Dysmorphia is when someone looks in the mirror, and sees something else. While I studied my own whatever I was, I decided that maybe everyone has at least a touch of dysmorphia; maybe it's impossible for anyone to ever truly know what they look like.
Paul RudnickBecause there’s a clock attached to every beautiful woman. From the second she comes into her own, she begins to decline, because she begins to age. Aging is every beautiful woman’s kryptonite. And so, yes, it’s ridiculous and no, you don’t have much time and of course it’s not fair. Those three statements are the essence of beauty.
Paul RudnickI’m glad you’re gay,” she said solemnly, “because that way, if I can’t have you, no one can.”
“Um, Rocher,” I mentioned, “like, a dude could have him.”
This had never occurred to Rocher because she’d thought that Jate being gay translated as, “I love Rocher Bargemueller so much but I don’t deserve her so I’ll never have sex again.” The concept of Jate with a guy was fresh turf and Rocher regarded him with an especially deranged sparkle in her eyes.
“I could be a dude,” she said.
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something quite different about you, from the last time we were together, what could it be….”
Was this my ultra-dose of Intoxicated taking effect?
“I know!” said the prince happily. “You’re a national disgrace!”
“And do you know what else is interesting,” I replied. “In America, Prince is a dog’s name.
Tag: funny humorous prince-gregory
Oh my God. I love rich people. And royalty are the best because they’re rich people who can’t be fires.
Paul RudnickState your name.”
“Venice Huber.”
“Occupation?”
“Well, it’s hard to say. I don’t model, land of the seventeen bimbos. I don’t act—after all, isn’t an actress just a model who won’t shut up? Let’s say, oh—homemaker. Could you die?
Venice was luscious. She had real curves and real cleavage. She had a stunning face, set off by a broad, lascivious grin. She had an indefinable hairstyle, a swag of thick blond dazzle that seemed always in motion, falling in her eyes, getting caught in her mouth. Venice spoke in a husky growl, with a deep, filthy laugh.
Venice was no stranger to flirtation; she was practically no stranger to anyone. She smoldered, even at breakfast. Venice—at times literally—enjoyed a love affair with Manhattan.
Guy cradled his tux, stroking it, running his fingers incestuously over the satin stripe on the trousers. There is a satisfaction that only superb clothing can offer, the joy of man raising himself from the mud, vindicating evolution. Life cannot lack purpose if a tuxedo exists—this is the obvious reply to the Samuel Beckett canon.
Paul RudnickRocher was on the floor, crawling on her stomach toward Jate's feet. "I love you...," she kept repeating, in a demonic whisper. "I have to show you... my butt.
Paul RudnickTag: tattoo hilarious jate rocher
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