Dear Lady G,
I kind of wish you really did have a penis.
Does that sound strange? I mean, Iím not gay (although Iíd probably let Mickey Rourke **** me if he asked nicely enough), but every time I find myself faced with a quandary that I canít overcome alone, my first action is to ask myself: What Would Lady Gaga Do? and time and again the answer comes back to: Thrust
"There's a hair on my soap and it's short and it's curly. A hair on my soap, and I don't think it's mine..." - Stephen Lynch
I almost kind of wish that we weren't opening this baby up to the public.
Because then I'd have to put on pants.
I hate pants.
Gotta say, it's been fun running around this mostly-empty manor, johnson dangling in the wind, screaming the lyrics to "Paparazzi" at the top of my lungs.
Ah, well. Let's see if we can do it again in another ten years.
God, if my life is still so without meaning in ten years that I'm still
Might as well jump in on the shenanery and plug my real blog.
Everyone You've Loved is Dead.
It will make you a better person.
Now with Tweets!
...another blog that I will post to diligently and then swiftly ignore!
This is a test, by the way.