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Glittery Pipe Dreams

I have a new goal for DC.

I would like to find the most fun and exquisitely depraved gays in the city and be their token straight girl. Token straight girl and token white girl are two roles that I fulfill expertly. If I could make a job out of it, I wouldn't be whining to an open sea of diverse and invisible perverts.

Anyway, the only real thread of hope I've got motivating me is this frequently visited daydream. I left to be rid of my demons. I did a pretty good job but I still want to fuck some of them. Ill bet a group of sparkling epic drag queens would steer me to a better coke-fueled dance party destiny. I could bring some charm and whimsy to the group-also the given Christian names of my tits.

What qualifies me for this kind of miraculous situation?

Psh.. You MUST be stupid.

I can dole out the kind of wit that would make you swear I was a too-pretty twink in the dark. The wit that can only be appreciated and improved with the respective wit of a 6'4 man in louboutins and a white negligée. Furthermore, the fabulous but unobnoxious gays inspire the girl in a woman to celebrate herself with beauty. The talk and the glocks would be undoubtedly real.

The end goal is to have a circle of partially nude gorgeous glittery and filthy beautiful gay men in a dim red room doing drugs off of Charm and Whimsy. On a silk bed of peacock feathers blasting Taylor Swift at 5:24 in the morning. In a Motel 6. Photographed but not fucked by Terry Richardson.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

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'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

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Hope had left the gun on the table.

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