I am going out, into the grey grumping day. I have taken a page from the book of Hades-in-Hose, and it is taking me forever to get dressed. Thank His Black, Bedazelled Beauty and the Mighty Queen Wanga-Luscious that I don't do makeup, or I'd miss my therapy apointment for want of the right eyeshadow.

As it is, I am a mess of mesh and hints of velvet. It's warmer in here than outside, but blessed be, that's why I have bottle-cap bejewled hooded sweatshirts in which to hide, bodystockings of fishnet, layers of skirt in broomstick and patchwork. I think it has dried enough out there for my lovely red-velvet Mary Janes with the practical Dr. Scholls jelly inserts hidden in them, and I've been dying to show off the purple tank top with the silver capezio-writing which says "idol."

I don't do this often, threaten to dance out into the streets in my fussily arranged fabulous, although I own closets of it-- so much that my collection has spilled onto the walls, slathered them in hangers and gowns of gooey lace, miles of gauze and muslin, silk and crepe, every flirty frock or retro anything you like.

But I am going to trade old close for new today, and there are always such lovely ladies there. I just want to look pretty for them.

And for the flashy pair of silver sparkle glitter thigh-high stockings I plan to procure, for myself and the high-kicking heel whore loitering languidly in the back of my mind.

Give me your tired, your fierce. I shall cover you in glitter-dust, and we shall be even so.

<<agé chose>>

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