It’s just that sometimes I feel like the Anne Frank of Beverly Hills. I have so much to say, and I’m cooped up in my palatial mansion so much of the time. People think I’m just another housewife, but really I’m full of ideas, and thoughts, and really humongous words. Like I wonder what it would be like to fuck Jesus. Probably a lot of blood and stained glass tears. And he’d probably make you do it on some crocheted quilt that his mother made. Sick bastard.
Anyways, that’s all for now, diary. Is that what you’re supposed to say? Good-bye diary? Oh, say an eensy tiny prayer for me because I have a botox appointment this afternoon, and it’s a new "doctor", and, well, let’s just say that I’m now dubious of the recommendations he came with (well, one in particular), and if he doesn’t screw up my latest rhinoplasty it will be a miracle of some sort.
