evil v. PURE evil

dear marc,

quitting smoking is ROUGH AND RISKY BUSINESS. i’ve done pretty well, though. i bought a pack of smokes on monday and it’s lasted me until today. that’s WITH sharing with friends/homeless moochers. i think that’s impressive, because normally i would have been done with those sin sticks after 2 days.
the REAL issue is this: do i even WANT to quit smoking anymore? i mean, YES i’m trying to avoid looking like a rough lohan, but look at her when she’s not being photographed ferociously close and with bad lighting:
look at her, hanging out on that couch with some guy she doesn’t know, probably thinking, “YEAH i’m gonna trick him into pounding this used cooze ALL NIGHT. hey baby, got a light?” she’s having so much fun! sinnin’ is so fun. and she looks cool and casual and all those C-words that everyone LONGS to be called (yes, even a bit cunty).
if i give up smoking, will i have any fun? AND WON’T I GET FAT? i mean, look at jessica simpson:
bitch probably didn’t smoke a DAY in her pure, poorly educated life. now she’s JUST as washed up and rough-looking as lohan, but she’s painting on her clothes because she refuses to be seen at lane bryant. at least lohan’s bone thin and casually careless with her appearance. poor jimpson’s just…well, the fact that the name “jimpson” fits her is enough of an insult.
give me some guidance, marc.


dear marc,

i really want to make fun of someone that we both know all too well, BUT I CAN’T, because according to this picture i just stole from perez,

lohan and i are NOT aging well, because we are both getting HEINOUS, deep-set forehead wrinkles despite the fact that we are mere 23-year-olds. that being said, i am positively, 100% giving up smoking today with the hope that my body will be able to heal itself and maybe i won’t go down the same twisted, gnarly road that lindz is stumbling down, with her skirt above her head and one boob flopping out.

my non-smoking mantra:
i am not lindsay lohan
i do not need this cig
i am not lindsay lohan
i do not need to age prematurely and die in 3 years so people will talk about me forever as someone cut down in his prime but god i’m glad i don’t have worry that i’ll be stuck standing next to him in a crowded elevator because he smelled like he just had afternoon sex with an ashtray
i am not lindsay lohan 

and i know you live in paris and smoke in the louis vuitton studio because it’s cool and you can, but maybe you should quit with me. we can hold hands. and you’re not getting any younger, honey.


dear marc,

this has been a pretty low-key week. i partied it up with my fellow REISS employees for our supervisor’s sad departure from the great flagship store on barrett street. don’t worry, marc, i kept it all in my pants and my tummy. i managed to down a whole bottle of red wine and two pints of beck’s without vomming or ending up on aga’s couch. AND i even made it to work at 8 AM the next morning. are you so proud? it’s like i’m becoming a real person, or something. unless you don’t like hiring real people to be in your ads. if that’s the case, continue to consider me a mythical drunk vixen with nothing to give except a fierce pose and maybe a sassy remark. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
the real news of the week just kind of sprung up last night. david and i were re-kindling our friendship in a soho bar when i got uncomfortable with the way david was staring at some 12-year-old farmhand. i picked up the latest issue of OUT in the city magazine when i stumbled upon some party pics from the beloved trannyshack night at soho revue bar…
here’s the spread:
yes, i know all those trannies and even got kissed by justin bond on that very night. and YES, i realise this is a shitty photo, but baby can’t afford a scanner so…
okay, now let’s take a closer, burier look at this fine piece of photojournalism, because i think there’s something you might really want to see when considering who to put in any upcoming ads…
THERE. right there, under that pirate tranny hooker’s elbow and that seemingly straight guy’s beer bottle. do you see? IT’S ME. well, my left ear, anyway. i know you think i’m reaching, but any press is good press. this also proves that i am SO recognizable that not even a fat, one-eyed, man-bitch squeezed into a fishnet jumpsuit can upstage me or my ears.
WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED? clearly i can’t think of anything.
okay, if i don’t write you before next week, have a fab thanksgiving for me. is it weird that i feel kind of sad that i won’t be able to gorge on my mom’s delicious tofurkey and watch old episodes of the OC for 2 days? i’m sure i’ll get over it. it’s probably best anyway. remember, girl: a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.
stay pretty. i’m serious.

fine craftsmanship

dear marc,

i’m sorry for not writing you lately, but who the fuck knew retail was SUCH a time consumer? i just hope you appreciate how hard your people work for you, marc. here are some things i’m getting tired of saying every day at reiss:
oh, that’s such a good color on you.
sure, wear it however you like.
can i put these in a fitting room for you?
sir, could you please pull your pants up, i’m getting uncomfortable.
sorry henry, i’m just really hung over. i swear i’ll be better tomorrow.
speaking of hung over, i often stumble into reiss with my hair a mess and tranny lipstick on my cheek, which usually means they throw me in the basement to fold shirts until i’m sober enough to deal with customers. i’d say i’m downstairs folding and organizing about 1/2 of the day, which is fine. it really gives me the chance to work with the garments and makes me appreciate their fine, chinese stitching. when a little asian girl is being raped on a conveyor belt by her supervisor and thinking, ‘god i just want to get back to sewing, i hope people appreciate my work,’ i can finally say back, ‘i do, honey. stay strong and keep that cross-stiching FIERCE.’
all the running up and down stairs i do every day is really helping with my modeling, marc. it’s toning my ass up nicely and really helping with my action poses. take a gander at this tasty lick:
the recipe for this photo is as follows:
2 parts cigarette ad
1 part marc jacobs ad
2 tsps of vintage 90210
1 tbsp homeless outreach flyer
and a dash of pro-choice pamphlet
okay marc, hopefully i’ll be able to write you soon. until then, stay thin and get legal to write me up a contract for your spring/summer ’09 campaign. hell, i’ll even model for your fragrance line.
oh, PS, the bangle and bag in that photo were donations from the marble arch foundation for fierce skanks. thanks bitch.

Plea #3

>Dear Marc Jacobs,

hire me for this picture alone. it clearly says, ‘i’m flexible and willing to exploit it because i don’t know what i’m selling in this ad and my gumby legs are all i have in this business.’ and also because i threw a party and no one came and i got too drunk and almost threw up in a cab. also, i really hate little pakistan. my room ALWAYS SMELLS LIKE CURRY and maggie LITERALLY has a stalker. every time i walk through the neighborhood and see men with beards wearing fabulously floaty robes and little kids beating each other with sticks and old car parts, i feel like i’m in baghdad and about to jihad my life. but marc, my room looks FILTHY DELICIOUS and you should come by and see it while you’re asking me to model for you. also, i think i smoked 2 1/2 packs of cigs last night. and the rest was… well you know.
hire me. i deserve better than this, let’s face facts.

Plea #1

Dear Marc Jacobs,

today you should hire me because my life is shit in london. i’ve made a list of good luck/bad luck that i’ve had since leaving the states. here it is:
good luck: survived the plane ride
bad luck: had to sit behind some fucking cunt kids who were moving around the entire time and whose mother did NOTHING to stop them from spilling their food everywhere and screaming, and whose father obviously just gave up on ever loving his family or himself because he just slept the whole time and sometimes would just shake his head and go back to watching kung fu panda, or whatever movie was playing.
good luck: have taken a portuguese lover named michel.
bad luck: i pissed him off at nottinghill carnival because i was obnoxious and talked to some old women about pole dancing on the tube? whatever, kid.
good luck: david and i are getting along swimmingly.
good luck: found a friend/flatmate named maggie (for margaret) who is a GEM. you’d love her. she’s got tig ol’ bitties and is SASSY like your drunk grandmother.
good luck: got an interview.
bad luck: interview got canceled THE SAME DAY IT WAS SCHEDULED. they found ‘a girl who is just perfect, so sorry.’ i hope she dies.
good luck: found a flat!
bad luck: i have no job so i can’t afford the flat and i’m CERTAIN that mags and david will get tired of telling me rent is due while i cry in the bathroom. i mean “water closet.”
good luck: found skinny cigs called VOGUE.
bad luck: they make me want to not give up smoking.
bad luck: running of out fashionable things to wear.
bad luck: GOT SHIT ON BY A BIRD. i was walking out of pret and opening my bag to put my sandwich in it when FWOOP, warmth on my hand and confusion as i think ‘this sandwich is supposed to be cold. WHAT THE FUCK’ shit shit shit everywhere. i was a walking public toilet with less cash in its pocket. because you know you have to pay for those sort of things here.
bad luck: my shoes are old and obvious.
bad luck: i over-paid for my phone.
bad luck: i’m constipated. and when i’m not constipated i’m clogging the toilet at the most inopportune times (see: clubs, gigs, etc.)
i guess that’s it. so come on, marc, THROW ME A BONE and ask me to model for an ad.