Last Night

This is me partying it up on my last night in Paris. Boobtastic bustier and silver lamé pants. You need a license for these heels...and this ass. The cocaine tipped me over the edge, but the champagne brought me back. The bitches who brought the blow also brought the blokes. Ex-model musicians whatever. We're gonna rev it up on Rivoli. Because we can. I might get a tattoo.

I'm a writer. A pants-on-fire, truth-seeking liar. Bitch, please.

I got my laundry on. I got my vacuum on. I got my sweatpants on. I'm sippin' on the 2004 vintage of Chateau Four Euro Bordeaux and my microwave dinner blew my effing mind. Hermetically sealed haute cuisine, baby. You want sexy. I give you sexy. Next up on this one-woman all-night show: rippin' off the plastic on the grocery store creme brulee. (Includes a convenience sized packet of brown sugar!)

We do it right here at Melanie Jones Productions, Paris HQ.

Yo-yiggity-yo, this is MJP.
Dude, we have to get up at five.
I know, dude.
We got dishes to wash, man.
And, like, someone has to clean the toilet.
Fuuuuuck.
Mr. Clean styles, bro.
Dude, this place has, like 350 square feet. It's giant.
Face it brother, we're up all night with this shit.
Should we smoke a joint?
Mos' def.

It's 8 pm. I can't work the dryer so the bed linens make ghostlike lumps draped on all the chairs. I spent the day freezing cold in the relentless rain, wandering from gallery to gallery with a woman I didn't know. I think I'm invited to her wedding. But I could be wrong. Her English wasn't so good. I don't think her "fiancé" knows of her plan. Should be awkward.

I meet the rental manager tomorrow at either 6 or 7 am. There's been no confirmation. There is, however, a red light flashing on my phone. But since I haven't been instructed on message retrieval, it contributes a true club-like atmosphere to my last tango in Paris.

Glam-o-rama, people. Remember this when I'm famous.