My girlfriends were fucking your boyfriend BITCH. Fuck the girl-code. Me and mine. You and yours BITCH. That’s how great sexploit films about sluts and whores are made. Bitch fight!
I gotta record her calling out bitches. She makes me laugh. I love hanging out with bitches I can laugh with.
What ever happened to fist fights anyway?
Every now and then I still get into the mood to bar brawl. More now, less then. It’s being perimenopausal. Hitting menopause turns you into a Viking. It really does. Suddenly all your whips become lethal weapons. It’s glorious.
Professor Marston and the Wonder Women
Rebel in the Rye
I’m behind in my movies.
That movie is going to be amazing.
All this talent floating around not making money and the only thing you guys can think about is sex? How about making money? Paying bills? Rent? Living? No? Doesn’t appeal to you? Not even gonna try?
Ok then. Just checking.
Years ago an ex-coworker and friend once asked me, “How come we don’t pool our talent and resources and do our own thing instead of editing everyone else’s material?” Valid question. And then he locked himself away for ten years and wrote a book.
“Want to have sex?”
No! I’m an old hag. Don’t be gross. How about instead we work together and make some MONEY. You know, the currency in which bills are paid.
Fuck the pain away!
Or
Duck the photo awesome!
(Autocorrect version)
My smartphone is constantly autocorrecting me. I know how to spell “We’re” damnit. I meant to type “were” you bossy little neurotic overhyped typewriter.
Testing out my black and white makeup. Red. White. Black. Brown. I know. And as much smeared lipstick I had on, it still didn’t photo the way I wanted. I’ll try it again another day. Rape it up a notch too. Hitchcock is rolling in his grave.
I’m going to go look for that cat again. Then bruise up my knuckles knocking a bitch around. In a photo of course. Unfortunately. One day the purge will be legal. One day.
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