Saturday, November 22, 2003

"Lily is so offensive!" says the doppleganger of a narcissistic sweetheart (no, make that: power-hungry hangetitten).

It's like there are unpaying jobs out there with the following job-description:

Must be adept at sniffing out
offense offenders. Need to
be trained in the arts of
correctness. Aggressively
opinionated. Traditional,
socially-skewed morals. Enjoy
over-simplifying and labels.
Self-described do-gooder.
Please start as soon as possible.
Call 1-800-LUCIFER to apply.

But enough of that. I got new shoes. Going in, I was looking for pumps, but the ones I had my eye on were just so god-awful uncomfortable (even for a shoe-meister like meself). But after trying on the black d'Orsays with spaghetti ankle-wraps, I decided that I was indeed in love and left with my newfound flame, "Paul"*.

*Heh heh. For all my Sex and the City chicas:

"Oh honey, wake up and smell the K-Y. I was flipping through a vintage issue of Honcho. I saw his ad in the Rauncho section. He called himself 'Paul'! Worst hustler name I've ever heard!"

"He and Stanford are in love."

"Hmm, well according to Honcho, he used to be in love all over town."

Oh man, I don't feel guilty about pleasure. That's my problem.

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