Josie here, with a dispatch from the super-exclusive, invite-only birthday bash of the year. This was the ticket all the Hollytrash wanted, but I held it in an undisclosed location in a city north of NYC. Honestly, Manhattan is so over.
But look, I don't get paid to make small talk. You're here for the images, so let's roll tape...
I call this one, One Is the Loneliest Number: Ode to the Existential Angst of the Zero Age
(Subtitled: Kill the Hat, People, and Bring the Fucking Cake Already)
I call this one Caloric Restraint, American Style
This one doesn't have a formal title. It merely begins to capture the sadism that lies beneath all of these alleged celebrations. As in: Dudes, it's my birthday. Ergo, my cake. Get it over here. Now. No, I don't want any frickin water. I want that whip cream frosting in my piehole.
Ah, that's much better. Now if you could just quiet down and quick taking, like, seventeen photos a second, I can quietly and not-unhappily slip into a sustained sugar-shock. Thanks for that.
Okay, cake down, presents to go. I was hoping for one of those super slutty Bratz Dolls, but apparently Jasmine was busted over the weekend, in a crack sting, so they're out of stock at the moment. I had to make due with, like, 50 other gifts, all of them officially approved by the American Council on Plastics. (My dad made me write that last part. What a blowhard.)
Me, chilling with Grandma Sue. She's the one who put on this bash, so I got nothing but love for her, and all the other guests who came by and mooched some of my cake. Because isn't that what birthdays are all about? Massive confusion in the general direction of luv...
