Still doing mostly runway stuff, but I got some inside pages in Italian Vogue, too. All you see is my lips. Marty knows the three guys on this postcard, but I haven’t met them. Marty says their faces aren’t half as hot as their butts. Figures. Peace, Grace If this was awhile ago, I’d find China in about half a minute to show her my mail, but it’s not a while ago, and China more than likely gets whole pages from Grace anyway, so instead I pushpin those sandy asses onto my little sisters’ bedroom door. Then I take another pin and dig it under my fingernail until blood wells up and drips in a line down to the web of my dark brown thumb. Bitch, don’t do that, I can hear China saying in my head, and I run water over my finger until the juice washes away. * * * I have to march behind a white boy I blew last fall. Carl. I can’t remember what his dick was like because they all run together after a while, but I do remember he was the only one who ever said he loved me right in the middle of it, and I laughed so hard I bit him, and he never even finished.
