so im sitting on the floor in his colorless livingroom resting my head on the grey sofa while the gentleman is pouring me another vodka in his italian kitchen. it is exactly 321m between my house to his but he still insist on using his electric scooter to take me home, apparently when it breaks we get closer. so fucking hippie i think. so fucking convenient he thinks.

i sit there and keep smiling not because im naughty because he makes me nervous. there are two passports on the table, one is for me we casually jokes. if we were be running away i need to go home and put my panties on. the polish vodka taste like vanilla and my russian red lipstick is all over my face. he offers to dry my hair in his bedroom and i teach him how to make a french braid, he tells me i look like a virgin in my braid. i show him all the tricks i learned at my sunday servies and he tells me that im dangerous, i tell him im like a lamb. when he puts his hands around my neck i think all the lights went off in this city and my throat is so dry i chuck another glass of vodka. tu es beau moi non plus.

last night i dreamt about cheese, the hard one. jules tells me she might be over-fucked. i dont think that will ever happen to me.