"Dear Diary,
"Psst! Over here! Tell me honestly: Can you see the bronzer line on my palm? You can, huh? Damn, I wanted everything to be perfect today, Diary! Because I'm launching my new line of hair extensions that are, like, sewed to a headband, or something, and I needed it to be a special day. But it's already ruined, because not only did I just now discover that I have freakishly long Arsenio Hall fingers AND self-tanner marks, but stupid Nicky totally lied to me. I e-mailed her last week and told her I wanted to dress up like a candy striper today, right? Because I read somewhere that people called "candy stripers" work in hospitals helping the needy, and my fake hair is saving people in their hour of desperation, and stuff, so it's like totally the same. And then Nicky showed up with THIS thing, and I was like, "Dude, this doesn't even come off easily, and there are no pasties and there's not even any glitter," and Nicky's all, "Whoa, fool, 'candy striper' is pronounced like STRIPE, not like STRIPPER," and I cried for like TWO MINUTES.
"And then I remembered that I totally brought a costume change with me that would save the day. Do you want to see it, Diary? Do you? I thought so:
"God, I feel so much better. It's like I can BREATHE again, Diary. This is me as nature intended: wrapped in Lycra, polyester, and sequins. The world is my pageant, bitches, and my talent is the swimsuit competition. I totally never understood why people bothered showing up at those things and singing opera, or playing the piano or the shoulder-guitar. Music won't give you these legs, fools.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, Diary, I need to go deal with that woman in the orange maxi-dress. It's so not classy -- it needs beads, a medallion, and a giant pile of fake hair attached to a headband. See? THIS IS CHARITY WORK, people. Prison has reformed me.
"XOXO, P"
