Craisins, busted! Delicious and nutritious aside, let's roll our eyeballs downward and focus instead on badass. I'm of course talking about the little bit hoodlum, smidge o off-duty model, elaborately buckled, smells-like-West-Village BOOTS. She got these years ago, in Italy, so musta been her 4th grade abroad. I just want to be perfectly clear, she is not wearing Soufpole acid-washed jeans -- something happened on the way to life-sized, pixels rearranged so you can see Snoop Dogg on her thighs and I can't get back to Kansas. To minimize the distraction ...
Mmmmm, Italian leather. I can practically feel my pulse rocket to hummingbird level after I stomp into a trattoria in these bad boys and knock back 16 thimbles of espresso, then skip through the golden age of Rome in 7 minutes, excessive foot sweat being vented through the gaps (mind the gaps), hurl a coin in Trevi fountain, tossing out Scusis and Non grata my herpes is active right now left and right. And I run into Miuccia Prada in the line for the one women's bathroom in Vatican City (Pope decrees women need only faith, priests and altar boys need a lot o privacy, badda bing) and she says, I like-a your boots-a, and I say, Grazi ayagottapeea can I go ahead of you? and she says, No way, I been in this line since Resort 07.
No comments:
Post a Comment