the Irrelevant Sexist.
If only..
Failed shoe conquests, a rejection of Longchamp Legende, dusk Olio-galloping at Dome.. routine inhumane acts of yours truly. Except for the Longchamp rejection-- where I am an anti-patent extremist; and a thousand wasted on such seasonal favors is a thousand less in.. oh no-- I can't ruin the surprise. Yet. Say.. it's a themed post. As of late evening, I was strolling through the rows of avant-garde aesthetics, plastered a pretend-smug portrait and touched goods made impossible with ghastly currency exchange rates. Truly despicable. Yet I can't seem to rear away.. but, point is: I am on the verge of a virgin suicide. Pun intended. Emaciated out of clothing goods, shoes(!), and trans-fat (refraining shortened life span, please don't discourage such a weak youth). Quests emerging.. and what's up with these quests in the first place. It's a little reminiscent of my way-back-when moments.. the child (alleged) maestro of Command and Conquer II. Such glorious moments. What my hands want (and will get!): new shoes; coveted gladiators, lace-up flat Oxfords, metallic sneakers-- a bag; Chanel trustfund drought, and the wait to my sixteenth birthday is disguised with pretentious merry acts. White semi sheer button-down! Exclamations are first warnings of incoming delusions.. but not for another "What I'm Stoked About". What? Euro; balls and men with balls. True bravery of Cech. The metrosexual men and us femmes searching for manly things. Masculinity is lush, truly. I can't do this. In the next seconds, I'll whip up a phone (from nowhere, magical..) and speed-dial McDonalds. I fucking need a BigMac. Fuck health regimes. Trans-fat is legend.
[MUSIC] Lo-Fi Culture Scene - Abstract
