Diva; My Full-Time Job

La Jolla, CA. 2009. Disposable.

How I Imagine My Wedding & Honeymoon Will Be Like

There will be lotsa lotsa champagne. A champagne fountain, ice sculptures made of frozen champagne then bottled champagne to take home later. It'll be required of all my guests to be schwasted throughout the whole ceremony, expected of them to clank their glasses and encourage intense make out sessions between me and my prince, to the point my parents blush and turn away while scolding my little brothers for staring. A female friend will D.J. I will be so juiced up that I'll slur my vows, but prince will know exactly what I mean anyway. "I'll do you. I mean, I do." Oops! He'll save me from further embarrassment by putting his lips to mine to shut me up then whisper in my ear, "I'd do you too." My earring will dangle.

I will wear a long, beige chiffon dress with a large, floppy hat. Heels to match. My boobies will be augmented with boob tape for the occasion. At the reception, I will change into a black slip that hint my nipples and put on a pinbox hat. Garder on my thigh. Barefoot. No one will be a wallflower that night, every body will dance for me, with me. Barefoot.

Most of our savings will have gone toward the honeymoon though. Prince would have obviously pitched in a bit more like a real gent. A trip around to only the most exotic places in the world, with big leaves, wildcats and a clear body of water, where we'll make brutal but sanctioned love with lotsa lotsa licks, biting and beating -- unapologetic -- under stars. I'll have sand everywhere. His hand will travel, station a little below my waist, and give way to meaningful squeezes from time to time. I'll swig a bottle of white wine and toast to "us," "the universe" and "how it works." He'll find my mess and fondness for great things kind of adorable, tousle my hair and pull me in closer, poke at my hickeys with his rung finger then peck them with his teeth. He will lean in and say "babe, you smell good," and I'll answer "perfume." He will be my husband and I will still be new.

That's how I imagine my wedding & honeymoon will be like but who knows!

xXx

Ex-Boyfriends Need To Be Shipped To Pluto

So the other day my friend and I are getting all decked and dolled for this really underground, really experimental, really hip party. I'm downplaying my excitement with a cropped t-shirt and black pants like I'm way too cool to try any harder. My hair is held to the side in a high and messy ponytail and I'm putting on lipstick while my iPhone's blasting Keke Palmer, when a text from our mutual friend comes through. Uh oh. Apparently, my friend's crazy-stalker-emotionally-unstable-compulsive-lying-weird-internet-persona-type-ex has invited himself to the said event according to Facebook. He might be there.

My friend and I exchange devastated looks. I roll my eyes and hers follow. I say, "this isn't even fair, he's not my crazy ex-boyfriend. Plus, he wasn't even hot to be worth any of this." She says nothing. I realize it's not her fault that he turned out to be evil and start to feel bad. "We can't live like this." But tissue to lipstick, hair back down, and pants off. I stick a toothbrush in my mouth and get ready for bed. By this time, it's nearly midnight. Too early to sleep but too late to reconsider. Ex-boyfriends need to be shipped to Pluto. Ugh.