Confessionssssss (a signature Fitzgerald sonnata as sung by Lithium addled Tom Jones groupies)
1.---Once in a while I feel like the lady pictured below. She is so certain that she is rocking that femullet. She loves two things, and two things only: Mechanical bull-riding in the buff and adorning her aviators with Cherokee sun beads. And she loooooves the camera. Come to think of it, aren't we all just a little femulleted sometimes? (cue sappy muzak played by my Grams and her Mah Jong circle)
2----Sometimes when I go to art openings (or any other enforced social scenario), I feel like Eliza Doolittle from "My Fair Lady." It's as if people ask me intelligent questions, and I respond with a thick cockney accent as I offer them a peek at my 'ladyparts' through my authentic street-urchin stockings. Whew. So I disgust you huh?
Let me ask you this: couldn't the art world use a little more VD?
3.---I don't care about that guy's memoir "A Million Pieces." I just don't give a fuck, or a piece os a fuck, or an Oprah endorsed fuck. Also, don't we all fabricate a little? I mean who hasn't claimed to be Helene, a charmingly chaste schoolteacher from Kilkenny, Ireland in order to score some tail? If Ethan is reading this, then yes I am the "Irish Spring Heiress," and no I haven't forgotten our moment of soapy bliss.