Bitch gets more fierce every second. She can do anything, really, except sell records to America! I mean, look at those shoes. Eat your heart out, SJP!
You’re “Like a Drug,” Kylie. Call me. I “Can’t Beat the Feeling.” Tweet me. “Breathe.” Be my best girl friend. “Come into my world.” Write me. “Confide in me.” IM me. “I just can’t get you out of my head.” She’s looking at me. OMG. She’s looking at me. Sure she’s wearing tin foil but she’s looking at me.
Wings, fucking wings. Bigger than Heidi Klum’s in the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. Girl, I’ll be your angel any day of the week. Except Tuesday, I’m having Swedish meatballs with Robyn at IKEA that night.
At the end of the show I was so close that the confetti and glitter knocked me in the face and gave me a black eye. I told my coworkers I fell down the stairs and they bought it. You’re like an abusive husband, Kylie, but I don’t mind.
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