Lately, I feel like my entire relationship with Deborah Harry involves me telling her that she's better than her wardrobe, and then bastardizing a Blondie lyric: "I thought you weren't the kind of girl who gives up just like that," maybe, or, "One way or another, I'm gonna get ya... INTO SOME REAL PANTS."
This is the fug where I prove we're both at least consistent.
DEBBIE. You are badass enough to be the main event. So why, WHY, are you dressed like the janitor at the Moulin Rouge, who is spending her smoke break wondering what happened to her life that she's stuck cleaning up sticky absinthe puddles and unhooking garters from the chandeliers?
Okay, I guess I'm not consistent. I just can't bring myself to drag her lyrics into this mess. They'd only resent me for it, and then what? Mucho mistrust, that's what. ... Wait, shoot, I think that technically counts. That's just no good, me teasing like I do.
This is the fug where I prove we're both at least consistent.
DEBBIE. You are badass enough to be the main event. So why, WHY, are you dressed like the janitor at the Moulin Rouge, who is spending her smoke break wondering what happened to her life that she's stuck cleaning up sticky absinthe puddles and unhooking garters from the chandeliers?
Okay, I guess I'm not consistent. I just can't bring myself to drag her lyrics into this mess. They'd only resent me for it, and then what? Mucho mistrust, that's what. ... Wait, shoot, I think that technically counts. That's just no good, me teasing like I do.
