Nota Bene

Lana-Del-Rey
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NB: The only thing worse than being awakened at 4:00am by a loud, screechy, false alarm on your home security system is being awakened at 4:00am by a loud, screechy, false alarm on your home security system and subsequently lying in bed with the voice of hipster harlot Lana Del Rey* stuck in your head.

Okay, yes, technically I suppose that the only thing worse than being awakened at 4:00am by a loud, screechy, false alarm on your home security system is being awakened at 4:00am by a loud, screechy, actual alarm and, you know, having to deal with a fire or a burglar or killer bees or whatever.

But still: Lana Del Rey is pretty fucking awful.

* At 4:15am, as I tried in vain to get another hour of sleep, my husband shared a little known fact about Lana Del Rey: she’s like the Candy Man. If you say her name three times while looking in a mirror, she’ll materialize behind you, wearing a vintage maxidress from this cute little vintage shop down on Orchard Street. Or maybe it’s on Ludlow? No, definitely Orchard. And when you turn to ask her the name of the place — because you pass it ALL THE TIME and never remember the name, and you have this friend who’d look perfect in something similar, only a different color, maybe coral or aubergine or a soft baby blue — Lana hands you a six-pack of PBR, which she magically extracts from the chasm between her boobs.

No one knows what happens next. No one’s lived to find out.

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