Fast Car Flew over the Cuckoo



Dear Hot shot,

You jokingly accused me of being fancy. I assume its my so-called Canadian accent? Or just the fact that I now own my hours?

I did wonder if I’ve knowingly been giving off a Bradshaw vibe. Floating in and out of a frivolous lifestyle, waiting for my very own Big. First let it be known, to me Little Ms Carrie is no fallen heroine. She’s fun and feist and everything… ummm… nice? AND she drank her cocktail of cool with a well versed head. And that closet, who in their right minds could fault that closet? ITS JUST BA…NA…NAS! That’s right, I said it. BANANAS!

I’d like to call a truce, hoping you’ll accept it. No more talk of escaping this town. I’ll work especially hard to curb my lack of enthusiasm and disdain for it. What’s a girl to do? Too many sleepless nights spent worrying if I’ve sold myself short- no more working on commission god dang it!

Rest assured, there’s nothing fancy about me- excluding the Hussein Chalayan shorts I got for a freaking STEAL, and maybe that K by Karl Lagerfeld dress- mind you that was a reject sample piece.
Now where was I, ahh on not being fancy. Definitely no lavish lifestyle for this one. No Marie-Antoinette style soirées.
A multigrain bagel with a side dish of black grapes and a glass of OJ- the people at Innocent swear no nasties have been added- is as luxury as it gets from here on.

I would call to explain, but you’ll start to question my neurotic disposition, so…

I’ll leave it to the amusement/bewilderment of my cyber audience.