the King's Call.
As promised.
Scenic as it is-- my mornings are awakened by the sound of jets soaring through fey skies. Loud, deafening. Crisp lunches over afternoons. One of the best nights: Wednesday, post dusk. The lads await, three bottles of vodka no less-- circling around the campfire with marshmallows on single sticks. Stories were exchanged, hints of subtle irony.. and le drunkards vomiting behind the scene. Rarely a night they capitulate towards severe simplicity, us being us. Laid back dorks borderline rebels. I loved every moment. My shirt unbuttoned enough for a tinge of flesh, in lazy blue monotones, burning cocktails.. sipping heat and poignant thoughts from way back when. Safely home before midnight though, with fatigued stems barely able for subsequent motions. Three in the morning, the English lads had me jolted-- and John with the armband (and a goal) left me a merry cunt come morning. What I'm stoked about: the pulchritudinous Prinsloo in undoubtedly.. one of my favorites: the Virgin's "Rich Girls" video. Noted wearing only Agent Provocateur two-piece and a Burberry trench. I'll take two of those.. and Proenza Schouler debuting a vast shoe-line. Fucking radical. Honest to God. I can't remember in actuality where I was on Monday.. or Tuesday-- intoxicated not, blame game on caffeine however. And the Blues can't decide on a manager-- high hopes on Mancini of Milan or Riijkard of the Catalans (loveliest with Messi, ain't it!). Fingers crossed for the dainty repairman to fix my connection. French Vogue editorials, Geraldine Saglio dailies, the Blues updates, transfer rumors.. ah, sobs aplenty. A merry Friday to you.
[MUSIC] Airborne Toxic Event - Does This Mean You're Moving On
In case it's not fixed-- idyllic Friday morning: shoe wholesale. Saturday's a femmes-only, and I intend to rake in good karma. Persuasion and a significant Marc by Marc Jacobs thingamajig.. in the same sentence. Note: ready to sacrifice card balance.
