هذا [كو] [إيرن] دبوس الزينة كيف رئيس سيدة سوفت هذّبت: كلّ ذكيّة خطوط ويحدّد أشكال, كلّ تلألؤ حادّة وأبيض صافية بتول.

أيّ يذكّر [م-ثيس] [كو] [إيرن] عمل دبوس الزينة أيضا عظيمة أن يشبك فوق أنّ حافة من خاصّتي, الواحدة أنّ إصابات صحيحة ركباتك.

لأنّ مثل سيدة, هذا [كو] [إيرن] دبوس الزينة يحصل هو:

حياة قصيرة. حافتك سوفت كنت, أيضا.

» [كو] [إيرن] دبوس الزينة $615, Net-a-Porter.com

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"مرحبا, يمكن أنا تكلّمت مع [كريستوفر]?"

"هذا هو," يقول أنا, ينتظر ل ال [أوسول-]

"[أه]! [أه]… أنا [ثووغت-]"

"أنّ كان أنا رجل مرحة?"

"[هه] [هه]! جيّدا," يقول هو, "أنا منشار موقعتك والصورة وأنا حسبت هو كان فن مبتذلة, وبعد ذلك, أنت تعرف, أنّ جزء من موقعتك أنّ يقول, `جنس' في كلّ أغطية, أنّ لم يبدو مثل شيء بشكل خاصّ بنت كتب."

"ليس أنا نموذجيّة. ورغم أنّ أنا أكون جاملت أنت فكّر كان أنا نموذج عشوائيّة, يتمّ أنّ وسيلة أنت أيضا فكّرت [كريستوفر] خلف كلّ هذا كلمات وسخة كان رجل سمينة الذي يحبّ هو على معدته?"

استمرّت يقرأ"

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هذّببنفسي الشيطانة ثعبان أن يغري عشية أن يأكل من الشجرة المعرفة.

أنا أنزلق على هذا مزدوجة ثعبان [بووشرون] حلقة يذهب بنفسي ورشف من [ستربوكس] من [لوس نجلس].

بما أنّ ل يشارك أيّ شيء [سنفولّي] [دليش] مع [أدم-]

The dick was a pussy.

» Boucheron ring $2,450, Vivre.com

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“I just got a bra that’ll make my tits a whole cup bigger!” I sing into my iPhone, talking to The Boy, my boy. “It’s so boss!”

“How many times did you go to Starbucks today?” he asks.

“Only three,” I say. “Anyway, this bra will satisfy me until I break into my IRA to fund my future Botox addiction.” I watch my face in a mirror, and my brows wrinkle at a shadow of a crease I find framing my smile. “That’s really what my retirement stash is for, because the motherfucking Lord knows I’ll be in my death bed, working, wordsmithing dirty stories while giving you a blow job.”

“I’ve always admired your ambition.”

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I’m lying in my dentist’s chair, and from my lofty vinyl seat Hollywood’s hills look like the rolling green of a miniature golf course–until my eyes slide wide shut to soft black, and my mouth opens to take in The Doctor’s hands. He numbs the bottom half of my face so it’s virtually paralyzed, while my mind frolics free.

I dream up a bow-shaped fanny pack that can fit an iPhone and keys and a book, maybe The Great American Novel I must birth, whose theme might be luck, same as my conversation with The Boy last night:

“I’m getting my gums done tomorrow,” I said. “My entire front lower mouth. So I’ll be living off soy lattes for a couple weeks, and no blow jobs for a few days.”

“I guess I’ll be busy for a few days,” said The Boy.

I echo his laughter with a giggle only interrupted by The Boy’s crackling voice:

“Fuck,” he said. “I want a streak of good luck.”

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A little bit country club, a little bit rock n’ roll.

A lotta bit boss.

And discounted.

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I’m in my second office–pick a Starbucks, any Starbucks–and post meeting I decide to wait out the storm of L.A. traffic, buoyed by another soy latte, on an island of a strip mall in, like, totally the Valley?

I float to the cashier. “I’ll have a sugar-free caramel, iced soy latte. Extra shot of gay.”

The cashier looks at me, polite. “Anything else?”

I survey the rows of pastries, against my will, and see the cookie I’ve been desert island-hungry for since my red tide rolled in days ago. “I’ll take a chocolate chip cookie, please.” He drops one into a bag, and the cookie’s little weighted noise sounds like the future echo of me hitting a bathroom scale. “I shouldn’t have one because I want to get crack whore-thin, but I’ll just throw up the cookie in the restroom later.”

His eyebrows raise into a question mark: his brows the curve, his pinched mouth the dot.

“Times like these we can’t waste a minute being unrealistic,” I say. “Also, I’m trying to get wireless internet in here for an S.O.S. back to L.A., but it’s a pain in my never-done-yoga-in-my-life ass. What am I doing wrong?”

“I can give you a brochure.” He reaches for a life jacket-yellow pamphlet that someone’s already tossed at me.

“It’s like you’re throwing me a brick as a life saver–not helpful,” I say. “Should I just throw my computer against the wall? Will that fix it?”

He finally cracks, a little smile. “Here’s your receipt.”

» Mesi Jilly shell ring $285, Vivre.com

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I’ve never understood flower bouquets: they’re useless gifts that do nothing but passively pose pretty for short seconds before they wilt and die.

Like suburban housewives.

But an enameled orchid necklace? An orchid necklace is more shine and spine, it’s beautiful but hard, lasting past bad meetings with boys and worse dates with bosses, playing hard at work from nine to five and five to nine again, while still styling time to invest hours–and hours–in pleasure.

Like a boss motherfucker.

» Natural orchid necklace $38, Novica.com

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A little lover’s letter held tight in a tiny, golden envelop, its “I Love You” hugging near your heart, this Urban Outfitters Jewelry “I Love You” necklace is so saccharine.

I’m def gifting myself this love letter necklace.

It beats the porn I usually forward to myself.

And paired with a little Al Green on my iTunes–

I’m totally sexing myself tonight.

» Urban Outfitters Jewelry “I Love You” necklace $24, Urban Outfitters.com

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I skimmed this Oprah.com article about how to live twice as large, and I had an epiphany:

Oprah is twice the motherfucker I thought.

And I love her twice as much.

Thank you, Oprah. Not only do I know about charities I’ll never contribute to, and how to get Vicky Beckham’s $2,000 shoes that look like they cost $20 for $200, but now I realize life is double as short as you think, so your skirt ought to be twice as short.

And your heels twice as high as you think you can handle.

And your “Fuck you”s to catty kitties who hate on your attitude twice as hard.

Like your next dude’s dick.

» Steve Shein “Fuck” necklace $68, Testimo Boutique.com

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I splash my gaze on The Boy over the champagne fizz of his jacuzzi, watching him walk ’round his patio, backgrounded by a moving postcard view of Los Angeles’ coast. Spotlighted by the sunshine is his house with empty servants’ quarters 25% bigger than my shoe box home, is his groomed grass, is almost everything he’s earned–

Including the pool he’s cleaning.

I pull my topless top half out of the hot bubbly, so he can hear me when I ask, “What if we play out a pool boy porno?”

The Boy laughs, not looking up from the baby blue water he’s skimming. “So that’s what you’re thinking about, little fucker, while I work? That’s–”

“Pool boy,” I interrupt. “Pool boy, when are you coming into the jacuzzi?”

Under his surface seriousness I see a smile. “Soon, miss.”

“I’d prefer immediately, Pool Boy.” I slap wet the Italian tiles of his hot tub, with authoritative impatience. “Please strip, right now.”

“You know I prefer to pretend that I do you voluntarily, miss.”

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Just like those Pretty Women on Sunset Blvd., these goodies from ASOS are S-E-X on the cheap.

Only a little safer.

And likely less exciting for your boy.

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A quick call, and I haul ass to Beverly Hills–it’s my second date, with my new hair stylist. Since I moved back to the left coast, I’ve been a salon slut of one appointment stands, doing it all over L.A., trading up from my Santa Monica stand-by to 90210 salons. And now I’ve met Sally, a Japanese middle-aged girl with a face rounded like my mother’s. Her nose is gently balled at the tip like my mom’s, her eyebrows her same soft arches, and I see the powder puffs of skin under her earthy eyes and think of the trust of paying someone to do with your head whatever they like.

“Yes, I think you go slightly red, just with a glaze,” she says. She fingers my hair, a convincing caress like her soft sales pitch that I de-virginize my brown bob with a popping cherry color.

“How much maintenance?” I ask, already overbooked.

“It fades and grows out if you don’t like it. You won’t see any roots.”

Life’s short, like my skirt. Fuck it, “let’s do it.”

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Most people don’t guess so right away, but I’m one square motherfucker, a real L7. Despite saying things that make people look at me like I speak French, I’ve never been drunk. I kept my D.A.R.E. promise excepting some social cigars and ____tinis at press parties when I was underage. I don’t understand fussing about first date S-E-X, though the thought of sexing someone I don’t respect makes me gag. And I’ll quicker blow a grand on stock than stock up on designer duds.

So I love this David McCaul ring. Its squared to the third power, but boss in bold gold, its intelligent design is true to itself, this David McCaul ring–

Would look perfect with nothing but some trashy lingerie.

» David McCaul ring, price upon request, DavidMcCaul.com 

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You could be a little star, cookie-cut into an indistinct blink that fast fades from the forefront, or you could be a diamond in the rough, fingerprint unique, unpolished and evolving, and unapologetically confident in your raw beauty.

You could also invest two grand in your career so that you can afford these 20-grand Diamond in the Rough earrings on your own, or you could buy breast implants and get a guy to gift you these Diamond in the Rough earrings now.

Fuck, tough call.

I mean, back to building my career…

Leave a comment if you know of a good plastic surgeon in L.A.

» Diamond in the Rough earrings $20,000, Vivre.com

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