"How much longer can I get away with being so fucking cute?"
Not much longer. The shoes with bows, the cunning underwear with slogans on the crotch - Knock Here, and so forth - will have to go, along with the cat suit. After a while you forget what you really look like. You think your mouth is the size it was. You pretend not to care.
When I was young I went with my hair hiding one eye, thinking myself daring; off to the movies in my jaunty pencil skirt and elastic cinch-belt chewed gum, left lipstick imprints the shape of grateful, rubbery sighs on the cigarettes of men I hardly knew and didn’t want to. Men were a skill, you had to have good hands, breathe into their nostrils, as for horses. It was something I did well, like playing the flute, although I don’t.
Currently i’m 7 away from having answered the question “What Are You Doing?” on Twitter. Since it is only 8 o’clock on a Saturday night, I’m assuming the 6000th Tweet will be happening within 2 hours or so… possibly at the El Rey theatre for the Sweater Festival catching Castledoor hopefully ;)
I have a lovely borrowed sweater from Danny, rather Christmassy, hoping to pair it with some tights, boots, and um… lots of Xmas cheer?
Oh… to prove how all-for-Twitter I am, I’m also in a competition. Vote for me: