Dear C,
Well, I’ve finally had my brush with High Society, in the form of last night’s fashion show at [insert stodgy museum] designed to show the influence of Middle Eastern design on haute couture and raise a few pennies for charity, by way of an afterthought. Forgive my naivete, dear C, but I had no idea that it was common practice for senators to spend leisure time hob-nobbing with representatives the Axis of Evil. There was also a prodigious amount of female flesh on display – and I’m not just talking about myself here, either. Silly me, I thought they frowned on that kind of thing in Saudi Arabia! By contrast, the models were pictures of decorum as they strutted their stuff on the catwalk sans underwear, if only because they generally managed to keep their breasts inside their clothes.
But nothing was perhaps so troubling as the sight of so many women in their sixties attempting to inject, starve and nip themselves into clothes that should never be worn by anyone over the age of twenty. Think Night of the Living Zombies meets Bride of Chucky, and you’ll get the idea. Which just goes to show, dear C, since it’s all downhill from here anyway, we might as well enjoy the ride. What do you say we hit Krispy Kreme up for some donuts, then go shopping at Dress Barn?
Faithfully,
P.
