Self-Importance, the fragrance for jerks

I wore my largest pair of sunglasses to brunch today, and I came down with quick-onset glamour poisoning. I hate that. I feel faint. I could barely finish my blinis.

Living in a small town is insane-o. In one quick trip to the coffee shop, I encountered my hair stylist, the local crazy person who prays for the souls of things in store windows, the guy who sells hot dogs at the ballpark, and my lawyer. I am on a need-to-know basis with all of them, it seems. We chat. And then people just walk up and ask you to do work for them because you are having a meeting with someone else, and they overheard. My hair stylist randomly decided she couldn’t live without search engine optimization. And really, who can? Vomitola is no longer #1 for Lindsay Lohan Panties. I am a poor example in all ways. Don’t expose me, please.

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