Nails Made in China,
I am looking for Liz Guthrie in central London searching through dorm hotels and dragging a diane von furstenburg suitcase around like an embarrasing sneeze prolonged to the run-on sentence of these streets. Now ducking in an internet cafe waiting for the sun to come out of this foggy mess. It seems I am also looking for unicorns. A Surrealist party has been canceled tonight though i'm sure we'll find another one when her and i sit for ciders staring at the roses popping out from our skulls. Thanksgiving in oxford means that you sit in a pub called King's Tavern with a BFF whose known you since your planets and stars first aligned since birthtime and tells you things about yrself as though she were reading from the teleprompter screen of God's dirty mind. After the 3rd cider the city looks tricky with goblins and gargoyals brigading behind CS Lewis down the cobble road leading towards a wardrobe. Young elite little pricks with taught glowing skin. I even saw a man in a sherlock holmes tweed trench with bright red pants, a golf cap, with paint bucket of golden arrogance glowing from the brim of his teddy bear glasses while a blonde Burberry body clung to his shoulder like a brilliant sentence that's been erased because it was just damn too good. At the King's Tavern I clipped and stapled together the university application still floating online in my head and thought 'what if i wake up here and hate all the spires for no good reason', as in a postcard when you hate a whole city because you hate the postcard. Mary Jane said 'dude this is so yr element' to which I wanted to take myself downstairs to the bathroom and slap myself in the mirror all the way back to the san fernando valley. There are no nail salons in oxford run by a vietnamese family, that's for sure. So go get a mani-pedi while yr in that york york city.
heart,
Tales from the Clip
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