the rhyme

PhotobucketI am not Carrie Bradshaw with a closet full of shoes that cost more than my college education or a haircut that costs more than my rent. I am not Bridget Jones hopping on the scale every hour to find out if that cracker for dinner added any weight to my already bulbous ass. I am not a fabulous writer living in New York or a hip Television Producer living in London or even a free-lance photo-journalist traipsing about Tokyo, noshing on fresh animal parts yakitori style. I am not a fabulous young fashion designer trying to make it big in L.A. for that matter, though I wish I were. I am not a fabulous market merchandiser scuttling about the nation in new shoes everyday. I am just one big Fabulous Mess.

My married friends give great advice and they can be pretty supportive, but that’s just because they are anesthetized by boredom and restraint. My single friends give great advice too, only through action, they’re never around to dispense any wisdom, since they’re giving some random guy a blow job or making out with a boy 10 years their junior. A friend of mine once said to another one of our hopelessly single girlfriends,

“Honey I give better head than I do advice!”



My single friends with kids—wow. Stop for just one moment and look at that

My single friends with kids. None of my married friends have children yet. We’ll examine that one later.

As I was saying, my single friends with kids just don’t give a fuck, they are too busy pulling out their tits, tucking them back in, making sure little (kid) gets their teething cracker, or that the organic carrots were properly cooked with just enough filtered water and a smidge of acidophilus.

I am un-fabulously single with many friends at many stages of their varied and wonderful and interesting lives and at moments I live vicariously through them. Although, at times, in certain lonely spots of my existence they appear at the wildest of moments and say the most profound things…

H came out of me looking like a rock star, some of these other ones need to go right back to the pussy and start all over again!” Her words, I swear—Though, she did drink a whole bottle of a scrummy 1994 Girgich Hill Red Zinfandel before she called me.


In my head I am equally fabulous. My teeth aren’t getting dingy from smoking too much or my addiction to sipping Americano’s through my front teeth 3 times a day. My body isn’t inflated from too many hormones and tubes of Toblerone, my style hasn’t suffered from lack of funds and a slow and depressing decline of inspiration, my surroundings haven’t become dull or useless…

No. in my extra and equally fabulous world my teeth are white and my smile is bright, I look like A who was up for a Colgate commercial. My body is taught and sinewy, my ass looks AWESOME in a pair of great jeans, my thighs are still luscious but you could see right through them-meaning they don’t rub together, In fact they don’t even touch, they are strangers who never met and look at one another with envy, like a beautiful idiot startled by her own reflection. My fashion sense is impeccable and my taste value is up to par with my favorite designers, Gucci circa 1995-2004 (Tom Ford is a GOD), Classic cuts of Calvin Klein circa early 90’s (think Caroline Bissett), Alexander McQueen with the bawdiness of Galliano and Vivienne Westwood, but understated and accessible as anything at Barneys or Henri Bendel—enough! I do love my fantasies. Travel inspires me. Barcelona, Kyoto, London, New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, France, Berlin, Brugge…I am accosted by textures and colors and smells and tastes and my home is the world, but when it’s not, my home is understated with clean lines and unassuming colors lots of room and dark wood floors. My surroundings rock, like my lovers.

Oh, yeah. In my fabulous life I have a job.

It’s kind of telling, my “job” being an undefined afterthought. Hmmm….I’ll have to address that with the therapist soon. Ha. I don’t have a therapist, but god do I wish I did. I’ll pencil that in with the therapist, I should call my personal assistant for that.


A job. That’s probably the main aspect of my infabulosity.


IN*FAB*U*LO*SI*TY [adj. in-fab-you-law-siht-ee]

Adj. verb.

1. the act of being unfabulous.

2. The successive deflation of upward motion of fabulousness as each aspect of ones life deteriorates.

3. beyond fabulous- in a bad way.

—synonyms: FABULOUS, duh!

If I had a job or even a focus for that matter, would I be any more fabulous? Chances are—I missed that boat a long time ago. But this still won’t stop me in my pursuit of raising my fabulosity once more. With the help of my friends, my burgeoning fashion sense and ever-rising taste quotient I will shed light on my own ——–through traveling, eating, tasting, observing, partying, fucking, laughing, exploring, playing —God this is NOT the L word—I will enlighten, if not you, then me.

I am not, in any way suffering under any delusions. I mean, maybe a bit. But despite my candor and ill-equipped wording and bad writing, I am pretty smart, if not smart then intuitive, if not intuitive then occasionally plugged in— I have a basic grasp on reality, a fundamental knowledge of people and their behavior though, my paranoia doesn’t help in these equations; but sometimes I have a clear thought– is what I’m trying to say. I know the grass is never greener on any side. And everybody has their own shit to bear…But I just want to write about my life and some of the risks I plan on taking in order to make me not cut my wrists or choke another lover in their sleep again.


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