Breadcrumb #520


I can deal with growing older 
as long as I also grow
more glamorous.

I want to have 
fake nails, fake boobs
and real furs.

There's nothing more glamorous than
smoking for your entire life and
never getting cancer.

As a child, I thought
my mother was glamorous. 
She only wore silver because she
said gold looked cheap, smoked
unfiltered cigarettes ringed with
red lipstick.

The last time I saw my mother was
two years before she died. 
She was haggard,
poor thin, not rich thin,
clutching a pillow to hide 
a non-existent paunch.
It was like she had molted
with age, shedding 
her silk nightgowns, heavy perfume
and emerging a pale callow.

Now my role models are: Dolly
Ru Paul
The beautiful murderesses on Columbo in
that order.

At a cabaret show,
I heard Justin Bond say
"It takes guts to be glamorous,"
before recounting a story about a woman who
cut her finger at a party
then bit off the dangling tip 
and spit it in the toilet.

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