It’s Saturday, a day for getting over hangovers, brunches, picking dead skin off one’s toes while sitting in the sun, Lindsay Lohan panties, and organizing fonts. Goodbye, Charles in Charge font, why did we ever meet in the first place? I think I am going to make a font called Lindsay Lohan panties. I’ll be rich, Lindsay Lohan, rich!
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.
You all have such strong Lohan reactions. Aren’t you glad I decided to watch the Lohan True Hollywood Story yesterday? I was going to watch Loretta Lynn’s Haunted Plantation on the Travel Channel, but Mr. H decided that would be boring and took the remote away.
Christ. As if he knows from boring. Later he made us go to a street festival! He duped people into coming with us by not telling them how much it was sure to suck. And suck it did. Although I did eat an empanada. Colombian style. That means filled with cocaine.
Lohan lohan, pharmacy lohan lohan lohan. Lohan lohan! Lohan.