Tuesday, February 07, 2006

She wore very conservative, plain black heels (neither kitten nor stiletto) and a long, London Fog-type silky trenchcoat, belted firmly at the waist -- 1990s business classic. Across her pale, creased face were unremarkable spectacles, and a pinched expression. She looked like a bitch in its truest tradition -- unpleasant, uncompromising, and maddeningly right in every instance.

Yet, her hair. It was cut like a doll's, two inches past her jaw, ends curving inwards perfectly, with short, precious bangs ... and dyed the dull, Gothic black of a delicious, sulky, sexually outraged sixteen-year-old girl.

I looked at her again.

You confuse me, I thought. And I like it.

posted at 8:30:18 am

February 8, 2006   10:14 PM PST
So, I was going to leave a comment, and it was probably terribly witty, but when this window opened, I was presented with a giant picture of breasts with a tagline reading "TALK TO YOUR PERFECT WOMAN NOW!"

So now I'm too terrified to type.

Leave a Comment:


Homepage (optional)


Previous Entry | Next Entry

<< February 2006 >>
Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri Sat
 01 02 03 04
05 06 07 08 09 10 11
12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25
26 27 28

Glo'ri'a'na, noun:
1. An alternative form of "Gloria."
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.


home | contact | profile

art    blogging    body    childhood    consumerism    dream    durr    family    fashion    film    history    humour    internet    language    lit    nerd    people    poetry    rant    romance    school    sex    social relations    toronto    ttc    work   

If you want to be updated on this weblog Enter your email here: