delusions of grandeur

I have decided that I am going to be an American Apparel model.

I will look like this, except for more hotness and less armpit hair

At bare minimum, I can do this. I'm all "Hey, Kristina! I'm not one to talk, but you know a shower wouldn't kill you. P.S. You look like you smell like patchouli!"

Anyway, I want to do this because I hear they give you free clothes. Also, I like American Apparel more than I like any store that isn't Barney's New York or the Salvation Army. I can get my bod on point in two weeks. Then it will be time to take half nude self pics and start an email campaign.

This is all a half-assed way to restock my wardrobe and live out my (up until now) secret dream of being a stripper for a night. As likely as it is that I'd never actually go through with it, I've always hoped to be driving cross country with no money and have my car break down in front of some strip club in Tennessee. I would strip for one night and one night only (much to the dismay of my adoring new fans) and earn enough during the duration of Foghat's Slow Ride to pay for both my car repairs and some snacks at the gas station.

Tennessee's shape is my most favorite of all the states. Some people like that cluster of states that's perfect squares, but I like Tennessee because it looks like a piece of driftwood I found on the beach once.