Haven't seen one of these in a while. Pictures have been short. And so have my hemlines. It's so God-blessed hot I haven't worn pants in, say, three months. To write that I haven't spent three quarters of this summer wearing that little black dress would be me being a bad liar - which ain't a surprise, admit it. My creativity levels are a bust, all spent on a few new novels. All going well, for those who care.
And those who don't, whatever.
You're reading it anyway.
So, I thought I'd get caught up here before school starts and I weep continually.
This is a recount of five to twelve days of the same two outfits in rotation with different headbands, shoes, and facial expressions.
Yay.
Free People Double-Wrap leather studded belt=studly perfection.
Collapsable silk magician's top hat: Paris 1897.
Battered Frye boots: gypsy bells, silk scarves, queer bliss.
Hey, there on the floor. Check out that rad/red Tom and Jerry suitcase.
The shit?
Yesh.
It is.
I know, right?
Hoooooooooottttttttt.
My hair's turning a weird color, all on its own.
"Hair Intervention."
It's irritated, and thinks it should be dyed.
I say, very firmly, "No."
So it does the next best thing.
Gets carried away.
Turns blondish.
Mocks me.
Bastard.
This is how I've been feeling.
If you could hear me, I made a sort of an "Eerrrgghhhaaahhhmmm," sound.
Not attractive, but what the hay.
Once the ball's rolling and all.
Silk 1930's bed jacket, sewn and resewn and re-resewn a good hundred and fifty times in the past three weeks.
Every time I move: rrrrriiiipppppppp.
Anyways, it still looks fantabulous.
Don't know how long it'll last.
It's thinner than the pages in Gutenberg's Bible.
Funnnnyyy.
