Well, beside the fact that he played Everything But The Girl at dinner parties? Well, and beside the fact that he was already married, thus leaving me with no alimony after it all went kaput? When we started going Dutch. I mean, who are these Dutch people with their awful rules for women? How dare they think I'm dignified enough to pay for my own lobby and champers. As we all know, I have no dignity. I want no dignity.
So, I'm in Miami-Lite, soon to leave to Oaxaca for one of seven weddings this year of the rich, fabulous people of the world that I'll grit my teeth through. I kid. I love a good wedding. So much free al-co-hol. And what woman, whose womb is as dried as a dead batch of corn, and who doesn't trust men as far as she can fuck 'em, doesn't love attending wedding after wedding and seeing something in this world work out? I strap on a bra, throw on a dress and a sun hat, etch lipstick on my face, and voila, I'm in another country at another wedding with less money and more opportunities for scandal. My life is fabulous.
But today, the wretched day of the week, Sunday, the day when it seems that all hope with fail, a solar eclipse awaits us. I, of course, will be with fabulous (and some foreign!) people on the roof of a Los Angeles LOFT, staring directly into what keeps me alive and might blind me. I don't buy the whole don't look directly bull--my strength and my problem is that I always, always, look directly into it and walk away with less sight but more vision. Of course, while others are looking I plan to stand behind them and suck their energy in through their ears, keeping my gorgeous, youthful skin that much more so. And cocktails, cocktails, cocktails, Honey.
The world can't keep a loveless wench--I mean a tender, romantic soul--it's so hard to tell sometimes when one's spirit is a pendulumm and one's life seems to follow--like me down if it can't keep its own sun.
Talk soon, Honies, champers on me! Ha ha I kid--on every ex who paid for breaking my heart.
