Ugh! I feel as though I’ve been run over by Emily Dickinson’s 18-wheeled carriage of death. You see, Jonno and I were forced to work this private party at Lucky Cheng’s on Saturday night–some lame pseudo-house bullshit put together by a couple of second-rate South Beach circuit fags. Today my lungs hurt from smoking nearly a full pack of cigarettes in six hours (the “party” was so dull I had nothing better to do than chase cancer willy-nilly) and I’m groggy from the disruption of my normal sleep habits (12 – 6am, generally speaking).
Ergo, I could write a long account of current bodily complaints, or I could launch a tirade against the Circuit, but instead, I think I’ll send you here. Run along now. Have some comic relief. Don’t say I never gave you anything.
sturtle [dot] com 