HIGHLY ADDICTIVE PARTY CIGARS
Oh mah God
Oh mah God
I fancy myself as a divine dinner party hostess. I fancy myself as someone who embodies the total coolitude of Guarnaschelli's professional kitchen-wizardry, set on Martha's pristine estate filled with ponies, and accompanied with Beyonce's crowd. Someone who could present a seemingly-casual-and-approachable but truthfully-intended-to-shock-and-stun dinner display with nothing but an elegant breeze in and out of the kitchen, in a spotless oh-so-nothing white dress that belongs in Diane Kruger's closet. I fancy. But the reality is
All right. I admit it. I have been hiding something dirty from you. I have been for quite sometime now playing the role of a girl who gushes about red velvet things, woos-and-ahhs over seasonal muffins for weekends and salutes to tacos, sandwiches and raviolis for everyday meals, who even contemplates (but no luck so far) on creating the ultimate fairy-food salads to tackle the hippie crowds. Don't get me wrong because I love all that (maybe not the salads
It's impossible to shake, like it's wired into my every nerves, and rejecting whatever highly-caffeinated substance I have been shooting up my veins. It has made it its personal quest to destroy my complexion, and put my blog, my kitchen and my dear dear camera on life-threatening danger. Just know that I'm writing this while floating in a distorted, murky, brain-scrambling derangement. Thoughts are bouncing off the surface of my consciousness like dimming fireflies, twirling and giggling, so close but out of my grasp. "Wait, don't go. Why so shy?
There are many who shy away from lambs, including a number of my personal friends. So I'm not going to say anything rude here, only