Um, where do I start. I’m not a girl, not yet a woman, living in NYC with my husband, two dogs, and an array of creatures that occasionally inhabit our home like a family of turtle doves who hatched on our window sill, squirrels with big nuts, and a terrifying array of creepy crawlies that sneak inside.
My first love is a Prada Miu Miu Goldenberg, my beautiful black tongued chow bear, she lives in Cleveland but will be coming home to me in NYC very soon, yay forshadowing. My second love is Calvin Klein Bradford Santiago, a pom who’s a high energy retard. He spends most of his day humping the leg of my third love, my husband, he who should not be named, aka Daniel. The not naming is a bit of an inside joke, one that my fourth love, Micheal J. Foxy will never get. Foxy came to us from a Shiba Rescue. She had abusive parents as a child and the result is an overweight female-humper with nasty food aggression and the ability to clear the room with one shit nugget. Oh, and did I mention she used to have seizures, yeah, this unassuming orange ball of dog flab and anger fucks also would decide to start swallowing her tongue for no apparent reason. Shaking around anywhere she lied, scaring the balls off of Calvin Klein and her new parents. It’s times like those that you think if you’re going to jail if your adoptive dog dies while in your care. You don’t. I looked it up. Bing and you’re done mothachucker.
Anywhoo, me and my husband met during fashion week. There’s other things and people I did before then, but we can get to those prince charming dumpster divers another time. I met him at a fashion week party his company was hosting, Fashion Indie. He didn’t pay me any attention so I devised a plot to steal his bag, force him to take me to dinner, thoroughly seduce him, fly him to Paris, propose to him on the Eiffel Tower and live happily ever after. Just about four years later and I’m still not telling him where I hid his bag.
