Not much is actually happening in my life besides my monthly ovarian revolution. Little bolshevik bastards, pounding outside the doors of my beautiful palace and makin' my palace look all bloated and shit. So bloated that I can't wear any of my palace pants, and have to resort to the only pants that will accommodate such rancor for the monarchy and abdomen beating...they happen to be plaid.
Nor can I wear my normal palace shirts because they make me look like a big bratwurst with ill-measured casing....or Star Jones-Reynolds. Zing! So, instead I have to wear my special palace shirts, which are large, were purchased in the 90's and also happen to be plaid; but of a different variety than the aforementioned pants.
Lessee, I'm working on a installation for Leipzig, but the wardrobe I'm making is frustrating me. To find the line between deliberately crappy and accidentally crappy is hard. Like finding the appropriate tone of jibing with your close friends.
statement: "Nice shirt Ali, you look like a pirate."
rebuttal: "I despise your outlook on life and have slept with both your siblings."
Berlin is good and alive, yesterday I slipped on a half-eaten apple and some youths called me a "schlampe."