My birthday is in a few weeks. A friend texted me to ask what I wanted her to get me as a present. Over the next hour or so, these were my answers.
Do a little dance.
Come to the party and have a good time and don’t worry about it.
Thrift me a five dollar summer dress.
Write me a poem.
Just keep being my friend.
Pick up (but not pay for) my birthday cake from Dianda’s.
Come to the party and have a good time and don’t worry about it. I have everything I need and I don’t need stuff to tell me you love me.
(she complained that she wanted to get me something)
Ok, smartass, I want knee high Chanel boots and a pair of leopards on leashes with rhinestone collars.
I want a small vintage alligator suitcase.
I want a leather tanktop that laces to the small of my back.
I want cashmere Doctor Dentons.
I want that woman I know with a haircut like mine to change her hair, even though she had it first. I feel a little guilty when I see her.
I want really hot porn featuring all of the ex lovers I still think about from time to time.
I want a sling.
I want a red cashmere cardigan.
I want the perfect pair of leather pants that look like I want them to in the crotch but are totally comfortable.
(she says there is nothing she could get me that would show how much she adores me)
Really? I think the boots and the leopards might convince me.
I want a secret room behind a rotating book case, but everyone knows that, so I don’t have to ask.
I want Pancho Villa style bandoleros and a way to wear them regularly without looking like a weirdo.
They should have one slightly bigger loop just below my left shoulder to carry my lipstick.
I want the perfect cherry pie.
(she wished she could bake and offered to try)
Don’t try. The perfect one only exists in my head.