'High on a hill on a lonely tree top' ... are they the words? That's what I always sing anyway. I used to have my own words to Phantom of the Opera too, gliding around the house singing, deciding I belong on stage. The stars in the sky were glittering, as was my pinkish/peach star on that road in L.A. Oh, everything just felt so right.
When does a dream stop becoming a dream? I don't think it ever does. I mean, I would love to appear in the West End now as Mary Poppins (of course, I'd be great). Or maybe the lead in Chicago, oh, what a foxy chick I'd make caked in make-up and leather.
Hmm, maybe I could make it as a leading designer. Ha, you normal people you, I'm going to design some unwearable, unpractical, ridiculously overpriced piece of clothing and you, my friends, are going to wear the high street cheap copies and when I walk through the streets of London I'm going to hide my smirk behind my hand as I watch you all go past, unable to walk in your absurdly high heels, clashing oranges and pinks. Yeah.
Is a blog a spot to moan, that's all I ever seem to end up doing! I'm not too into fashion, but I love the tops at the moment because they are really long, and being tall it's about time I can buy a t-shirt without worrying that my itsy bitsy wine belly will be flaunted to the world. ARRGGGHHH! People would've screamed and pointed! What is that?! ARRGGGHHH! It's the attack of the blob! Oh, don't be so down on yourself, I hear you willing me to reassure myself. Jeez, I was simply exaggerating. I've got an average, wibbly belly. Hoo-fucking-rah.
EXIT
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