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Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Dear Papillon,

Done shooting vid. for "Enchantress." Wiped. Woof!! Oh but you'd laugh. All the MTV standards: mansion, Lycra, spangles, fur, 25 ft anaconda. (HEAVY! 4 wranglers + massive tranquilizers, kept that creature doped!--SPCA would shit bricks.) Oh and 3 guys waxed/oiled (like sportscars!) to slipslide all over pretty me and pretend they want to eat me up. Funny they're all gayer than Liberace yet the Eyes of TV so easily believe. Amazing. We must be thankful for teens and middle-aged nurses and their lust for hetero glamour, which pays our precious phone bills, yes?

Speaking of phone bill, luvly Papillon-- let's cut it to 0. Honey you know what I mean: give up, come over, join me-- PLEASE! I miss you like Monsieur Mutt misses any kind of thrown ball. Minifridge is stocked with watercress, V8, your favorite reds, if appealing to your luvly belly will do any good.

YES I know, media schmedia, no privacy, my long hours, what the heck wd you do, etc. But we're the ones. We are. You know we are mansions, passion, glitter, all that but without cameras and fake oilyboys, AND we also eat tacos and fart and talk about nothing for hours and argue about old shit and get ancient together and love every minute. Remember Jersey Pier, remember you showed me everything real about life, remember the bugbites, remember I'm eternally grateful, remember we go so far back and so far down! Drop the distant royalty act Lady P., my love, fly your marvelous chest in its hi-buttoned Bean turtleneck sweater OVER HERE. Bring Mutt, bring a grudge, bring every one of your ridiculous tics and worries--you know I miss you. Don't call, don't write, just FLY.

aka ole Jennine Parrish, your best girl

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