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Originally Posted by SVZ
this is called "i spent last morning and night crying over shiloh and didn't have time to pick out an outfit"
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Yes, yes. I suppose so, the poor wilting orchid.
Tears can play hell with the image one sees in the mirror. Even more so with the "hired help." My gawd! Does the woman not have a single friend left (no pun intended), someone to say, "Hey! Dumbass! You wore that the last 763 times you went to the diner for a whine and a photo op!"
And that hair? PUH-LEASE give us something--ANYTHING. I have original releases--on vinyl--of Beatle albums that are younger than that passe razor-hacked mop.
(Now I need meat. A succulent, undercooked, fat-seathing, E. coli-ridden, bloody burgers. Basically, a flattened ball of ground disease on a Kaiser roll, with onions, tomato, leaf lettuce, and a thin schmear of ketchup. Which means, of course, that the port goes back on the shelf. Just as well; I am devoid of Stilton anyway. Firing up the grill. Hmmm . . . which red to open?)
Decions, decisions.
Vi