Today I awoke with a really fervent, quasi-religious desire to buy a high-waisted, red leather miniskirt. I have no choice but to answer the divine call. It just really feels like the right thing to do on a purely spiritual level, you know? I think we can only really blame it on my inner self, who I like to present as a sensitive feminist thinker but is actually a slutty 1970s teen in grass-stained white jean shorts, whose name may or may not be "Cindy" (when she comes to me in visions she's usually bending over the hood of a cherry-red 1979 Camaro, and maybe sucking a lollipop. I think she's my spirit animal or something, if it isn't too misogynistic to think of a slut as an "animal"). In some ways it's comforting to know that I could fulfill my divine destiny with a thirty-minute journey to the scummier part of Camden, if only I actually had some money. I wish it had been me rather than Dolly Parton who had come up with the quip that "it takes a lot of money to look this cheap", but unfortunately she coined that kicky little aphorism first and I am far too tired to come up with an alternative, so congratulations, Wigtits McGee, you win again - I have no choice but to use your quotation like I'm some kind of gay Hallmark card (I don't think that was technically un-PC, you guys, because I believe that homosexuals would be the key demographic of a Dolly Parton greetings card, no? Prove me wrong!).
You may or may not be able to discern that I am super-cranky today and it's probably because, for biological reasons I do not wish to disclose, I have been living a life of enforced celibacy lately and it is making me weirdly fucking aggressive. I am now living my life sort of like a carnally-motivated Hulk, the most striking similarity between my self and Mr. Banner being that our trousers are perpetually on, against all odds, with the exception being that Hulk's remained so only because of television censorship. Know that if you rile me in any way, I will probably either try to fuck you or to strangle you (seems like things are not looking good for you, teenage-frontman-I-had that-lengthly-pervathon-about-last-week. Not looking good at all).
(I would never do both at the same time, though, you creep. Who the fuck do you think you are, Michael Hutchence? Stephen Milligan? Some other pop-culture reference from at least a decade ago? You sicken me, man.)