Dear Diary, so I saw this bird and she looked wicked cool and I’m a straighttalkin gael, YOU know that, I’m like So let’s go get rubbish, you and me in the sand, I like a little salt on my rim I’m on vacation, and yourself? She’s like Oh no my boyfriend wouldn’t like that very much but I see in his eyes he will like it just fine. (pansy Blake: NEVER) She’s lookin at ‘im, you know? More the merrier, I tell them, life is short. Then she says Well you know I saw you last week in the water in your bath cap. (I don’t even HAVE a bath cap.) I say, what you gettin at? Boyfriend’s like, I saw you too, and I agree. Agree with WHAT???, I say. She says: “When you’re in you’re bath cap, I happened to observe you in profile and do you know you look EXACTLY like The Artist Formally Known As Prince?” (!!!!!!!) So I TRY to be delicate, because this is rude of her I thought, but maybe it’s starstruckery, I’m sympathetic, I’m like very polite I say “Right, so you wanna go clammin or not?” Because she is still right cute in spite of now obvious deficiencies. So she’s like “It’s like you’re the Same Person, beauty mark and everything, bone structure and your eyebrows and whatnot.” “TOtally,” he says, he is a bloody yankee buttock and he reaches out and GRABS MY CHIN and tries to sort of swivel me head around and push me hair back into Exhibit A this arselodger!!!! So I say, VERY calmlike but not without clarity: “THIRST OF ALL, HE CHANGED HIS NAME BACK TO PRINCE IN LIKE 1879, SO NOW HE’S FORMALLY KNOWN AS THE ARTIST FORMALLY KNOWN AS THE ARTIST FORMALLY KNOWN AS PRINCE WHICH HIS FORMAL NAME NOW AND EVERYBODY WHO KNOWS WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE KNOWS THAT SO OBVIOUSLY YOU TWO ARE A DOUBLE SHOT OF FUCKWITS WHO DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!!!!!!! but suddenly the quote-unquote Maitra Dee is there and he’s flappin and cluckin around us like King Tony hollerin for HELP!! HELP!!! but the help is all COWERING behind tables defendin their precious botox foreheads with cheese platters even though I am NOT throwing at them those tiny forks they give you for shrimp cocktails here, they come in these fancy wood boxes of twenty and the bartender—HORACE who I thought was my FRIEND—is tapping his sawed-off cue on my fifth-best Louboutins saying “Amy DOWN, Amy DOWN” then suddenly leaps back hiding his face behind his fake Popeye arms (NO tattoos) and the gael is sayin to everybody “Doesn’t she EXACTLY look like The Artist Formally Known As, she is so totally The Artist Formally Known As, they even SOUND alike” which as YOU can imagine, my dearest diary and One True Friend, was the exact last straw and I was like This Conversation Is A WRAP. I swam alone tonight, Dear Diary, I swam alone. (o my poor Blake, he can’t even SHOWER alone now!) POSSIBLE LYRIC: A TRILLION GRAINS OF SAND BUT JUST ONE ME ??? (bossa nova ska).
Triple X and the Big O,
Full disclosure: Our correspondent, known only as Horrible Child, has not been in St. Lucia recently. So we’re absolutely positive that he did not drink with Amy Winehouse in her hotel room all night and then leave with her personal diary in the morning. The above is what Horrible Child imagines Amy’s diary would contain. Stay tuned for further entries. [Photos: Splash News Online]