Rants About Pants.
Monday and it's blues.
Unconsciously.. out of misery perhaps-- I sent a plea letter to the Honky Tonk Orchestra whom have yet to reply. But I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Good bands don't deserve an end. And because Daniel Danger is fucking Godsent. Text book emissions absent, still-- headed down to the Curve in thrifted high-waisted glory and tucked white t-shirt tattered by God knows how many machine washes. A book hunt that ended with Cormac McCarthy's "No Country For Old Men"-- because the part with the coin toss was ever intriguing. And the script is proportional to the novel itself.. so I'm doing the double: film/novel conquering. And nothing surprising, but-- the infinite line of Didier haters have surfaced with newcomers. Right before the Champions League clash and belongs to a certain cunt cult in red. Familiar, no? Be it. Upper East Side repertoire ends tonight. Sad faces everywhere I bet. No more Chuck Bass Tuesdays, no more neon orange trenchcoats, no more shark sweaters.. damn it, I'm too attached. What I need, for now: leather glory, a miniature discount on a Marc by Marc tan carry-all, obnoxious shoes to flatter absence of height-- and Friday night's clothing schedule. Really. Ludicrous, I know. Enough. There's chapters to be embedded through this awfully thick skull, and to surrender towards late-night caffeine abuse to accumulate enthusiasm for tomorrow's Science duo and one History. A shit festival. Yes.
[MUSIC] Blonde Redhead - Silently
