So I went to this weird "Jane Magazine" party the other night. It was HipsterCity. Dolce and Gabbana-Rama. The United Stella of McCartney. Umm...Calvin Kleinlund? Everyone there was so fashionable. Like Nicole Ritchie only slightly thinner and more talented at coke concealment. Dat shit was reserved for the second floor, which was whiter than Conan OBrien's lil in between places.
Comparatively speaking, I felt sort of like a mud and blood stained rugby player, gnawing on someone's severed ear. Probably one of my many unworthy opponents. I think I would be good at Rugby, I am filled with rage and a sense of inadequacy. Plus, I feel as though I could really give a girl a good plowin'! (stop.)
That's all. Yanni stole me a T-shirt off a manequin. Yanni plug!