I can't guarantee that I'll go anywhere, but I can guarantee that I look the part. My clothes scream style, my shoes whisper sex, and my make up exudes sparkle. I'm a star, baby!
(The label on my silver lipstick says so.)
Oh, yes - I can fake it endlessly, idling along until I make it. (I'm sure that'll be some day soon.)
So what, I'm sitting in a corner, in the dark, all alone, scribbling instead of socializing? I look amazing, so I'm sure the situation will rectify itself. (I do self-delusion almost as well as I do sarcasm.)
I'm not going anywhere beyond this bench. Not tonight. Damn straight, I look about six times sexier than your average club bunny, but that does me no good in this silent, secluded park.
(Whoops, I forgot about the crickets.)
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