Slum Dog Millionaire

I'm about to move for the 6th time in a year and half of living in this wonderful big apple. I guess it's just a rite of passage to own only what you can carry in a car service from one end of Brooklyn to the other, right? I may not have any pots and pans but boy do I own many a spangled costume and a whole slew of teeth whitening trays. Anyways, as I sat around my apartment (really just two pillars of dust held together by millions of layers of paint) with my fab roomies we reminisced about the great time we've spent in east flatbush. The convo went something like this:
Hey guys I'm really gonna miss this place
yeah me too, we've had so many wonderful times here and so many memories!
Yeah just remember that time we had no heat, hot water or gas during the winter?
That was so much fun, sleeping together orphan style bundled under seventeen coats trying to preserve body warmth!
Or what about that time we got bed bugs three times in matter of months.
I loved that! We had to keep getting all our costumes dry cleaned and nothing is better than that chemical smell.
Yeah my fave part of that was the sleepless anxiety you get when you think you're covered in blood suckers.
I loved it when you would run into my room and tear of all your clothes showing me your young nubile skin and asking me to count all your bites.
Oh gosh and remember when one bit me in the eye and I look like Quasimodo for two days and I didn't have to go into work cause no one in their right mind would buy a dildo from me?

Always the optimistic one! xox

But the best part is when we got the whole building to rally together and demand better living conditions by protesting in front of our landlord's upper east side office. It was the day after the Oscars and we were shouting " We're slumdogs you're a millionair." Then like an activist's wet dream Freida Pinto from the Oscar winning movie SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE walks out of the building next door and joined us for a picture. True Story. I gotta say I would take it all over again just for the serendipitous brush with fame and miracle.

This is a picture of her right at our protest!

Style Alerts! Baby Prostitues are In!

This summer get out your rompers and playsuits.
The look of the season is child hookers. That’s right take you’re cues from the best nymphets out there!



You can either do a Jodie Foster with a little bit of tough street chick, or go the lacy Louisiana brothel look of Brooke Shields.




Either way as long as you wear a one piece vaguely resembling a diaper you’re good to go with seducing that mustachioed molester Lothario. Hubba hubba professor Humbert.

look at me

hey there gang,
In a world where every creative type demands attention and fame -- I too desire to be loved... by millions. All the comedians in midtown deem the blogosphere passe, but I too want mass success and I realized that with all my reading of those old tangible dusty things called books I missed the cyber explosion that has wiped out the dreaded fear of anonymity. Now is my time. This blog is for all of us with no real skills but the constant memory of our mothers calling us special. Tendinitis has started in my right hand due to my severe clutch on the specific memory of my dear mother tickling my back and calling me pretty in a sweet Irish brogue.
I have a fire in me that needs its match... but I simply don't have anything on the special skills part of resume (or really a resume for that matter.) Does ultra charm count?
Listen up my beautiful babies. Did you go to college during an economic upturn and feel obliged to study something more interesting than resourceful -- queer theory anyone? I mean who in this financial conundrum really needs someone who can deconstruct a metaphor stuck in a metonymic trap? Or did you spend years honing a special talent in the small pond of your hometown only to grow up constantly at war with doubts and self loathing, and most of all shock at your mediocre success? If you are reading this and you can relate take comfort. While I keep a brave face for my small but growing public, misery is my middle name -- and I need company. It's lonely at the top, or at least I'm told it is.