Poem I submitted

I would literally perform fellatio to a poor person in a Best Western Hotel, what I consider the lowest depth of misery, If  I could obtain a membership to the International Most Important People to have Ever Graced the Earth for Doing Nothing except Wearing Balmain and using big words on the CNN to talk about a fake weather crisis.

Alas, I found a competition of The Hottest plagiarized poets of 2014 and the Prize is a trip to St. Tropez and the Cover of ELLE UK Magazine:

Here is what I came up with:
Bright Lights Big City Blind People
People say its lonely at the top, but I say it was just as lonely all the way up, lonelier all the way down, and loneliest in the emptiness that is between.
White Tigers On Gold Leashes Jet Planes, What does it matter if no one is there?
Stopping by the woods, on a snowy evening, the deepest secret you already know is that behind the filter you are unwell 
Drive Fancy Cars and Sip Fancy wines in your dreams and in Your Reality, well Do you know what that means? Do you know where you are? 

2 Police Officers were shot

And Im all where did you buy your gun?

Alcohol Firearms Tobacco Explosives and Sequins

Upon my desire to infiltrate the mafia, fund low grade terrorist groups, improve literacy rates, and get money, I took it upon my self to call my attorney and get me a visit to the ATF, not to be confused with the Asberger Tasteful Forum that I also chair yearly.
Alas, my attorney who owes me majorly since I dirty rushed her niece into Delta Delta Delta and have photos of her on the internet nude, (my attorney, not her niece), I proceeded to fly straight Teterboro to West Virginia and look at Saddam Hussein's guns. I love explosives, dynamite, and weapons, because it sounds like the type of rich black people activity that occurs in the club whilst drinking crystal and conversing about gangs.
Alas, upon entrance into the facility I was more disturbed then when America voted for Barack and Kelly Clarkson. It was nothing more than a glorified mailroom for overweight has-beens who didn't pass the FBI clerical Test.
But because I am as classy as a Palomino Horse used in the Opera Aida three straight seasons in a Row I wrote a thank you letter.
Dear Members of the ATF,
Thank you for allowing me to visit your headquarters where you trace guns. It was fun and interesting and important. I really liked learning about explosives and tobacco and me and my friend appreciated the samples, though we weren't sure they were samples.
All the best to the kids,
Glitter Therapist

New Years Resolutions

Be A Better Driver

Give Better Head

Be More Discreet

Stop doing drugs with Poor People

Have more intellectually provocative conversations at dinner

Glitter Therapy Gift Guide

There are a million things I do not like about the holidays. The line at the pharmacy is always too long for my antidepressant refills and the girls who sing santa baby look like Baby Prostitutes. I do not like being reminded that Jesus was born as he is the only person I can think of who is more famous than me.

While I do love Jesus Christ and consider him my holy savior with a rockin bod, I have a significant complex that people use his name in vain instead of my own when they swear.

I also do not like spending my Saturday afternoon buying gifts for people I don't like when I could be at the spa getting a pedicure, or setting fire to an orphanage, or watching porn.

Alas, I understand that you get what you give, and if that is the case, then I plan on giving cocaine and blow jobs. Sadly, this is not appropriate for your parents or your siblings, so I have provided some other suggestions, for now.

I would like to preface this list with the fact that I have at one point in my 29 years of living, have provided these gifts which have been met with great success and enjoyment.

Boss: Dom Perignon, subscription to the economist, a weekend in your East Hampton's home in June, hydroxycut

Boyfriend: A hooker, Yankees tickets, a Brooks Brothers Belt, an exotic pet, a 50 cent CD

Your Basic Best Friend Who you hope Gets Poisoned by her new husband and chokes on her engagement ring: Entourage DVD's, the love bracelet, 6 manicures, French Rosetta Stone

Mummy: Gluten Free Home made cookies that you did not make, Barry's Bootcamp, 1/8 of marijuana, A nude portrait of yourself

Daddy: A hooker, a nude watercolor portrait of yourself, an aquarium, a Jeff Koons painting

Your Enemy: Poop in a chanel box, cum stained soul cycle passes, a sexually transmitted disease, a match dot com profile, 

I need a Painkiller for my Instagram and My Prenup

Alas, it was a painstakingly rough day when it took less than 4 minutes to receive 11 likes on a photo that was indicative of a portrait of  my made up lifestyle as a well bred wannabe socialite with asbergers who looks good in Balmain, I also dabble in light bulimia and kiddie porn. And so, with my beat up Chanel bag circa 2002, date reported stolen (by me), I found a crushed up vicodin that was mixed with a sweet and low packet, a cigarette, and a business card from an attorney who I gave a B minus blow job to at the 4 seasons in the Maldives when I was 16. I  then leaked it to the internet, I lament in a sunken depression of the vapid realization of the number of likes less than a meaningful sex position.
What a long day its been, I think I will pour Prosecco down the mailshoot rendering my Con Ed illegible. I also plan to tell my ex-husband that I shredded the pre nup during the fire I set to Barneys last Christmas when I wanted to steal manolo's without security looking.
Cheers to the weekend.

Manic Episodes in the Banker District of Soulful Cycle

Soul Cycle. I’m a Renegade Aspergers Warrior Alcoholic Republican Athlete Gold Digger. I go to Soul Cycle to workout my aggression towards my therapist. I also go hoping to be featured on the Soul Cycle Instagram website and meet more people who like to do drugs at the St. Regis and relish in vapid relationships with God.  I walked into the Financial District Soul Cycle hoping to kill two birds with one stone and find a low tier Goldman Sachs analyst to bankroll my lifestyle and drop a fresh beat to burn off the jizz and prosecco.

After I hacked into the Soul Cycle Monster Database and determined that Lance Mooney had the most sold out classes this week, I had to kick everyone out of the front row and grab bike 5 and pretend to turn up the wheel. I walked into the Financial District, armed with a mixture of snorted diet pills, poorly cut cocaine, my dog, and my wand, I exchanged pleasantries with the front desk ladies who are my only real friends. I gasped at the sight of the instructor. He is your classic All American Southern Republican.  Lance Mooney. I am in Love with you. Your Music. Your Body. Your Vibes.  You are a breath of fresh air in the soul cycle community because you are in the business of burning fat without talking about “the pack”. You are the Husband I never had and the DJ I always needed. You are aggressive with what you demand and act like a man without being a rapist. Your class made me feel like a princess, but maybe next time you will act more excited when I invite you over to my Jacuzzi in the West Village for Scotch and smooth jazz.

I do not digress

 His body is as hard as dealing with the fact that you did not sell your Evian Stock in 1982. He was confident enough in his sexuality to play Taylor Swift Blank Spaces, and did not engage in any false Buddhist eastern philosophy. He played music that I like to give head to but that I also like to dance with my dad with. Talk about a well rounded exercise experience. He kept it very real and honest and pushed me to my limits without asking me to ride for an intention. I have no other intention other than to infiltrate the mafia and social climb my way to have tea with the Board members of the Whitney. Lance had no desire to showcase an ego, which left me leaving that there is no reason I should show mine and instead practice honesty and humility. 

See you on a Bike. See you in the Club

Spring Break Where Versace Was Murdered: Scene From Nazi Cocaine

Act 4 Scene III
Spring Break: Miami, Temperature, Balmy 
President: George W. Bush
Political Climate: Republican 
Delano Hotel 8:00 PM
The girls have just ordered 7 French 75s and 14 packs of cigarettes from Room Service
Everyone is horny 

Nadine: So ladies, I hear that tonight Taylor has us invited to a party where Gianni Versace was murdered.
Alexa: That sounds a bit scary. I don’t know if Im up for a party where someone was murdered, that sounds dangerous. 
Nadine: Alexa, you promised that you would be fun on this trip. You need to get out of this preconceived ideal that the second coming of Jesus Christ is Ivy Educated, can get you off, and  want to talk about God. Who was the last date that you went on from Bible Study? 
Alexa:Jacob Torrence and he was so boring. 

Nadine:This is what I mean, I see this trip for you is to get out of your comfort zone, in terms of the type of man that you see yourself being with. Its time to get out there and explore some of the men who do not regularly think about Jesus.
Alexa: Maybe you are right. 

Nadine: My concern is that do you think it would be crass to wear Versace? I have this hot little dress that I stole from my mother before her breakdown that I would really like to wear. 

Taylor: Nadine, when is your brother arriving? And its not crass to wear someone who is dead. I think you look hot. But seriously, wheres Nathan? 

As soon as I said it, the phone rang, Nadine thought it was room service. It was Nathan. He was here. I normally was not such an idiot around men. I knew how to handle egomaniacs with a penchant for marijuana and an attitude of no fucks given. The problem was I was soaked just seeing him. It was a purely physical chemical attraction. He was smart and he laughed when I spoke, which was funny because I was just talking about my therapist. Or my stalker. He didn't care that I secretly didn't like weed. He knew I was a bulimic psychopath, but he was so preoccupied maintaining his carefree image of smoking cigarettes and talking about chilling, that he didn't deem it necessary to acknowledge. 

Ferguson For Christmas

Alas, it is with critical vapid delusion that when situations like Ferguson arise, I know absolutely nothing about it, except for the fact that I should go there immediately and check out the club scene.

There is  nothing I enjoy more than riled up youth over government malfeasances cc Tasir Square and the 1979 Iranian Extravaganza of Madness and Ayatollah's and the Neo Nazi youth.

My understanding is from a menial glance at the New York Post Headlines before I turned my attention back to my percocet prescription in Helvetica and my .02 % increase of instagram followers who have impressive networths but questionable wardrobes and slightly weird shaped balls.
Fear not, I managed to get the important cocktail party grasp of the situation at hand so that if I am asked for my opinion I can exude the confidence of a political scientist who screams, I graduated Phi Beta Kappa, and Im not racist but look good in Balmain even if its covered in Jizz and Blood.
Since the location of le Fergie is haute couture des moment, I was curious about the restaurant and spas available in Missouri. Most of my nearest and dearest are from the midwest, CC Brad Pitt, and George Bush, so I make the frequent popover stop in the fly away states to remind myself of the greatness of the United States Land of the Free world home of the Brave-ish- where we can smoke mad blunts and gamble online. Legally. C'est Magnifique.
 I booked my flight via the Teterboro application on my palm pilot since its worthless to fly in commercial airports as I am never without my .22 engraved handgun or diamond meth laced with a choice laxative.
And of course, there is a St. Regis in the Ferguson but unfortunately no celebrities have had a drug over dose there. Yet.

See you at the St. Regis