Well, I talked to my famous friend last night, and she said stop making fun of Stevie.
And I said "No not really!"
In silence, she said "Excalibur."
And I said, "Well, I've got to know when I can make fun of Stevie again, well!!! I can't wait well!"
"Well I wonder which set of doors are mine," said she.
Then we popped some Klonopin. And we we stared at the stairs. And she walked down the long hallway.
And I twirled around and shouted, "In the middle of my room, I did not hear from you!"
Then I found her tangled in the curtains. Long nets of white clouded her memory. Or maybe it was the Klonopin.
So we did a pile of coke. And took selfies in the mirror.
There were candles and there were crystals. We were anyone's fantasy.
"Oh undercover music lover and an art lover like me," I said. Then I nonchalantly dropped my copy of "Street Angel" in the trash.
And she snapped her fingers in my face and said, "Oh no, you cannot tell a gypsy... ooh, that she's no longer a member. Become a deadly weapon now... along with everything else."
And I said, "Bitch, I was born in the desert. I know what it's like to have Gulf War Syndrome."
"Well aren't you're a front liner?" she quipped. "You put it all on the line!"
So I calmed her down and handed her some decaf. "Step into the velvet of the morning, girl."
So we put on our bathrobes. That's what that means, you know.
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