146 steps from the mezzanine to my apartment. And that's actual steps, not action steps. Fur coat, lipring, mesh shirt, ta tas, and one I can't describe but also didn't return my greeting. There's sexy and sultry and melancholy. Then there's breaking your shoe on the way to an interview, walking into potted plants and locking yourself out of other people's homes. It's an allegory to having sex in an airplane bathroom, or the back seat of a taxi, or an alley upon which any pedestrian could chance upon at any moment. That 'should we shouldn't we' right before you tear into eachothers trousers. It's Ed Ruscha, Paul McCarthy, and Lois. Poor sweet Lois with the bad sculptures.
Unfortunately, the alarm clock goes off (I'm awake inexplicably three hours earlier than planned) and my prose is broken. Good Morning. Time for cofee.
ps. Last night I had this dream someone was writing a magazine feature on me and during the photoshoot all these punks living in RV's showed and and started making out. The photographer lost interest in me immediately and starting shooting the punks in a frenzy, and I changed into a sweatshirt to go buy coffee for the entourage.
Unfortunately, the alarm clock goes off (I'm awake inexplicably three hours earlier than planned) and my prose is broken. Good Morning. Time for cofee.
ps. Last night I had this dream someone was writing a magazine feature on me and during the photoshoot all these punks living in RV's showed and and started making out. The photographer lost interest in me immediately and starting shooting the punks in a frenzy, and I changed into a sweatshirt to go buy coffee for the entourage.