I have to admire your persistence, of the 40 000 events that you have invited me to, I have attended 0%. Keep inviting me though, and I will keep working on a way to send haemorrhoids via mind bullets.
When I get that right, you can catch me with glow sticks looking up to you on the decks, dancing in a crowd of two, whilst you live in fear of your next poo.
It’s not that I hate you, it’s that every time I see an invite to one of your events, I imagine that you have herpes, while you spontaneously combust, and burn.
I recently worked out what a flapper was. It was an interesting turn of events for me, considering the above song has been on repeat of late. I have been dealing with the kind of hurt only experienced by the misinterpretation of the warning signs an open tuna can presents.
The cut is deep and virtually near the knuckle, I may lose this finger. I don’t know – I am not a doctor.
I don’t know about a lot of things, but I certainly don’t know anything about fashion, what I do know is that I like the flapper look and feel like there is more room for this in society today. It’s the age old argument of classic beauty vs. sex appeal.
Every guy has their preference – I am one for classic beauty even when I am admiring it, behind a set of dustbins through a bathroom window.
Classy Girls don’t kiss in bars.
Also I have been listening to The Lumineers way too much lately, but they’re worth it and I recommend checking them out whilst you’re getting your Flapper dress on and not inviting me to any events.
And you know – not calling the police, again.
Maybe I just <3 vintage.
Just see what the flapper does for a very average looking Hilary Duff!
Think about it?