Thursday, February 08, 2007
a farewell to anna
Like you, my dear reader, I too spent the afternoon in a cloudy haze of grief and despair upon reading the news of the tragically sudden and totally surprising death of The World's Most Famous Stripper.
Like me, my dear reader, you may be tempted to snicker with bemusement at the giant media orgasm surrounding her death.
But please, my dear reader, think not of the perma-fried and used-up cartoon character whose life had devolved into little more than fodder for the tabloid parasites and paparazzi whores.
(As a related aside, I only hope that someone stomps on the worms associated with this story. I can imagine few things more vile.)
No, no. . . think of what once was, remember the voluptuous sexuality, the nubile and innocent air-brushed sensuality, the soft-filtered beauty, and imagine all that could have been.
Upon first reading the news this afternoon, one of my first thoughts:
"Jesus God in heaven, uh, why did you kill such hot snatch"
Like you, my dear reader, I too feel no shame at sharing with an almost a fond sense of nostalgia memories of turning the pages of her early published work with one hand.
So now, my dear reader, join me in a fitting tribute.
The next time you find yourself alone with yourself and your thoughts, click here or here.
Then my dear reader, click and scroll with one hand while raising yourself straight and tall with the other. . .
Join me in a sort of 21-gun salute.
Fire.
|
Like me, my dear reader, you may be tempted to snicker with bemusement at the giant media orgasm surrounding her death.
But please, my dear reader, think not of the perma-fried and used-up cartoon character whose life had devolved into little more than fodder for the tabloid parasites and paparazzi whores.
(As a related aside, I only hope that someone stomps on the worms associated with this story. I can imagine few things more vile.)
No, no. . . think of what once was, remember the voluptuous sexuality, the nubile and innocent air-brushed sensuality, the soft-filtered beauty, and imagine all that could have been.
Upon first reading the news this afternoon, one of my first thoughts:
"Jesus God in heaven, uh, why did you kill such hot snatch"
Like you, my dear reader, I too feel no shame at sharing with an almost a fond sense of nostalgia memories of turning the pages of her early published work with one hand.
So now, my dear reader, join me in a fitting tribute.
The next time you find yourself alone with yourself and your thoughts, click here or here.
Then my dear reader, click and scroll with one hand while raising yourself straight and tall with the other. . .
Join me in a sort of 21-gun salute.
Fire.
|
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