Being trendy

   
Party queens with botoxed, glued-together faces melt like wax into V.I.P.-scented luxury lives. Here and afar, not a single honest-truthful look can miss the pleading pleadings of their dusky, fish-lipped fish-lips restored with exaggerated butt-fat, with which they occasionally - if their attention is drawn to them - raise a word to save animals or humanity without ever knowing what they were talking about. they spoke.

They eat indigestible sushi and Caesar salad by the bag, because their personal trainers with bulging biceps in their short-sighted weight loss diets have convinced them that it is more beneficial to flash garlic pops than tank trunks. In a flood of Kivagi hair, they conquer every party designed for an individual, where sex and sexual instinct are the master instead of a conference of reason.

In forced situations, they puke, slipping into each other's palace cellars and only trusting that in exchange for their free, in-kind services, a benevolent Someone will not be indebted to them and will embrace them along with their idiocy. They foolishly think that their own salvation depends on the satisfaction of their servile needs, and there could be no pride-in-itself joy left, which could bring back their worthy agreement and their childish ambitions in the blink of an eye.

Jubilantly, grinningly and foolishly, they will try the swing policy that pleases the breathless for a few more years, and if necessary, if not balanced, they will maneuver between fame and cheap careers. they couldn't get it. They perished with a selfish, insatiable passion for Nirvana!