I have a blog over there, but the site isn't recognizing my password and all efforts to retrieve or reset have been... Well, I'm not in a white-hot rage because I just remembered I missed last week's episode of Project Runway.
So here I am.
Anyway, as it turns out I have a whopping two loyal blog fans who noticed my absence from the internets. Ya know what? A journey to two-million fans begins with the first two, so who am I to disappoint? However, the problem I'm facing right now is Tabitha's Salon Takeover is about to come on. Also, I have an unopened issue of Vogue to drool over and the first season of Sex and The City on DVD waiting for me in the bedroom (Yes, I'm aware of what a media-whore I am).
Also, who can turn away from the train wreckage of Tom Sizemore on Celebrity Rehab?
The bottom line here is I have lots of distractions.
So, to my dear two loyal fans:
Please forgive the copy / paste cop-out job that is this blog. It's an entry from my little known or touched livejournal. I'd kept it a friends only entry, but since the bitch wanted to go public on her facebook about how much she hates me I don't care anymore. So, without further adieu, my blog:
(Originally posted January 6, 2010)
I know what they say about me.
I just don't care.
Ya know, it's not like I necessarily want to be a bitch at work. Every morning I arrive at 7 am (ish) and I'm promising myself "I'm not going to be a bitch today... I'm not going to be a bitch today... I'm not going to be a bitch today..."
By 9 o'clock I've failed miserably.
(It's not my fault, I swear!)
Okay, look: If someone could just tell me who I have to write to get the word out that Ed Hardy has been passe for two years (and that's being generous) I wouldn't have cringed when the chick on my shift thrust her enormous bright red purse by-- you guessed it-- Ed Hardy in my face.
"Look," she said with all the enthusiasm of a child that was showing you a scribble drawing of God only knows, "I got a new purse!"
"That's um... Very red."
Also, it's large enough that, should the need ever arise, she can carry around a 1983 Honda Accord.
(Don't ask me why I just referenced my mom's old car, it was the first thing that came to mind when I saw the bag.)
"That store's great," she continues, "They've got pretty good knock offs too. By the way, who's Fendi?"
You see, this is my boyfriend's fault. If he hadn't been the most wonderful, sweetest, most thoughtful man in the whole wide universe and bought me that fabulous Coach bag I'd been lusting after for my birthday, these girls wouldn't be shoving any old badazzled sack they can get their hands on under my nose for approval as though I'd been anointed the Maharishi of purses.