what a finely crafted irony you are, my dear, hiding so hard you're naked now. but don't worry; I'm not laughing. your swinging hips and pouty lips are sticking hard, just as planned. I hate to disappoint you, but you seem to have please the bastards you love to hate; no, you're not as clever as you'd like to think they think. you missed a spot, my sweet, and I can see right through to the you propped up on your beloved pedestal. your hair is falling in your face now and I know you're dying to look through it to nothing at all, just like a makeup ad, and give the camera man his hard-on. so go ahead, Ms. Mysterious 2005, peek through, and don't worry you'll see my furrowed brow when you do, because I once wanted to be her, too.
--rosamor
