It’ll soon be Friday night, and thanks to a visit to Paul Stuart earlier today, I am ready to do this thing proper. Don’t ask me how much this outfit cost, either. As soon as the question was out of your mouth, we’d both know you couldn’t afford it. Trust me, you don’t need the embarrassment.
But enough with the pleasantries. Let flow the booze, line up the various chemical substances, and unleash the whores. If I don’t wake up tomorrow with shit in my pants, a g-string ’round my dome, and a hangover that would kill 10 small children, I’ll know I’ve done something wrong. Toodle-oo.