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Y2K has come early here. A turmoil of churning nothingness. Flat waves between invisible shores. You can opt out anytime. Still am a hullabaloo of unemployment, oy vey. Thank God for alimony and the Carlyle Hotel. Am off to a late start as I have just returned from spending Rosh Hashanah in Antwerp, which is in Belgium.
Copies of Vogue should be placed under their mattresses-boys too-so the message of fashion seeps upward. The poor thing was starved for dynamic accessories. Mixed high street with low street. From the bottom up: lavender silk and paillette Prada mule high street , Diesel jeans low street , Michael Kors cashmere tank top, and five Bulgari gold necklaces. Cut to Mr. Suffice it to say, Tommy did a big production, which included the performance on stage by the rock band Bush while models took the runway.
Cowboy shirts; denim. I applauded. For his hair. Fuck you very much. Fuck fashion. His inspiration was a woman living in the South American jungle. Was taken hostage by his razor-etched tops. Good night, dear diary. Played hard to get today. Plus pink shatoosh. With all due apologies to animal lovers, but I find these charges highly discriminatory.
I was only trying to launch a career. No big ideas. Women are left to their own devices, but there are worse fates. Hot pants, for instance. Well, the beginning is always a place to start, and today started with my masseuse Melinda announcing at 8 A. Then I called my car service and was informed there were no cars today because of the hurricane.
Who knew? Go to my window, open the curtains. Turned on TV for weather news. Began to panic. Felt overwhelmed by the prognosis; claustrophobia set in considering chances of being washed away without a car and driver, and I cried. No big whoop; smudge-proof mascara. A Louis Vuitton rubberized logo raincoat.