The debate about my status as a hot chick or a but'erface is the hottest topic in all your tabloid magazines. 'Cause y'know, whether I'm pleasant or unfortunate looking has a lot of bearing on whether or not I can compose a fucking sentence. Or a regular sentence. Makes perfect sense.
But now that my stunt double is enrolled in the Rubber Room School, there's no body available to meet all you fantastic fans who offer to show me a good time, thinking that I might be "The One". Actually, I'm not sure thinking ever factors into it.
|I'm pretty sure he meant "Why can't I see your face?",|
rather than "Why can I see your face.",
which clearly sounds like the beginning of a great poem.
|I even made the picture smaller than usual as a visual cue.|