You don't know where we are. Hm. Well, we're somewhere in Bushwick. On, uh, some kind of avenue. Toilet Avenue? Something like that. Uh, just follow the sounds of screaming.
You're right. We're fucked.
Shit. Either the refrigerator is grunting at me or I am seriously fucked up.
Please send cigarettes and liquor. And anti-refrigerator rape whistles.
Update: now, someone is rattling a bottle of pills at me. This could be a good sign. Then again, probably not.
Update 2: she's just spat something all over my arm. On my CASHMERE SWEATER. The bitch.
Update 3: I'm being threatened with a slunting. I have no idea what a slunting entails, so I am very frightened. Please help.
Please send cigarettes and liquor. And stun guns.
Renata is a writer, photographer, and aspiring pirate. She has a day job (sometimes), but doesn't like to talk about it. She lives primarily on the interwebs but maintains imaginary vacation properties all over the world. Her body usually resides in Brooklyn, New York.
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