Foreign Travel & American Entitlement

Ingredients for this My Time: getting the fuck out of 'Merica, little bottles of tequila to bring on the plane (thanks, Tay), hiding places, exta-lift bras.

Honey, my little pure-bred Siamese cat is safe with her sitters, my mother and brother have successfully moved in and one has gone to jail for insider trading (one down, one to go! I kid. It's actually sad. If I hadn't removed my tear ducts after my first divorce to keep the world from knowing my profound pain, I would cry), I've hidden my possessions, I got a bad attitude, and cut half my hair off. So, being that I'm a woman of the world, from nowhere really, I'm ready to go, and terrified of leaving. But, a good bra can make any woman lift her chin an extra inch into the air to provide a reasonable space between tit and face. Honey, I may have a bad attitude, but this bitch's chin is lifted. Where you from?

Which reminds me, because you see, Honey, I have some feelings that seep out sometime when I'm not looking for THEM, and I heard through the rich person email listserv that an authority figure (of wealth) recently said that peons, like me, a mere millionaire, are too entitled and complain too much, while when he was working through his millions to billions, he would have never complained about some such nonsense. Honey, only in 'Merica does meta complaining happen. Well, this elegant gash is getting out of this shit pile to another richer, oil baron country where instead of men complaining about complaining they complain about real things, like, why are you so fat? Why isn't your shirt off yet? Why are we still talking? Do you like yachts? Why don't you get a Brazilian? Are you good at keeping secrets? How much? Only a system that facilitates complaining as a way to avoid dealing with actual messes has the luxury of complaining about complaining. That damn gym! How I loathe and need my workout amongst billionaires! How I crave their mildly polite attention in a socially cold climate, but how I suffer from the inability to workout in my heels, without irony, just complete, pure sincerity at work that needs a pat on the back while I work toward my goal! I will never succeed in this small world of working out...

Me, I'm just all out there and terrible, as is 'Merica, but it simultaneously has its lips pressed so tight that they blister. Me, my lips couldn't be looser. Haha I kid--of course I've had rejuvenation.

It's probably because I'm entitled that I can't see the forest for the mentally ill trees. It's probably because I'm a tall, naked monster. It's probably because my next husband will be consumed through my teeth-bearing vagina and puked out in gold coins through my mouth while I scream for Sum Gratification.

my body is a nightmareland

Now that, Honey, will be a hard day worth complaining about, over champers for all the 'Merican billionaires on me, of course. If my plane doesn't crash, see you at the gym in July, Honey, and Authority: I just might see you again. If not, I'm sure your life will be much easier. If we must meet and you must smile accordingly, I expect a pretend-hug and champers toast in crystal goblets. I promise to never complain about the blood soaked towels and noodles in the toilet of the gym again. Because those things are so normal.

Seeing as how all of this has made complete sense, I now depart. I have many hats and low-cut bathing suits to pack for my foreign travel.

love,
your Daggy

Looking Elegant for your country

Ingredients for this My Time: vinyl clothing, a small town, being "still in my 20s"

At My Time we believe in a lady's prerogative to have personal space. But, when a lady goes out in public, she must comply with societal standards, and that means looking elegant. As you can see, men prefer and flock to elegance, the cameras come out, suddenly you are the commissioner of some important organization, suddenly swarthy and translucent men alike want to be near you, the world is yours, the world, the world is saying, "Dagmer, remember your 20s? Remember when your power source (vagina) was the flag of a small company of 100-200 members? Remember the elegance, the photo shoots, the swarthdom and see-through skin of men always posing or looking on at you:"

The right amount of alcohol splash on a bra really brings them calling. We women know about "perfumes," just as we know in our 20s to place the "attention ring" on the finger of the left hand just right to the MARRIAGE FINGER to add an elegance that men read as intrigue, or what they might say as "I better hit that before it done got hit for good. I like girl, girl good" before they leave you, saying something like, "I just can't be in a relationship right now. I need to work on me" and marry the next woman they meet. Oh, the romping of one's 20s! Now, in other decades, if still with a gloriously winter wonderland womb and the name of our fathers--the names of ghosts--men who don't even exist anymore, we move that ring one place left to the ACTUAL FINGER to subconsciously impress upon the men the possibilities they are missing. My recently made couture ring sends dolphin sonic waves and flashes once every 3.5 seconds. Not enough to make a man have a seizure, but enough to hypnotize his hilarious, privileged discomfort enough to turn his eyes downward where the left hand rests on the crossed knee, ever so close to the Arctic Circle For Children of my body. Oh, Honey, they are ever so easy to poke and see in their subconscious, aren't they? Hold on...pouring some of mommy's special medicine (yes I'm a mother, I HAVE SEVERAL FELINES)...

Remembering these important girlish charms of my 20s made me devastated to read that a fine, elegant woman who is only 28 (seriously, she says she's 28. Compare a picture of your much older self to hers) is being left out of important clubbing events that could lead to her owning a small company whose emblem is a vinyl-laden sex organ of a woman in her 20s only because she wishes to dress in a way that shows the world that, indeed, her father is long gone, and it's time to take another man's name, for without a living man's name, who are we women? (well, obviously we are a lot more. Review the blog post on "lying" if you've forgotten. But a powerful woman must always refrain from baring her real wounds to the world and only show the world the one part of herself that men identify subconsciously as "the wound.") Sadly, this woman has four children to take care of, also. With such elegance and evidence of a non-icy mid-section, this woman should be the mayor! How dare a nation deny her the power of her own elegance? Dear readers, I'm sure after reading the terrifying article on this elegant specimen of womanhood, allowing herself more than all of us a little My Time, I sincerely hope you contact the country of Europia and tell them that World War IV is over. Simply comment on this article online to let Europia know what you think of them! Or...It!--let this woman be her power, elegant, in her 20s self.

Remember, take a close look at her face and remind yourself, this woman is telling the world simply the truth. She is in her 20s.