Tuesday, February 07, 2006

She wore very conservative, plain black heels (neither kitten nor stiletto) and a long, London Fog-type silky trenchcoat, belted firmly at the waist -- 1990s business classic. Across her pale, creased face were unremarkable spectacles, and a pinched expression. She looked like a bitch in its truest tradition -- unpleasant, uncompromising, and maddeningly right in every instance.

Yet, her hair. It was cut like a doll's, two inches past her jaw, ends curving inwards perfectly, with short, precious bangs ... and dyed the dull, Gothic black of a delicious, sulky, sexually outraged sixteen-year-old girl.

I looked at her again.

You confuse me, I thought. And I like it.

posted at 8:30:18 am

Lilith.
February 8, 2006   10:14 PM PST
 
So, I was going to leave a comment, and it was probably terribly witty, but when this window opened, I was presented with a giant picture of breasts with a tagline reading "TALK TO YOUR PERFECT WOMAN NOW!"

So now I'm too terrified to type.

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Glo'ri'a'na, noun:
1. An alternative form of "Gloria."
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.


   



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