Sorry, no time for chit-chat. I'm busily filing a lawsuit against those parvenus who have Bucky and refuse to give him back. It seems he has not bitten any of THEM. Give it time, I say, give it time.
You might like to know that I am wearing a cunning little--well, not SO little--wisp of rose chiffon, this time trimmed with sable. It's vintage (of course it has been thoroughly cleaned, or so my assistant assures me), so it still has the little heads on it. Very cunning, so animalistic, don't you know. And when I get annoyed, I bite one of them, and it can't bite back. One head is nearly chewed off, but that's all right. I'll toss it in the trash with my other used wisps.
Do you know, two weeks ago I found my assistant rummaging in the trash to pull out my wisps? I suspect she sells them on Ebay...part of what dahling Ebay CEO Ms. Whitman calls "the clutter.” Very elegantly put, if I may say so. The Japanese puppy is being returned to the pet store by my personal assistant even as I type this myself. She tried putting an alarm clock next to it during the night, but the idiot used an AM-FM radio alarm clock and it went off on a rap station at 5 AM! MY GOD! I thought I would lose my mind, dahlings. Stupid beeyotch, if I may borrow a phrase.
For those of you who inquired privately about my thumbs, as long as I do not do my own text messaging for a while, I shall be tip-top. And, of course, taller than most of you.
While she is returning the puppy, I must do my own typing (ecch). This keyboard is sticky. Filthy beast probably never washes her hands. That would explain a few things. Never mind the details. It's sultry, hot and damp here today in fabulous New York City. Very much like myself. I only have a minute before I must dash to look at some rare Japanese pottery. It's supposed to be ornamental, but I am far too delicate of constitution (if not of build) to eat off ordinary plates. And if it doesn't survive the dishwasher, so be it.
I went to MySpace and looked about. Oh, dear. I admit, I have not heard of most of the musicians they were yapping about. My taste runs to Mozart, and I only met him once at a séance. He was quite rude, to my disappointment, and insisted on trying to put his hand up my Harris Tweed skirt. Not only that, I couldn't understand a word he said (fluent though I am in French, the little gibbon spoke German or Austrian or one of those strange Teutonic languages). One woman of my acquaintance mentioned going to school with some strange person named Jello Biafra! What were his parents thinking?
But as for Mr. Biafra, I will say that once I returned home unexpectedly and discovered my last personal assistant dancing in my office, while "Too Drunk To F*ck" blared out of my Bose radio! Needless to say, she was fired on the spot. And NOT rehired. Talk amongst yourselves...I also have a secret errand that I dare not write about, but will apprise you of the details if successful. I shall be shrouded in mystery...and Yves St. Laurent.