Last night I went to a bar in Williamsburg to listen to some live music from the 1930's, exquisitely sung by my friend and chanteuse extraordinaire, Ganda.
I ate many peanuts, danced with a debonair man named Doug, and I would have had a shot of whiskey if someone had the good manners to offer.
Alas, there are no pictures because the one paparazza who tried to sneak snapshots of me complained I was too wiggly.
Not content with so much excitement in one night, the minute I got home, I got my second wind.
Tonight, after coming back from my 9-month birthday celebration and Three Kings party in Queens, I rendered useless an entire pack of toilet paper, and left the living room rug looking like a feral werewolf engaged on a deathmatch with Cottonelle. I was given a risible time out in my trailer and an even more ridiculous dressing down. (It won't work unless they stop laughing while they pretend to discipline me).
Of this, there is evidence:
Here's moi, feigning innocence:
The above mess I managed right after the time out, as soon as I was out of jail. Serves them right.
Cause I love the nightlife, I like to boogie, on the disco aha oh yeah!
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